#AND HE DIDN’T DESERVE ANY OF THE SHIT HE GOT IN THAT GODDAMN TAPE

[intrn37]

I swear to God, if Marcus died during The Hour of Joy I’m gonna throw my laptop out the fucking window

[liquid-luck-00]

Where There Is Change

Overprotection

@maribat-bdbwm

First *** Previous *** Next

~~~~~~~~~~

One week.

One week without her brother is all it took to break her patience.

No, she didn’t break away from her story with the press release that happened literally two days after she started school.

No, what finally broke her was what the students did to her brother, specifically this group of five that were intentionally seeking out places she was that in order to talk about her family.

Sure, she understood why they talked about Damian, he is Gotham's Ice Prince, the person you do not want to get on the bad side of.

But moments that she wasn’t with him, people spoke awfully about him. And mostly about how he was born as a bastard child.

She pretty much assumes that when she’s not around they speak the same about her.

Both of them were conceived without his knowledge, until years later. Sure, it hurts to hear them talk about her dad like that.

But she also understands it to an extent.

Brucie Wayne, is an act he puts up. Brucie Wayne is a playboy the longer someone plays the playboy people, will come to the conclusion of him having several unknown children.

However, she also knows Brucie Wayne is a cover for her father, in the past twenty years or so since the time he pretty much became Batman, Brucie Wayne has been a cover. So much so that even the media plays into.

But what she can’t stand are the remarks her 'peers' make about her little brother, about all her siblings.

The remarks that, she is technically the older biological child. But that she still deserves a chair in the company. She is so mad that they are dismissing all of Tim's work he's put into the company. That they are dismissing her brothers just because she is the first-born biological child, that she should be the next C.E.O. People talk over him as if he isn’t there.

They talk about Jason, how he is the troubled child. That he ruins their father's name.

That Dick is just a novelty for Bruce. The first child he decide to adopt. That he’s no more than that, Bruce Wayne’s first ward.

She hates that they call Cassandra a basket case because she won’t talk.

Or how Duke is yet another charity case, simply because of his skin color.

They forget about her because she looks so American, so white, so European.

They forget that she is part Chinese, because she has such big blue eyes, fair skin, and dark black hair just like her father.

---

So back to school.

Damian was on assignment with the Teen Titans, so she was going to school alone. They said something about Damian getting an awful constant 103 fever, they didn’t want to risk anyone else to catch what he had.

So, she did what she usually did, she went outside like usual during lunch. When all of a sudden, the group of five kids in her year 'seemed' to be strolling past.

She thinks it’s still hasn’t sunk in that there’s a new Wayne. Or that they know but want to haze her. Because they are openly bashing her little brother.

"I’m sorry, but what did you just say." She stood up and looked at them.

"Well not that it’s any of your business, but Damian is such a menace, he is practically a terrorist." One of the boys started.

"Have you seen how angry he gets, I swear he could blow up the school, and he’ll still get let back in." A girl butt in.

"He’s already been expelled twice, but they keep letting him back in because he’s Bruce Wayne’s son." The final boy spoke rolling his eyes and she lost it.

She grabbed him, pulled him towards her, gave him a quick punch in the nose. Forcing him to reel back stumbling away from her.

"Let’s get one thing straight." She spoke, hands clenched in fists. "My baby brother isn’t a terrorist. He may be a menace, but he’s not a terrorist. Can any of you actually tell me the reasons why he got expelled."

Silence, pure silence was heard from the entire group.

"No, you can’t. Because like you said it’s none of your goddamn fucking business." At this point her French accent was slipping into her words, because she was getting really mad. She had to physically dig her nails into her palms to stop her magic from exploding.

"So why don’t you all just mind your own fucking business and maybe pay attention who you’re talking about, around who."

The entire group turned and ran, their tails between their legs and they scrambled to get away from her. She may have been known as the approachable Wayne between the two twins, but they messed with her brother. And they really didn’t know what they were talking about.

As soon as, the bell rang to end lunch her name came across the intercom. She grabbed her things and walked to the office knowing full well what was about to happen.

What she didn’t expect that out of all the people that would have been called the person who showed up was Jason.

If she had to cover the ever-growing grin on her face, or else the adults may have figured out that this was the wrong brother to call.

"We are so sorry to have called you today Mr. Todd-Wayne, but we have to discuss your sister’s behavior." The principal spoke as both of them sat down.

"Ok I'll hear you out, but after you explain what happened she will. And neither of you guys can interrupt the other got it. So, go." He pointed at the principle.

"Your sister has been accused of physical assault of another student."

"Is this true?" He turned to her.

"Yes." She answered.

"Why?" Jason asked as he rubbed his hands down his face.

She knows he has a shit eating grin that was slowly going to be spreading across his face, because his aura was almost giddy.

"You see they’ve not only been talking shit about Damian but Tim, Duke, Cass, Dick, and even you. If you want, I have several forms of video tape and audio proof if you’d like to see those."

"But let’s get back on point. We believe that you may have broken his nose."

"Okay, but I am not going to apologize, seeing as I was protecting my little brother, who is not here to defend himself."

She looked over to her brother and the ass had a shit eating grin plastered across his face.

"Why don’t I sign my sister out for the rest of the day, you know what, what about the whole

week, because I'm assuming suspension is an option?"

The principal however didn’t know how to react to Jason, so he absentmindedly pushed a stack of papers towards Jason and pointing to where he was to sign and initial. And then allowed them to leave.

"We’re not telling Bruce, are we?" She asked quietly.

"Not unless you want to deal with that right now?"

"No."

"Then let’s see how far we can get from Gotham."

"Yes please." She enthusiastically nodded her head, as they left the city.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

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[gilmores-glorious-blog]

final tua liveblog!! those last two episodes were… really something. wow.

episode 9:

- luther being spaceboy <3

- luther signing his package to reginald “love, luther” and then scribbling out the word love </3

- poor luther :,( this whole thing would suck real bad

- OH SHIT IS THIS. THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON 👀 i.e. where reginald hargreeves keeps his fucked up little experiments or whatever??

- WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHO THE FUCK IS ABIGAIL HARGREEVES??!!?!! is this reginald’s wife from the alien planet in s1?? it’s gotta be because i don’t know who the fuck else it’d be,,,

- oh heyyy shirtless ben 👀

- five sleeping on the shelf in the kitchen :,) he’s just a Little Guy <3

- NOT FIVE’S WEDDING SPEECH 😩😩

- “jesus.” “he’s due any minute now……….…. that was a joke.”

- okay reginald’s deal was definitelyyyyy with allison, there’s no way she just had this change of heart overnight

- “you’re my husband” <3

- reginald’s backstory when?!

- ooooo diego’s got cool leather prosthetic fingers now

- diego getting up and lila falling to the couch with a soft little “ow” was way cuter to me than it should have been

- oh fuck allison’s definitely not being genuine, isn’t she?? i want this conversation to be real SO BADLY but,,,, she is an award-winning actress,,,,,,,,

- “diego and lila. yeah. they do it on the stairs sometimes.”

- “everyone was boning everyone last night 🙄” five is my aroace king

- awwww viktor listening to harlan’s tapes </3

- this show always pops off with its montages

- “we’ve all lost people.. *looks at five*….. mannequins”

- “there must be seven” i knew this bitch adopted seven babies specifically for a reason!!

- this family is just a bunch of drama queens who love to guilt trip the others :/

- emmy raver-lampman deserves a goddamn emmy (the irony only appeared after typing this out),, the scene where allison just broke down sobbing completely broke my heart </3

- “are you okay?” “this is the failure of my life.” lmao relatable

- holy. fucking. shit.

- i was literally about to pick up my phone and type “the luther and reginald hug feels like it should be sweet but i have a feeling something’s going to go terribly wrong” and then THAT happened…. the fucking GASP i just let out oh my fucking god!!!!!!!!!!

- reginald’s line about weddings and funerals,,,, the first episode of the whole show being called “we only see each other at weddings and funerals”,,, full circle moment

- this is legitimately so chilling and also i’m gonna sob if luther’s actually dead

- forget everything i said about liking reginald this season FUCK this fucking bastard

- i’m. literally in shock omfg.

- no no no no no they’re all about to find out and when they find out it’ll be real no no no

- ha i called it on reginald’s deal being with allison (i know it’s objectively very obvious but shhh let me have this)

- NOOOO SLOANE 😭😭😭😭

- reginald hargreeves i want you dead so badly.

- i think allison knows that reginald killed luther and is gonna have a redemption moment

- PLEASE let klaus summon luther’s ghost please please please all that power buildup can’t have been for nothing

- welp there goes chet :/

- diego all angry towards the guardian saying they killed luther…. i want him to kill his dad SO BAD

- holy fuck reginald no leave klaus alone you fucker

- i swear to god the immortality better extend to the kugelblitz or i’m gonna lose my shit

- oh my god. no. i think i know what klaus’ plan was but if i’m wrong or if it didn’t work i’m. i’m actually gonna not be okay.

- i like the color inverted credits tho 🥲

episode 10:

- i feel like it’s important to state that i’m starting the finale at one am on a vacation with my entire extended family.. i’m sitting in the dark in the living room of our rental house watching with headphones on….. and i’m trying harder than i’ve ever tried to not scream/stim/wake up my family due to sheer panic and nervous excitement

- reginald you lying bitch

- sloane 😭😭😭😭😭

- the siblings being in denial that two of them died,,, me too besties,, me too 😩

- sorry i’m. gonna lose it,, lmfao.. the audience + all the other characters are having breakdowns and meanwhile klaus and luther are literally just vibing in the afterlife

- “welcome to my hood :)” i love this immortal bastard

- “he’s an alien!” “we’re trying not to use that kinda terminology here.”

- “you could just say he’s…….. b r i t i s h.”

- obsessed with luther freaking the fuck out while klaus is just chilling

- this is simultaneously so angsty for klaus and also so rad for him,, i love this ghost bitch with all my heart

- thank you five for having braincells!!

- “luther loved you…. to the moon and back” 😭😩

- klaus just fucking hissing at luther,, i love him

- “the Void is my house!”

- i’m losing my actual shit over the fact that when klaus makes a weird ‘oOooOoO’ noise, the captions say [imitates theremin] that’s the funniest fucking thing ahskrsjadkdksks

- reginald calling ben number two… ouch :/.

- “you’re a duo. no one wants to listen to your endless bickering.” i hate reginald so much but points were made here

- oh yeah reginald, you “forgot your journal”,, yeah right you lying bitch,,, what shit are you going to pull now!?

- don’t you fucking ring that bell.

- not creepy clock ticking sounds 😩😩 i’m still recovering from stranger things s4 they can’t do this to me !!

- these bitches and their parental trauma :/ (this is about diego and lila but isn’t it really about all the characters?)

- i love diego so so so much he’s so sweet

- SIR you just wasted your ONE shot from that speargun

- klaus coming back to fuck with reginald,, bastard boy <3

- “one bell ring away from my prize” oh i hate the sound of that

- “oh if i had a nickel for every time i heard that, i’d have a dollar!”

- wellll shit.

- diego and lila are using so many pet names for each other and it’s making me soft :,)

- ohh i hate this guardian motherfucker

- sloane is such a girlboss,, ben’s right, revenge DOES look good on her

- oh SHIT they’re all getting separated

- “who has no part in the gestation of the baby for the next six months. ~nice try~”

- diego noooo don’t do this

- lila crying </3

- fuck yes ben that was so cool !!

- why do i feel like there’s multiple guardians,,

- yeppppp there it is (re: the above point)

- lila and viktor are so fucking cool

- klaus please tell everyone what happened i need reggie to get his ass kicked asap

- lila saying “i love you” super angrily <3

- the sigil is on the floor isn’t it,,

- OH FUCK FIVE!! YOUR HAND!!!!

- “NOBODY HURTS MY WIFE YOU SON OF A BITCH” AHSKTKFJAKDKS 💗✨HIM✨💗

- oh great,, after all that the guardian’s face gives me INTENSE trypophobia 😐

- KLAUS yesss use those powers !!

- “we’re the bells :0” i say this with love,, yeah no shit

- reginald saying “not you” to allison about stepping on the sigils does NOT bode well for the rest of them,,,,

- ewwwww the guardian was all cockroaches,,, oogy boogy from nightmare before christmas type beat,,

- what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

- c’mon allison….

- this might just be wishful thinking but it looks like klaus is clutching the dog tags as he disintegrates 😩😭

- YES ALLISON!!! MURDER THAT WEIRD ALIEN!! SAVE YOUR FAMILY!!!!!!!!

- FUCK,, allison,,, pushing the big red button is literally never a good idea

- okay obviously this is bad and there’s gonna be some serious repercussions, but also,,,, claire and ray and allison :,,)

- LUTHER :D !!! and he’s normal sized!!

- the luther + viktor hug <3

- fuck.. where’s sloane?!?

- oh FUCK do they not have their powers?!??!??

- “yeah kick his ass 😀”

- diego remains my himbo king 😩😌

- *twirls knife* *drops it* “…. that’s not good.”

- holy shit klaus’ palm tattoos are gone !

- “this means i’m mortal again? awww man :,/”

- oh shit i don’t think they have their umbrella tattoos either !!!

- does. does klaus.. does klaus not have the dog tags. because i will genuinely scream.

- “asshole.” you tell him, viktor!!

- NO is reginald just a trump-esque billionaire in this timeline??! 😩😩

- ahh shit abigail’s alive :0

- what the FUCK was that after credits scene??????? i thought there were two bens in this timeline for a second but i think it’s just sparrow!ben up to something nefarious?? i don’t know but it’s weird

- i can’t believe i have to wait two more years for more of this shit :/

- i. i hate this actually. this is the saddest possible outcome to me and i can’t even explain why,,,, obviously i’m glad they’re all alive (?) and if they’re happy, i’m happy, but like. that’s just gonna erase their pasts and they all split up and i can’t stand it,, i hate hate hate when found families go their separate ways,,, they BETTER find a different way to resolve this shit >:(

- wait shit,, i’m reading some articles and,, is allison supposed to be dead??? because if so i will s o b.

- y’know what bugs me? this entire season had so much plot and lore explained but never once did it explain what the fuck was up with christopher. which is objectively very funny, but still,,,

anyways. that’s a wrap on my absolute mess of a s3 reaction. i’m gonna be thinking about these bitches for a while,,, i’d missed them <3

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 4- You Cannot Cage A Wolf

Bucky Barnes x (f)reader Series Rewrite (Civil War, Infinity War/Endgame, TFATWS)

Summary: Fuck the police and Ironman for that matter, now how the hell are you and Bucky going to manage getting out of this mess?

Warning: violence no duh, bucky going through it, bit o angst, things getting hectic

Masterlist

To say you were pissed would be the understatement of the century, again, you were locked in a cage of steel and glass. Surrounded by enemies who’d rather see you dead, but maybe you deserved it. 

Maybe.

The Romanian combat police had locked you and Bucky into separate concealed glass confinements before loading the two of you into one long metal truck. Purposely facing the tiny prisons face to face with one another so that you would have full access to witnessing the discomfort and irritation on each other’s faces while armed officers sat to either side.

Well you’re not sure if it was exactly intentional, but still, at least you could make sure Bucky was okay and him you.

Your hands and legs are guarded by thick metal as your shoulders and upper arms keep firmly held by a small cage of steel; your body forced to sit for hours on end as the security trucks drive you both all the way to Berlin, Germany. A fucking 18 hour field trip by vehicle, at least you got some pee breaks.

Staring angrily at Bucky’s hand, you wish nothing more then to break out of here and fucking gut the assholes responsible for your unlawful imprisonments, Bucky did absolutely nothing to T’Challa and why the hell would they think you’re involved with his fathers death? It doesn’t make any sense. Not at all.

Why would anyone want the two of you for that matter?

Suddenly the truck jostles and stirs before stopping completely as you start to feel the shift of the vehicle reversing into something, your eyes immediately look up to find Bucky who’s already focused on you. His eyes are sad and full of pain for how they’ve treated you like an animal, caged you like a wild cat, more so then what they’ve done to himself. He never wanted you to deal with any shit like this again, not after the traumatic history Hydra had befallen on you for so many years. You don’t deserve this.

Returning a small smile, you give him a playful wink of reassurance before your glass and metal prison is rolled backwards and away from Bucky. Your fists clench in vexation and enmity for the current shit situation you happen to be sucked into, you feel like a beast at a goddamn freak show. Soon you’re rolled into a yawning chasmal underground parking garage of sorts, as flashing emergency lights from police cruisers blink annoyingly from your left while their riders park. 

This must be some government building here in Berlin, you think, eyes wandering around at the secured cavernous glass and metal interior. Sliding clear doors make the entrance way to your far left wall, while further into the spacious room is a large wall of cement, more doors in various areas and a large staircase ascending into a giant balcony onto the next floor up.

Bucky’s cell is placed next to yours by another forklift as he glances at Steve drearily, while you throw nothing but an irritated scowl at the back of Steve just as Sam and T’Challa exit the black security van. Guards dressed in black attire close by. They soon make a swift yet cautious admission over to greet some short salt and peppered haired man in a dull grey suit, a blonde woman also with an equal amount of security by his side. Three armed guards in the back and three behind Steve. 

What the hell are these people so afraid of? And why is any of this happening?

You can’t quit tell what’s being said from the concealed limitation of your moveable prison to where these assumingly high end important government officials are placed. It’s incredibly frustrating that you could just about scream, but now where would that get you? Probably smacked by some electrical shocking stick, those bastards, you think bitterly.

Soon the group appears to make some agreement before the shorter grey haired man nods an approval of invitation and with that does Steve, Sam, and T’Challa follow the short man and blonde woman farther away. All you or Bucky are able to witness before the doors to the new hallway you’re currently being pushed into closes, is the group walking for some glass doors that show a long hallway.

Then the giant metal doors slam shut in your face. 

——

The forklift holding onto your portable prison cell ascends down the hallway as armed guards keep watch from both sides, walking in step with the pace of the lift as a set of eight in total surround yours and Bucky’s confinements. A minute later they bring your steel box into a windowless cement room, turning you to face the exit, your cells are rolled separately across some caution tape before all comes to a halt. Finally.

Your eyes follow the movements of regular security guards as they take long thick wires from the side of the stone walls, plugging them into your prisons as the lights inside flicker for a brief moment, stabilizing in a second. One guard gives you a wary yet curious glance before snapping his head down when your fearsome glare just about smacks him in the face, quickly after that, everyone leaves before shutting the sliding metal doors that hide you both from the outside world.

Waiting a moment, your eyes dance suspiciously across the room, “Y/N.” Calls Bucky, causing you to snap your attention over to him.

“What?” You mumble somberly, gaze trailing all over his stoically pensive expression, he’s without a doubt not pleased to be here. Though having you next to him makes things more bearable. 

“Can you breath alright?” He asks worriedly, due to the thick plastic half face mask that prevents you from properly communicating with anyone, guess the Romanian police didn’t appreciate you calling them bastards. Among other things.

“Yeah.” You mumble out once again before pulling up on the metal clasps to no avail, what is this even made out of, “They got us pretty good, Buck. This might be a bit of a challenge to get out of...”

“You think we’re getting out of these things?”

“Well.......I’m being optimistic....so, uh.....there’s always a chance.”

The smallest of smile reveals itself for a flash of a second as Bucky forgets where you are and just welcomes your never ending humor, “You think they’re watching us?”

“Without a doubt. If I could flip them off I would.” You chuckle as your eyes trail up to the tiny dark sphere in your prison, yeah that’s definitely a camera. “Dickheads.” You mutter to whoever is listening.

“What do you think they’re going to do to us?” Wonders Bucky after a long moment of silence.

Taking a heavy breath you lean your head back, “Oh I don’t know. They’ll probably put me down like an old dog and then you’ll get broken out of jail by the Captain America himself.......you’ll probably be fine.”

Shaking his head, he looks over at your relatively bored face, “What if we’re not.”

Sensing his growing anxiety for your future placement, you turn to face him, “Then I’ll......uh........break us out of here?” You muse with an unsure shrug, well the best you can with the steel hugging your shoulders.

“Not all of us can take multiple bullets and survive.” Deadpans Bucky as you frown, he’s got you there.

“Okay uh.....let me think for a second.......uh, alright I got it..” You chirp enthusiastically before your face falls just as quickly as you let out a defeated, “...fuck never mind I don’t want murder charges.”

Bucky could have laughed, “I think we’d need to be more stealthy, and anyways there’s to many cameras.”

“Yeah.” You mutter dully, “Too many goddamn cameras.”

After about twenty minutes of mindlessly sitting in your cell while Bucky sits equally as bored from his own space a couple feet next to you, a man of relative height and stature walks into the large windowless cement room, a black book shaped travel bag hanging from his shoulder. He smiles in greeting at the two of you, though you can tell behind those glasses of his it’s anything but friendly. It’s strange, the way that his dark eyes reveal no true form of kindness or pleasantries. 

Who the hell is this now?

The dark blondes beady umber irises flicker curiously from Bucky to you and back to Bucky again, a sort of childlike wonder flashing through them as he steps closer to the nearby desk.

“Hello, Mr. Barnes.” Nods the man in an almost Sokovian like accent, kinda sounds like you, greeting set on Bucky before he sends you a devious grin, “Miss. Valerious.” He nods, inquisitive eyes studying your stoic face of pure daggers as you breath steadily in your muzzle, “I’ve been sent by the United Nations to evaluate your partner here, so you needn’t worry, your time is not with me. But I ask if you please give me my time with him, that is all.” Assures the strange man as he focuses his attention back on Bucky again; eh, not like you have much of a choice.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Asks the dark eyed man as Bucky simply stares, suspicious and bored out of his mind; you naturally roll your scrutinizing leer as the man seats himself next to a table farther away in front of you two.

Guess he’s not leaving anytime soon.

“You’re first name is James?” Wonders the man though you can tell he already knows the answer; with pursed lips does he shrug innocently, “I’m not here to judge you. I just want to ask a few questions. Do you know where you are James?”

Bucky keeps silent, and all you want to do is smack that annoying blondes glasses right off of his face, “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, James.”

“My name is Bucky.” Begrudgingly mumbles your irritated companion, while your brows set hard in puzzlement for where this conversation is going.

Writing something down in his notes, the man nods, “Tell me something Bucky. You’ve seen a great deal, haven’t you?”

Bucky glares, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop.” Mutters the blonde man as you scoff, his dark eyes instantly snap over to you.

“Come over here and I’ll show you something terrifying.” You threaten, though your voice is mumbled and husky through the damn mask covering your mouth from properly speaking. He hands you a fake smile in reply, appearing to enjoy your menacing presage nonetheless.

Dark eyes set back onto Bucky, he hums, “Don’t worry. We only have to talk about one.” You watch in curiosity as he looks down at his touchpad screen, a satisfied little grin appearing onto his thin lips when suddenly the lights go dark, sending the room into pitch blackness. 

Though your sight shifts to dull grays and blues to counter this with your enhanced vision. A second later the dim emergency lights glow from up above giving the room a dull blue tint. While a red one blinks off and on repetitively in the shadowed room. The fuck?

“What the hell is this?” Grumbles Bucky as your eyes trail warily and alert over to the man as he draws his chair back to stand, though he remains seated. 

“Why don’t we discuss your home? Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn, no.” Taking a faded red book out of his traveling bag, your eyes squint in suspicion as you notice a large black star printed on the front while he continues, “Your real home.”

oh, fuck

Turning to face Bucky, you’re alarmed to witness as his face appears conflicted and anxious; he’s afraid, soon the man rises to his feet before opening up the book and begins walking towards Bucky’s cell. A smile on his face as he begins speaking in Russian, “Longing.”

“No.” Mutters your lover as he blinks hard before staring hopelessly up at the ceiling.

“Rusted.”

“Stop.” Protests Bucky as he turns to throw you a pleading look, you frown, not sure what’s happening but you know it can’t be good. Hydra never did anything like this to you, no trigger words, just good old childhood manipulation and the occasional beating if you didn’t comply.

“Seventeen.” Speaks the man as Bucky’s face darkens with anger.

“Stop.” He growls furiously as heavy breaths push at his chest with building adrenaline.

“Daybreak.” A frustrated ragged scream emits from Bucky’s lips as his fists clench and muscles tighten, the man smirks as he gets closer to Bucky’s cage.

“Stop it!” You cry desperately while Bucky yells before ripping the metal from his left hand and breaking the metal clasp on his right, an animalistic growl sounding from deep within his throat as panic sets rooted into your stomach, “Fuck off!” You scream frantically, “I’ll gut you like a goddamn fish!”

Giving a pernicious grin, he ignores you, “Furnace.”

You watch in horror as Bucky emits a roaring cry of desperate anger as he begins pounding furiously against the glass. Coming back to your senses you ignore the mess happening next to you as your muscles contract and strain against the tight metal clasps caging your forearms, shoulders, and legs to the chair.

“Nine.”

You listen to more heavy pounding on glass as a hopeless ragged cry of futile rage rips forth from your throat in an anguished attempt at breaking free. Pulling your arms upward, your flesh strains viciously against the tough metal clasps while you struggle to free yourself. A moment later the metal clasps begin to groan and creak as they loosen accordingly, your strength forcing them into compliance.

“Benign.”

A thin sheet of sweat emits from the side of your face while you yell in frustration at the weight of the locks against your wrists, Bucky pounds furiously, soon metal fist starts cracking though thick glass as you finally rip the metal clasps from off of your right arm, “Fuck off!” You roar threateningly, eyes wild and raging like a bursting dragons flame unto a hopeless stick village, the man simply shifts his gaze back down to the book.

“Homecoming.”

He ignores you; heart beating a mile a minute, you unsheathe your right claws only to free your left hand from the abrasive metal lock as he continues to pound his fist against the slowly breaking glass door. Raising your hands to the back of your lower head, you forcefully rip the thick plastic muzzle from off of your face with a distinctive cracking sound emitting from the strong material.

“Nine.” Speaks the dark eyed blonde as he walks in between the two of your cells, appearing unafraid of your threats from earlier even as he witnesses you breaking free from the steel clasps on your legs now.

“Freight car.”

Crash! 

Instantly your head snaps up to watch as Bucky’s glass door flies violently across the room and onto the harsh ground below; your breath hitches as all goes silent. The mans back is to you as he calmly walks over to Bucky who’s crouched onto the floor like a predator ready to strike, a second later he slowly rises to his feet. Though all life is gone from his dark pools of inky blue, he’s not your Bucky anymore.

“Soldier?” Whispers the dark eyed man in wonder, confident that his plan has effectively worked, whatever the fuck kind of plan in question.

Eyes wide, you swallow thickly as Bucky stares at the door, face noticeably covered in sweat, his eyes stare forward like a beast waiting to kill. He’s nothing but a vessel for chaotic destruction.

Breathing heavily, Bucky speaks in Russian, “Ready to comply.”

Suddenly the frustration in you boils over into pure animalistic rage for what this fucker has done to him, screaming bitterly, you punch the glass, slicing three thin lines straight through the material. The blonde one gives you a wary glance before addressing the Winter Soldier, “Mission report. December 16, 1991.”

“Bucky, don’t tell him shit!” You cry frantically in Russian, hoping that the Winter Soldier consuming him might hear something familiar in your desperation; whatever this man wants, you know full well what happened that night which means his motives are anything but friendly. If that wasn’t already apparent.

Bucky blinks, eyes shifting to the new ringmaster in control.

It’s no use, he’s not there, it’s what Hydra had made of him and now he must obey; Bucky ignores as you pound and scream for him to stop, to shut the hell up and come back to you but it’s all in vain. He tells the bastard everything in a matter of seconds as your face falls.

Heart pounding with adrenaline, you slash a clean line that rips right through the bolts of the door in wild fury, it sparks against your Adamantuim claws while creaking in protest as you finally kick it open. The huge door clatters and clashes to the ground as you step out of the glass prison and onto the cement flooring of the large windowless room. Red emergency lights flashing behind you as they make your tense form appear as sort of a clawed beast rising from straight out of hell.

The dark eyed man warily turns to you, when a sudden childlike excitement dances across his features as he takes a cautious step back, a small thrilled smirk pulling at his lips. The mans obsidian pools flicker over to Bucky who keeps a steady death stare with the wall ahead, the man nods in approval for his painstaking work before trailing his eyes over to you, “Soldier. Kill the Hellcat.” Smirks the man as your eyes shift reluctantly from himself to Bucky. 

oh shit, you think miserably as your heart feels like its just sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Swallowing thickly, tears threaten to spill as your body shakes with racing adrenaline, your breaths noticeably heavier as you willingly begin retracting your claws. 

The familiar metal sinks painfully back into your skin as you stare them down distastefully. Frowning deeply, you slowly pull your hands up into fists, readying your stance for the fight that’s inevitably about to come.

Making a sickened face, you swallow nervously as Bucky takes a step forward with eyes set like a wolf to his prey. Reluctantly your feet move an apprehensive step closer, “Fuck.” You mutter under your breath as Bucky makes the first move. 

——

God why does your head hurt so damn much? Is the room spinning?

When you come to, the lights are still blinking an obnoxious red as you lay sprawled out across the cement floor, a puddle of blood trailing in a couple of dark-red thin lines from beneath your head to the yellow hazard stickers placed on the ground.

The air smells of blood and sweat as you suck in a deep breath before moving to sit up, at least the headache is gone, your eyes trail warily across the empty room as you touch the back of your head to get an understanding of what the hell happened here.

You can’t remember a thing.

A warm wetness greets your finger tips to no surprise, pulling them away, you study the murky crimson liquid staining your fingertips before your mind heals completely, your brain matter fusing back accordingly. Bits of the missing puzzle pieces soon form a coherent picture as you sit back in shock from the violent happenings that resulted in you bloody on the ground. 

 The man commanded Bucky to kill you.

The two of you indeed fought, but knowing that if you wanted to win you’d have to kill him yourself; Bucky kept his life as you let the Winter Soldier end yours. After dodging fist after fist thrown at you by Bucky, you finally gave in and let him pin you to the ground before he grabbed your face with his metal hand, smashing your skull against the cement floor in one dangerous deafening blow. Then it was over and...

Where even is he?

Picking yourself up, you quickly wander into the nearest opening only to be greeted by a multitude of unconscious guards, walking further down, you furrow your brows at the heavily dented elevator door where it appears that someone had been forced through. Touching the bent metal you sniff the air, it smells of Bucky and Steve. They couldn’t have been here less then thirty seconds ago.

Shifting to the right, you book it down the hallway to the sounds of strained grunts and fists hitting flesh. Soon you’ve found yourself at the edge of a large excessively windowed room, presumably the food court of sorts in this excessively ginormous place.

In the center is Bucky who’s absolutely beating the shit out of everyone making frugal attempts at stopping him. Your eyes observe Tony who’s positioned a good distance away as he breaths heavily from the floor, eyes wide in shock while he cradles one of his arms. The blonde haired woman from earlier appears in pain as she lays on her back, a broken table underneath her as the Black Widow squeezes Bucky’s neck with her thighs.

Natasha uses her elbows as a battering ram against his skull while he walks with her over to the closest table before slamming her roughly against the metal; he glares fiercely down at the Black Widow before using his titanium fist to choke the life out of her as she struggles against his weight.

Stepping into the huge room, your boots pound against the flooring as you deliver a powerful kick to Bucky’s strong waist, he tumbles across the thin carpeting before jumping to his feet in an instant. Natasha regains her lungs in a choked gasp as you throw a fist at Bucky’s chest, deflecting it, you use this new side lined momentum to duck under his approaching blow as you slide on the flooring, missing a fatal hit to your face by mere inches.

No more face shots please.

He whips around from the near miss, charging you once again; preparing for the worst of the Winter Soldier, your shoulders line up with his approaching body as your eyes calculate his next move. But when he readies his arm to punch, you slide to the side before swiftly twisting your body around to face him once more, all done within less then two seconds.

Watching his head turn left in confusion, you kick his back harshly onto the ground with the power enough to rival that of a lioness before huffing in frustration as he surges to his feet; you immediately halt in your tracks when out of nowhere T’Challa kicks Bucky across the floor. Soon the two men dance like two skilled warriors before Bucky takes the upper hand and whips the prince over the carpeted floor.

Blinking in bewilderment, you watch as he races up the stairs; the Winter Soldier doing his absolute best to get the fuck out of there, knowing he’s outnumbered by two and wary of getting his shit rocked by you again. Though he’s not even fully aware why you’re attacking him since his mind is back at Hydra and last he remembers you where on their side, and presumably bleeding out in another room.

Breathing heavily, you turn to share an awkward moment of uncertain eye contact with the prince of Wakanda before he throws you a half restrained dirty look, sprinting up the stairs after Bucky.

You’re able to take one step before a raspy voice snaps your attention over to a table, it’s Natasha, “Y/N.” She gasps through strained breaths.

Clenching your fists you leave those two to work it out as you swiftly approach the ex-assassin, “What?!” You snap.

Forcing herself into a seated position, she gingerly touches her bruising throat, “Guess you where right.” She chuckles painfully.

“Right about what?” You bark with a frown, eyes flickering over to Bucky and T’Challa as they throw jabs on the stairway landing.

“Last we met. You said I’d be lucky if we never met again. Guess you where right.”

“You’re an ex-assassin how lucky did you really expect to be?” You retort before taking a step for the ascending stairs when a hand takes your wrist.

“You have to stop him.” Urges Natasha, “No one here’s an equal force, you’re the Hellcat Y/N, you have to stop him no matter the cost.”

Throwing her an irritated glare at hearing your Hydra code name yet again, you growl like a wounded beast, “I’m not killing anyone!”

“You might not have a choice.” Challenges the red head with a pleading yet stern display, understanding that Bucky means more to you then just simple companionship.

“There’s always a choice!” You grumble angrily, heart pounding a mile a minute as you huff before turning for the stairs only to meet a disheveled and deeply confused prince, he’s sweating and looks rather conflicted as his dark eyes scan frantically around the room for any sign of Bucky.

Suddenly his eyes land on you, freezing in place, your mind swirls with what to do next; you’re a wanted criminal in plain sight and for some reason this prince wants Bucky and presumably you, dead.

Shifting your panicked gaze over to Nat, you shake your head before turning to T’Challa as you scowl like an angry brute, “If you touch me, I’ll gut you.” And with that heavy threat do you swiftly turn on your heels and race out the closest door and into the nearest hallway. Leaving Natasha and prince T’Challa with their lives.

Now where did Bucky go?

Running past door after door while the emergency lights annoyingly scream their bright red colors in caution of extreme danger, though you and Bucky are technically the “extreme danger”. Soon you take a hard right turn and immediately slam into the firm chest of Steve as he books it down the hallway for some door hanging open at the far end.

Falling into the closest wall, you don’t have time to wait on the pain emitting from your arm as he mutters a quick apology as the six foot two American hauls ass for the exit door. Recovering in no time, you press a bloody handprint against the wall before turning after Steve. Funny, you don’t ever remember cutting yourself on anything. Doesn’t matter.

Bursting open the cracked door, bright blinding rays of sunlight glare annoyingly in your eyes while your pupils adjust to the new terrain, soon your eyes catch the dramatic scene unfolding in front of you farther down on the helicopter landing area.

Perplexed, you stand in astonishment as Bucky attempts to take off in the chopper while Steve fruitfully leaps mid-air before tightly grasping onto the aircraft’s landing skids.

He pulls down hard, face straining in intense efforts to keep Bucky from escaping and heading into God-knows-where. Legs moving quickly, you race up the small flight of stairs leading onto the huge landing pad as Steve struggles fiercely to hold it down.

But before you’re able to aid in putting an end to Bucky’s fruitful efforts, he slams the chopper into the cement; causing you to leap backwards for fear of getting your guts sliced open by the blades. You’re helpless to watch as Steve narrowly misses becoming a decapitated corpse as the blades crash violently against the ground.

Chunks of stone and steel go flying in all directions as you shield your face from the debris. But as the dust settles, you peer from over your forearm to watch as Bucky’s metal arm bursts through the glass only to immediately grasp around Steve’s neck.

“Fuck.” Slips silently from out of your lips as you take a couple cautious steps forward while moving reluctantly towards the shit show; how has the last 20 hours gone so goddamn terribly?

Creeeek. Sounds the destroyed helicopter as it suddenly begins a slow ascend over the platform edge, where a large river awaits with open arms to presumably swallow whole the broken aircraft. Now in a panicked sprint, you race over the rubble as the last of the chopper, Bucky, and Steve are seen before they plummet to the waters below.

“No!” You cry helplessly as you reach the peak of the landing, nothing beneath you except for the broken tail of the chopper and a plethora of air bubbles.

-

Tagged: @diegos-butt @minigranger @bibliophilewednesday @holyhumorliteraturelight @lilacs-lavender @a-girl-who-loves-disney @starkssnarks @vikingqueen28 @bizarrebibitch @atomicpersonacheesecake @jmstz @staygoldsquatchling02 @marvelbros-oneshots @shawnartmendes​ @iamasimpingh0e

[disgruntledspacedad]

The Rules of Engagement (3/5)

The Better Love Series

pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader/ofc (Ears)

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do. 

words: 3.4k 

warnings: 18+ for alcohol, language, smut, violence, body horror, general trauma. Please, please heed the warnings on this chapter, guys. It gets pretty intense.

a/n: Unbeta’d. I know I said this was going to be three chapters, but I lied. Sorry, my dudes - this one got away from me. Inspo credit goes to @tiffdawg​, as always.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Well, fuck. You bite back a massive sigh.

You really, really don’t want to walk through that door.

It’s been a month, and you life has changed profoundly.

For one, you’re not at the office as much anymore - Stechner had made good on his promise to consider you for more flyovers, and boy, has Centra Spike been busy. Some new vigilante group is terrorizing Medellín, and while it’s not Search Bloc’s priority to go after them, they’ve undeniably kept Pablo and his sicarios busy. The radio frequencies are hot right now, and you’ve been doing eight, sometimes ten flights a week. 

You absolutely love it. The hours are less predictable and definitely more shitty, but listening to a radio from the cockpit of a plane is much more fun that listening to a radio in a stuffy basement office, so you consider it a fair trade.

It keeps your brain busy, too.

Your social life has taken a massive kick to the nuts. Ana is back at university, and you miss her more than you thought you would. You’ve reverted to communicating with Emilio with gestures and smiles more than words. It’s nice because he’s nice, but you miss actual conversation, stilted as it was. Ana wasn’t all that bad, either.

And then there’s Javi.

You haven’t spoken to him since That Morning, not even a polite 'how are you?' in the hallway. Granted, you’re not seeing him as often anymore, given your new position and hours, but then again, you haven’t exactly sought him out, either.

The memory claws at you every time you relive it - and you relive it often. That anger, that wounded expression. The slammed door, his retreating footsteps. Each time you’re in that building, the walls seem to close in on you, and you have to stop yourself from looking for him, actively keep your gaze from roaming straight to his desk.

God, as if you could make it more awkward.

You’d had one nasty conversation with Murphy about a week after the incident - you’d told him in no uncertain terms that he could either mind his own business or fuck right off, you didn’t care which. He’d left you be, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about how “you two deserve each other.”

Asshole.

Still, that aborted conversation haunts you - so many aborted conversations haunt you - and you wonder what would have happened if you’d just taken the bull by the horns and addressed the issue with Javi head on.

I’m sorry you caught me rubbing one off on the morning after you almost died, Peña. I can assure you, it won’t happen again. Your friendship means the world to me.

Yeah, right.

God, though, but you miss him.

You miss him so much it aches, a gaping hole that reaches right down to the core of you, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You’d fucked this one completely and thoroughly - any chance of restoring your friendship had drained away with the shower-water, and the more time you spend fretting over it, the more awkward - and pathetic - it would be to say anything.

So, you’d cut your losses, held your head high, and tried not to waste too much time wishing you’d have just kept your fucking fantasies to yourself.

Now, though, you’ve got no choice.

You’d been on Centra Spike’s early morning flight, just another routine scan over Medellín. The shift wasn’t intended to be more than a training run for you, but as luck would have it, the Medellín cartel’d had a busy night, and you’d been caught in the crossfire.

Your plane had just touched down half an hour ago, and now you’re standing on the front steps of the embassy building, fingering a shoebox cassette player loaded with a freshly taped recording full of juicy intel destined for the desk of DEA Agent Javier Peña - an entire, private conversation featuring none other than Verdugo himself.

You’d know that voice anywhere. You’ve studied it for hours, what few snatches you’d been able to glean from the embassy archives. It’s almost as if Verdugo is smart enough to steer clear of the city, or to just avoid phone conversations all together, the absolute fuckwad.

Until early this morning.

On the plane, you’d intercepted a new signal and tapped in on a whim, intending to practice your Spanish more than anything, but what you’d overheard was a fucking gold mine of information.

Verdugo is in Medellín. The sicarios are getting ready to move Escobar. He didn’t say where - fucking bastard knows not to spill all of the beans in one conversation - but apparently the plan requires a rendezvous in El Centro first. Verdugo is en route, and will be there until the next morning.

You’d worked frantically all night, tracing and retracing the signal, triangulating potential addresses, then back-tracking to account for environmental distortion. Each calculation had led you to the same place - an unassuming little house right smack in the middle of Medellín.

Bingo.

“You take it in, Aarons.” Torres had declined your offer to do the honors. “It’s your intel.”

So here you are, bleary-eyed and running on less than two hours of sleep, cassette player clenched tightly to your chest, summoning up all of your courage just to go speak with your ex... well, ex whatever-the-fuck Peña is.

‘This is your job,’ you remind yourself fiercely. ‘You can do this.’

As pep-talks go, it isn’t very effective.

Fuck it. You toss your head back, wishing you’d had time to at least grab a cup of coffee on the way in, and breeze around the corner.

“Agent Peña.”

He glances up lazily, thoroughly uninterested in whatever you have to say. When he realizes it’s you, he blinks once, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray and sitting up to eyeball you with a wary expression.

"What can I do for you?” he asks cooly.

You remember him saying that once before, but the context was totally different.

You shake it off. “Centra Spike has new intel that you’ll want to see right away.”

He purses his lips, tilting his head to indicate the growing pile of bullshit on his desk. “You can leave it here.”

Oh, so that’s how it is, then?

“I can’t.” You pin him with a stare, and he meets your gaze evenly, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. You clear your throat and clarify. “I won’t.”

He scoffs as you carefully rest cassette tape on his desk, along with a map of El Centro. “We intercepted a four minute conversation with Verdugo this morning. He’s here.” You point to the safe house on the map, which you’ve already circled in red ink. “Feo and Limón are with him. They’re leaving early tomorrow.”

Peña frowns down at the spot where your finger rests. “And can you corroborate that information?”

Oh, the motherfucker. “I verified his voice personally, Peña,” you say carefully, doing your damndest to keep the annoyance from your tone. It’s well within his right to ask questions, after all. “It’s a direct match for the audio samples we have.” You tap the tape for emphasis. “You’re welcome to listen for yourself.”

He doesn’t make a move for a long time. Something hot and painful burns in your gut as you wait.

God, he knows you, knows you better than anybody else in on this goddamned continent.  He knows that you know your shit, that you want to catch Escobar as desperately as he does. And this evidence that you have spread across his desk, recorded on tape and marked plainly in red ink, is irrefutable, undeniable - it’s a huge break. He knows that, too.

His apathy is palpable, and it’s driving you up the fucking wall.

When he finally glances up at you, it’s with a doubtful little smirk on his face. “Hmm.”

And oh, wow, you’re shocked by just how much that hurts.

All your life, from the moment you were born into a family of brothers, you’ve had to fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. It was a fact of life as early as you can remember - ‘look after your sister,’ or, ’she’s just a girl,’ or ‘wow, you’re really great at math, for a woman!’ You’d settled on your career as an analyst because you’d wanted it, not because you’d had something to prove, but still, the military is a male-dominated field, and from the start, the odds had been stacked against you.  Landing this CIA gig had been the achievement of a fucking lifetime. Still, the bar is set high in the Colombia, and it’s set that much higher for a woman. You’re well aware of this; you’re reminded every single day.

Point being, you’re used to defending yourself and your abilities; it comes as natural as breathing.  

But until now, you’ve never had to fight this battle with Peña. He’d taken you at face value from the moment he'd laid eyes on you, treating you like just another operative. Sure, he might take a crack at you every now and again, but that's all in good fun, and you’ve never been one to shy away from a laugh.

Christ, you never realized just how much that respect meant to you until suddenly, it’s gone.

“If you have something to say about my skills and qualifications, Agent Peña, then I suggest you say it.” You lean over his desk, speaking quietly, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision. “Otherwise, I think we both know that it’s in the best interest of Search Bloc and the Colombian people that we collaborate quickly, so we can put boots on the ground and land this motherfucker behind bars where he belongs.”

Peña’s eyes narrow, and he cocks his head, studying you. You meet his gaze, biting back a snarl. You won’t back down. You won’t allow him to intimidate you.

When he nods sharply and reaches for his phone, you know you’ve won.

♠

Ten minutes later, you’re situated in a conference room with Peña, Steve Murphy, Martinez, and a couple of the other higher ups of Search Bloc whose names you haven’t memorized. Your maps are spread over the table, your tape displayed for all to see, and every eye is on you.

“Verdugo is here,” you say, leaning over the map to indicate the marked house. “He and his entourage arrived late last night, and they’re planning to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Plenty of time to get a team together.” Murphy interjects, glancing between you and Peña with open curiosity.

You narrow your gaze at him. Drama-mongering bastard.

Peña’s not moving. He’s standing with his hip cocked toward the desk, frowning down at the map with his fingers curled to his chin like he’s totally oblivious to everything happening around him.

You know he’s not, though. That’s Javi’s thinking face, the one he makes when he wants people to shut the fuck up and forget about him until he can work something out. You’re pretty familiar with that one.

The others are babbling in Spanish, discussing logistics and the likelihood of this being another trap.

It’s not. You know this deep in your bones. You’d heard that conversation in real time, had translated, triangulated it.

This is legit.

You’ve just decided to leave them to it when Javi snaps his eyes open.

“I agree with Aarons,” he announces out of nowhere. You’re startled by the confidence in his tone. Curious, you glance up, but it’s difficult to get a read on him. He’s pinning every person in the room except you with a hard stare. “We need to move out now.”

Several of the others make noises of protest, but Peña shuts them all down, one by one. Finally, his eyes flicker up to meet yours, just for a brief second, but there’s something different in his gaze, something new and heavily guarded.

You think it might be an apology.

“Let’s end this.”

♠

He’s on a plane to Medellín within an hour, wearing that stupid bullet proof vest. For just a split second, you wish that you were going, too. You don’t have enough experience, though - you’re not an agent; you haven’t handled a gun since basic. You’d be useless in a real fight, a liability, even.

Still, you feel some ownership in this operation, today more than ever. You don’t even try to kid yourself about Javi anymore, either. Those fucking feelings haven’t faded in a month, not a bit, not even after the awkward conversation you’d had in his office.

‘But he stood up for you, too, afterward,’ something whispers in the back of your mind. You replay that little glance in the conference room over and over as you watch Search Bloc board the plane.

He’s looking for you this time, standing on the ramp with his eyes shaded like he knows you’ll be waiting. He doesn’t nod and you don’t wave, but you make eye contact for a lingering moment, and again, there’s something in his expression that you don’t recognize.

Then the plane takes off down the runway, and you feel as if your heart is swooping away with it.

♠

You volunteer for the late shift at work, monitoring the radio lines in case something comes up. It’s an unusually quiet night, as if all of Bogotá collectively holds its breath, and you mostly spend it watching the clock, calculating the hours in your head.

One to land in Medellín. Two more to mobilize the men. Another half to get in location.

From there, your speculation gets fuzzy. There’s no way to predict the outcome once Verdugo is engaged. Javi’s told you a million stories, each more unbelievable than the last - car chases and rooftop shootouts, standoffs in the street, a fistfight in a church sanctuary, bodies of children littering dark alleyways… you cut off the recollections. They aren’t doing you any favors.

Verdugo is a dangerous man. Anything could happen.

By seven am, your brain is mush and your eyes are hyper-focused in that bleary way that happens when you’ve gone too long without sleep. Your third cup of coffee has gone cold, and people are starting to trickle in. You wave half-heartedly to Torres as you slip out of your headset, rubbing your fingers over your scalp to ease the tension that comes from wearing heavy earphones all night. A shower sounds nice, you decide, and maybe a quick nap afterward.

Somebody will page you with news.

Getting out of the building does a lot to wake you up. There’s something oppressive about the CNP headquarters that seems to abate when you step into the streets of Bogotá. The city buzzes with life even in the early morning, and air is warm in a way that seems to energize rather than sedate. Optimism is easier to invoke as you walk down the street in broad daylight.

Javi had looked at you, at least. He’d listened. He’ll call in to the office as soon as he can. Your intel was good, and they’ve flushed out the rat, he’d promised you that.

Everything will be okay.

You round the corner of CRA 70 and Circular, waving to Emilio, who is working the register of the pharmacy today.

“Orejas!” He shouts, reaching below the counter to hold aloft another bottle of aguardiente. “¡Mira! Solo para ti!”

You grin back at him, raising your voice to shout a greeting, and then, with absolutely no warning, the store explodes.

A loud boom.

A whoosh of impossible heat.

A massive orange fireball billowing from the windows.

Your body flying, flying through the air.

Bright blue sky, and then darkness.

♠

You find yourself lying flat on your back in the middle of the street. Your ears are ringing. There’s a pat-pattering in the air, soft like falling rain.

You blink hard.

It’s not rain, you realize dizzily.

It’s fucking ash.

The air is dark with it, hot and heavy. It coats your tongue and stings your eyes. It’s hard to catch a breath. Your throat hurts, your chest aches. You cough weakly. The smell is terrible, acrid and bitter like burned metal. You can taste it on your tongue.

Slowly, you tense your muscles. Your chest is still burning, but there’s nothing sharp to suggest a serious injury. Your back is sore, your head fuzzy.

You sit up, wincing a little, relieved to realize that you’ve just had the wind knocked from you. You’ll have some bruises tomorrow, but that’s all.

Sound slowly filters in. The hiss and crackle of flame. A shout in the distance. Further away, a wailing siren.

Reality slams into you all at once.

Emilio!

You stand, wobbling more than you think you should, but you push past it. Reality seems to pitch and roil, as if the ground is hitching its breath beneath you. Rubble coats the street, dust clouds the air.

Oh god.

A gaping, smoking crater is all that’s left of Emilio’s pharmacy. The windows are blown out of the businesses on either side, their outer walls bowing under the pressure. Your apartment on the top floor is demolished, the roof caving in, flames licking at the the collapsed floors.

You gasp one long, shuddering breath, taking it all in, and then you’re running, sort of, picking your way through hunks of concrete and twisted metal.

“Emilio! Emilio!”

Your voice is hoarse, the world hushed. Nothing sounds quite right. Your legs are shaking and you can’t catch your breath. Some of the rubble is hot to the touch, and you feel like you’re moving underwater, slow and awkward and stupid.

You approach what’s left of the store, and the smell hits you first. Like cooked meat - charred, greasy, heavy.

You press your hand to your mouth to stifle a scream.

You found Emilio. He’s pinned beneath part of the collapsed roof. You look away quickly, but not before you catch a glimpse of blackened flesh, of bone, blood, and pink frothy tissue.

Acid rises in your throat, and you stumble to your knees, stomach clenching painfully into your ribs as you vomit onto the street. It goes on and on, over and over for an eternity, tears and snot and bile and ash leaking mingled down your face until there is nothing left in you to expel.

The encroaching wail of a siren draws you to your senses. You glance up, suddenly painfully aware of your situation. The ceiling is arching above you, just to your right, and it’s creaking ominously. The fires are still burning, and your shirt is clinging painfully hot against your back. You stagger to your feet once again, dizzy, almost drunkenly. A small crowd has gathered, pointing and gawking, calling out to you in Spanish that you are far, far too overwhelmed to translate.

Gasping, you raise your hands and side-step away, careful of the debris that litters the street around you.

A firetruck arrives on the scene, squalling to a stop between you and the onlookers, and you leap at the opportunity, ducking down the nearest alleyway before anybody can follow.

♠

You aren’t sure how much time you waste in the alleyways of Bogotá.

Seconds?

Minutes?

The time after the explosion is all a blur, and you run until you literally can’t anymore, until you’re doubled over and wheezing, coughing, hacking, panting.

Some primal survival instinct clicks in your brain then, and suddenly, your mind is clear. You glance around, swiping at your cheeks and brushing the ash from your shirt.

Now what?

You take a shaking breath and think.

Okay, first order of business, you’re absolutely disgusting. You need a shower before you can even think about doing anything productive.

Your bathroom just went up in flames, along with all of your clothes. Your heart clenches as you think of Ana - she’s at university, so that’s out. The embassy has a nice bathroom, but no showers that you’re aware of.

There’s only one place you know to go, and that’s Javi’s apartment.

You glance up at the sky. The sun is still pretty low - it can’t have been more than an hour since you’d left work, and that was around seven am. Javi obviously isn’t home, and you don’t have a key, but if you hurry, there’s still a chance that you could catch Murphy before he leaves his flat.

It’s a long shot, but you decide there’s nothing to lose for trying.

[43sparrows]

satisfied - {Five x Reader AU}

Read Part 1 & Part 2 & Part 3 / Part 3.5 & Part 4

Warning: a rollercoaster from start to end

Word Count: 4,512

Note: Here it is. The final installment. I'm also impressed I've managed to pull off my own little goal which was to make each chapter longer as we go deeper and deeper into this relationship. It was fun to write, and I hope you stick with me for my next series

You've ignored four of his calls.

Well, technically, you've only ignored one, deleting the message from the answering machine after a short but brutal internal war. The other three times he's tried to get in touch with you were on the typical ripped out notes taped to your mirror. Each one was plucked down, scanned for words you didn't really expect to find (sorry, mistake, asshole), and then tossed into the waste bin.

You know that even as fucked up as your last encounter was, he deserves more--an explanation or at least a clean break--but you can't bring yourself to give him either. And you hate that about yourself. You hate it because you know why you can't do it, and the feeling that comes from this fact is worse than any of the ways Five's ever made you feel.

So, you don't call him. Instead, you work to erase the little traces of him you find in your apartment and in your thoughts until at last you're faced with something you can't just stick in the garbage: the man himself.

He's standing at the foot of your bed, hands on his hips and brow knit together. The look stops you dead in your tracks as you enter the room.

"You're avoiding me."

You feel like you're going to throw up. The thought briefly crosses your mind that if you do, you might get out of having this conversation. But instead you take a few more steps into the room and close the door behind you. When you face him again, you find his finger tapping at his waist. Your eyes remain on the finger instead of his face and you stay silent. This isn't an admission of guilt, but he seems to take it as one.

"Why?" he demands.

Objectively, you know the words. You're proficient in more than one language, so frankly you have more than enough words to use. But you can't seem to piece them together quite right, and so, no sound comes out. Instead you turn your gaze to your right and it lands on the candle on your bookshelf. The flame flickers, dancing in a breeze you can't feel yourself. You feel like there's a metaphor somewhere in there.

"Look--"

"Why would you do that to me, Five?" Your voice is soft, but the interruption effectively cuts him off. If you were looking, you'd imagine you'd see his eyes squint at you in frustrated confusion. His mouth would be slightly open, and you'd want to kiss it closed. So you can't face him. Your gaze stays fixated on the candle.

"Do what?"

You wet your lips as if that will help get out what you need to say. It doesn't work, but it does buy you a bit of time and makes the tension in the room that much more palpable. You wonder if that's what's guiding the flame through its movements.

"You brought me to Howl's just to fuck me in front of my ex."

Five's quiet now, and you chance a look at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn't look frustrated, but he does look like he's working a math problem and each time he comes to the end he gets a different solution.

He notices you're looking and tries to catch your eye, so you turn back to watch the candle burn it's way down the wick.

"You said you wanted something to shove in his face."

You don't remember saying that, but it's true. You did want something to shove in his face. But not like this. You shake your head at him.  "Not that." Your voice is both airy and tight, and it's not a good sign. "That wasn't anything worth shoving in his face."

"What?" There's heat in Five's voice now, and you can tell that something you've said has pushed a button. "He's working two jobs so he can get married to some boring elementary school teacher, and you're having mindblowing sex with the closest thing this city has to a goddamn superhero. Who came out on top there?"

"You," you say, simply.

"Me?" he repeats, and you finally find the strength to turn and face him. His eyebrows have shot up so high, you're surprised they're not touching his hairline.

"You're the one who got what they wanted out of that show Five. Because he's still happily getting married having been proven right that I'm nothing more than a call girl dumb enough to work for free."

Five narrows his eyes at you, and there's nothing confused about the look. Instead, he looks downright mean. You realize in that look, that he's missed the point completely. He's not listening to you. He's not seeing you. And you're starting to realize that he may not even want to. The realization hurts. It fucking hurts. Like you're being ripped apart from the inside. And the worst part is that you really should have known this.

Before he can get any words out, you beat him to the punch. It's the only way this argument was ever going to end.   "I can't do this anymore, Five."

The look shifts into one of incredulousness and then disgust and then stoniness. And then, without a word, he vanishes.

You feel like you've collapsed on the inside.

Apparently, you look like it too.

Your boss had taken one look at you and tried to send you back home. You'd told her that you were fine to work and made it half the day before she insisted you looked truly terrible and needed to go home. And maybe see a doctor.

Judging by the look on your roommate's face, you look even worse now that you've made it home.

"Are you alright?" she asks, peering up at you from the couch.

"Got sent home early," you mumble. It's not exactly an answer to her question, but you hope that it gets you out of having to talk anymore. It's not that you don't love your roommate. But you'd rather crawl in bed and stay there for a month if it meant that you didn't have to socialize with any humans in the meantime.

You successfully shuffle all the way into your room and drop your things next to your desk before the TV shuts off. Your roommate's footsteps echo throughout the apartment, and then there's silence and the feeling of someone hovering in the doorway behind you.

"I'm worried," she says, and you sigh, your shoulders dropping as you turn around.

"I'm fine."

She hums a no and gestures at your room.  You've let piles of dirty clothes take over most of the floor. There's about six different cups scattered on different surfaces, all with varying levels of water in them. Only one of the candles is lit. Her eyes find yours again, and you can't help but look away. "You've been locked in here all weekend. And most of last week too. I know he hasn't been by. He hasn't even called. What's up?"

You shrug helplessly, and the same way they do any time you think of Five, your eyes betray you and start to water.

"You don't know?" she presses, and you shake your head, looking off to the side, trying to get yourself under control. She walks into the bedroom then, coming around to sit on the edge of your bed and stare up at you. "Talk to me, Y/N. Seriously, I'm worried about you, and I don't know what to do."

"I--" your voice feels too thick, and you're having a hard time keeping it even as it comes out. "It's over." Your roommate's eyebrows draw down in sympathy as do the corners of her mouth.

"He ended it."

You shake your head and swallow. "I did." The pitch is too high now.

"Why?" your roommate's voice softens in response to yours, and it's then that you break, face crumpling, tears falling, and a broken sob escaping. She doesn't say anything more, instead rising from the bed and wrapping her arms around you from the side, leaning her head against your shoulder.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time to stop crying. Then again, any time spent crying over a boy who you weren't dating and never made any promises in terms of feelings or commitments was embarrassing. But, when you do slow down, you finally find the words to tell her everything. What happened while she was away. Your trip to the bar and what you discovered. Your fight. She listens and doesn't say anything, instead doing the one thing that you need most from her: she doesn't let go.

You look less like shit.

But you still feel awful.

It's been just over a week since your fight with Five, and you feel like you should be over it by now. The disappointment, the embarrassment, the hurt. But you're not. Sure, you don't exactly feel like an open wound anymore. But you feel a bit like someone's just put a single layer of gauze on top, and that's not nearly enough.

So, you decide there's only one course of action that will make you feel better on this Saturday morning: Griddy's Doughnuts.

Just walking into the shop makes you feel lighter. The sweet smell of the different glazes and jellies wafts through the air, and kids are crammed up against the doughnut case and perched on stools with their parents. Walking into the place is like a time warp--it feels exactly the same way it did all those years ago when you were the kid tugging at her mom's hand.

And then you make accidental eye contact, and it all shatters. Because the brown eyes you're staring into belong to none other than Vanya Hargreeves.

You pull over to the side of the line to do the right thing and make brief small talk. If it hadn't been for two occasions where she'd come home sooner than planned, you wouldn't be in this situation. She wouldn't recognize you. But this girl's seen you half naked and spoken to you several times over the phone. She knows more of you than you wish she did. She probably feels the same way. Regardless of the willingness either of you have to engage in this conversation, she's coming over, bag of doughnuts and tray of coffee in hand.

"Y/N, hi," she greets, offering a nervous looking smile.

"Hi," Your own attempt at a smile is disastrous. It's too tight and it doesn't reach your eyes. It hardly even reaches your cheekbones. "Seems like we had the same idea for breakfast."

She nods, looking down at the bag in her hand. "Yeah. We have this family tradition to grab Griddy's whenever one of us--"  she stops then, seeming to remember who she's talking to and restarts with a safer question. "How are you?"

Vanya's voice sounds the way Griddy's smells--like nostalgia and comfort and it makes you ache inside. You want to know how her sentence was going to end, but you want out of this conversation more.

"I'm fine," It comes out more of an exhale than a word, and she seems to see right through it.

She nods, her smile taking on a sad quality. "You and Five both then. Guess we did get the same memo about Griddy's."

A silence seeps in between the two of you, and you hate the way this feels--like you're drowning in the middle of a swimming pool and trying not to call attention to it.

"I don't want to pry--" She must see you go rigid because she seems to decide on a different route. "I don't know what happened, but I'm sorry it didn't work out. I know you guys cared a lot about each other."

You don't know how to respond to that. You're not sure if you want to be the fool who fell in love with her friends with benefits or the slut who was just in it for phenomenal sex or the bitch who points out Vanya's brother is a heartless bastard and doesn't deserve doughnuts because he clearly never gave a damn. She must catch the crease between your eyebrows, your lips instinctively puckering into a qualification, because she saves you from responding.

"Look, I know Five can be...a lot. And I don't know what he did, but I can tell it was big and it wasn't good." She looks like she wants to reach out and touch you, but her hands--thankfully--are full. "But you should know, he checks the answering machine every day."

It stings. He still thinks you'll call.

And you almost have.

You can't look at her open and earnest face any longer, so you look down at the ground and nod dumbly. "Thanks." She stays in front of you, and you can feel that she wants to break the silence again.  You swallow hard and force yourself to meet her gaze once more. "Well, I don't want your coffees to get cold. It was nice to run into you, though, Vanya."

She nods, her mouth settling into a line. "Take care of yourself, ok?" she asks, and you lift your lips into half a smile because it's just about as much as you can manage. She nods once more and then turns and leaves the doughnut shop. You get in line.

Your roommate decides it's time for you to leave the house.

You point out that you leave the house almost every day.

She argues that leaving for work doesn't count. It's been two weeks and you need to have fun.

You insist that if you're going to have fun, it's not going to be on a Tuesday.

She informs you that there will be dollar tacos where she's going.

That's how you end up at Don Pablo's at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night with your roommate and two other friends all crowded around a table. It's hard to say what it is, the dollar tacos, the strong margaritas, the good company or the Spanish covers of pop songs, but whatever the reason, you're feeling lighter than you have. You're even laughing as your friend, Faith, updates you on the latest antics of the passive aggressive post-it queen at her work.

"That is...one hell of a story," someone to the right of your table says, and the eyes of the group look up to a lanky man with shoulder length brown hair. He's wearing a mesh crop top that sparkles a little under the light and leather pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, a fact that's captured Sam's attention.

The man pushes off from where he's leaning against the coat rack, and it's a testament to Faith's storytelling prowess that not a single one of you noticed him lurking there until this point. He motions for Faith to budge over, and the motion is so familiar and friendly that she scoots without protest.

"So," he says, resting his chin in both of his palms. "Which one of you radiant young ladies is Y/N?"

The words are objectively skeevy, but much like his admittance to the table, this earns nothing but a few snorts and smiles. He's also smiling like he's in on the joke, and it's genuine and sparkling rather than leering. You're half tempted to tell him, but your roommate stops you.

"Why?" Nasreen asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because she's the one person who will save us from my brother's broody pining," he says with a faux pout.

Nasreen's eyebrows lift even higher. "Isn't it a little middle school of your brother to send you over here for him?"

He chuckles and lifts his head, shaking a finger at your roommate. She grins back at him. "Yes, it would be, but he very expressly told me not to come over here. I'm here looking for Y/N of my own free will." He glances around the table and steals a chip out of your basket, dipping it into the salsa. "Technically," he says, crunching down on the chip. "I'm risking my life for this."

Sam laughs and the man grins, reaching for another chip. "It's true. He said, and this is a direct quote, 'Klaus, if you go over there, I will drive this tiny umbrella through your eyeball until it hits that thing you call a brain and puts us all out of our misery.'" He pops the chip into his mouth and gives a dramatic eye roll. "Very eloquent, my brother."

Your friends laugh at this, even Nasreen, but you grow cold. Because you know one person with a brother named Klaus.

"So," Klaus bounces his shoulders once, sitting up straighter. "Who am I sacrificing myself for?" He looks around the table pleasantly just as Sam glances at you. It's a small motion, but Klaus latches onto it. "Ah," Klaus says gesturing toward you. "I'm going to need you to come fuck my brother."

Faith spits out her margarita. Sam barks out a sudden laugh. Nasreen blinks and draws back into the booth.

"I know he's an emotionally stunted little asshole, but he's been even more insufferable than usual, and Vanya says it's because of you." He drops his hand onto the table, relaxing back into the booth. "Obviously, he's the one at fault--you seem like an angel. But it would mean the world if you would come fix our little shitheel."

It's the name Vanya that brings Nasreen up to speed.

"I'm vetoing this right now," your roommate says, shaking her head. Klaus presses his hands together and points them at her.

"Your objection has been heard and noted, but let's hear from Y/N."

All of the eyes on the table are on you, and dollar tacos isn't enough to redeem this moment. You shake your head slowly. "No."

"No," Klaus repeats. He seems surprised.

"No, I'm tired of being fucked over so Five can feel better. No." Your roommate's approval radiates over you, strengthening the feeling. Faith and Sam straighten up at the mention of Five.

Klaus heaves a sigh and leans back to rest his head on the top of the booth's cushion. "I don't blame you, but I don't want to go back over there," he says to the ceiling. "Not only is he going to publicly murder me, but he'll probably drive me up this stucco painted wall with his moodiness before he does it." He lolls his head to turn to Faith. "Can I stay here with you?"

Faith laughs a little, looking at the rest of you.

"Depends," your roommate says, leaning on the table.

"On?" Klaus raises an eyebrow.

"If the next round is on you."

When you stumble into your apartment, it's a little past 1 am, and you're not so much as drunk as you are high on a good time. Allowing Klaus to stay at your table had been the best decision you'd made in the past...month? Maybe longer. Not only had he supplied you with enough good stories to take your mind far away from Five (whose gaze you could feel once you knew it was there) but Klaus had also pulled each of you up to salsa with him despite the fact that it wasn't a dance bar at all. Still, several other couples from different tables had followed his lead, and you'd allowed yourself to be spun and turned about until your legs were ready to collapse.

It's hard to imagine that anything can bring yourself down from this feeling as you place a kiss on your roommate's cheek and thank her for dragging you out.

Then again, you hardly imagined Five would be popping into your bedroom at 1:30 in the morning.

His hair is wild, eyes are hazy, and he looks more disheveled than you've ever seen him. "You were there. You were there and Klaus came over, and what the fuck?"

You've never heard so many nonsensical words come out of his mouth.

"Are you...drunk?" you ask, dumping your clothes at the door to your closet.

"Figured that one out," he says, gesturing flailingly at you.  "I got drunk because that's what you do when the one person in this world who doesn't make your life worse won't even look across a bar at you." He says.

You, for your part, remain silent, head tilted, trying to make sense of what's going on--how much of this is him and how much of it is the alcohol. Because you can't believe he's this upset--Five doesn't seem to do emotions other than stressed, horny, and smug.

He sways a bit. "You were right there. Right there. And you didn't even look at me. Not even when fuckin' Klaus went over."

"I didn't realize you cared that much," you say quietly.

Five scoffs. "Why else would I spend five days hunting down your ex just so you could get your closure."

You blink several times at this fact, but you don't have time to formulate some sort of response before he continues. "Do you know how many Jordan Millers there are in this city?"

"You--what?" The words come out as hardly more than a disbelieving whisper.

"Five days and perfect planning to get you there and have it all work out at just the right moment, only for you to end it. No reason. You just ended it."

You swallow hard and then fix him with a stare. Because he's right--he should at least have a reason. "I didn't end it because of Howl's." You pause, and he takes it as the end of the sentence because he continues on.

"I don't even know what happened. I keep trying to work it out. It's all I can fucking think about, and I can't figure it out. You wanted just sex, so I gave you just sex. You wanted to show up your ex, so I made sure you could show up your ex." His voice takes on a hysterical quality as he starts to pace the room. "What am I missing? Please, enlighten me. Because Vanya and Allison are up my ass about trying to fix things with you, and hell if I know where to begin."

"You can't fix this," you shake your head and then wet your lips, steeling yourself up for the most embarrassing truth. "I ended it because I wanted more, and you didn't."

He pauses and then lets out a manic laugh. "So you left because you wanted to be with me?"

"I left because I thought it was just sex to you, and that's all it would ever be."

"That's all it was supposed to be," he says, not stopping his pacing.  "That's what we both wanted."

"Wanted," you repeat, quietly. "Wants change."

He lets out a manic laugh. "Oh, I know that," he says and stalks closer to you. "Why else would I be here right now, still trying to figure out what you want so I can give it to you instead of fucking any of the girls who came up to me tonight?"

You blink a few times, and this has to be an exhaustion induced delusion, because there's no way he's saying what you think he's saying.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, quietly. He doesn't answer, instead closing the remainder of the distance, pulling your body flush against yours and kissing you.

He tastes like margaritas. His kiss is as intoxicating as the alcohol itself, the sensation rushing through your body and urging you to relax into him. He's only kissed you four times before, and all of those were different. In those kisses his hands ran over your body, pushing at your clothes, his frame walking you back towards the bed. But now he's solid, and his hands are still, a vice keeping you close to him as his lips remain on yours.

It takes an extraordinary strength of will to extract yourself from his kiss. "Don't do this," you whisper, your lips brushing his since he's chased after your kiss.

"Why?" he pulls you even closer, pressing another kiss to your lips.

"Because you don't mean this," you say, bringing your hands in between your bodies to push him away. "You're drunk and you're lonely and…"

"And I want you," he says, not moving, ducking his head to kiss you again.

"No you don't."

The words make him step back angrily. "I don't know how to make it any fucking clearer," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "I want you. I want you Y/N. I wish I didn't. I wish things would go back to being just sex. Because my life was so much easier then. But they can't. Not for you and not for me. You want more. I want you. So why won't you just accept that and let me kiss you?"

As far as romantic speeches go, it's pretty shitty.

"Fine," you say.

It's an equally shitty romantic response.

But then he's kissing you again, and you let yourself lean into the hope that maybe, come morning, he'll still mean what he said.

When you wake up, Five's gone.

The other side of the bed is tucked in tightly, like he was never even there. But you know he was. Because if he wasn't, there's no reason for your whole body to ache inside and out. It's tempting to stay in bed and throw yourself a mix of pity party and roast. After all, last night you exhibited top tier dumbassery.

But you're tired of feeling like shit. So you drag yourself out from under the covers and towards your door, hoping that some coffee and a warm breakfast will help you to feel better.

You pad out the door and down the short hallway to come out to the kitchen where your roommate is pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“My head hurts like a sonofabitch,” she says, reaching into the cabinet to grab down a mug for you. “You?”

You give a rueful smile and head over to stand next to her by the coffeepot. “Surprisingly, I’m ok. Better than yesterday.”

“Good,” she says, filling your mug up.

Your toilet flushes, and both you and your roommate look at each other. The silent question is answered not long after as there, appearing in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking a bit disheveled, is Five.

It’s the first time your roommate has ever seen him.

“Uh…hello?” your roommate says, and Five nods at her, moving forward to steal your mug of coffee. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long sip.

“You’re…here,” you say dumbly, and he nods, drinking some more coffee.

“It’s where I want to be.”

Your roommate looks between the two of you. “And you are…”

“Five,” he says over his coffee, and your roommate looks between the two of you wildly before finally settling you with a significant look.

“You’re going to have to make more coffee, and explain all of this to me,” she says, circling a finger at Five.

You look at him, a small twist of a smile on your lips. “Fine with me.”

[deniigi]

Jack and the other folks at the gym; how they met, what their relationships are like, how they are with Matt etc.

For you, anon. I have an old fic that answers all of these questions.

It’s written from the perspective of Jack’s best friend and sparring partner Rudy DeLuca.

Title: Tape

Summary: There were two generations of devils at Fogwell’s Gym

Warnings: child abuse, physical abuse, references to drug use and suicide/suicide attempts, and foster care

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

There was a famed baby at the gym at the moment and Rudy was scheming how to get it into his arms when the old man caught him leaning on the front desk and told him that he had two whole grandbabies waitin’ for him at home.

Matty took that moment to fly in from the back room where he’d been harrassing the shit out of the new ‘clerk’ (as Fogwell called him) to ask if Tina had finally popped.

Rudy was caught off guard by the image of Tina beating the shit out of Matt for that and then by the wave of nostalgia that the kid’s sudden enthusiasm bought.

“Well, look who’s here?” he drawled instead, slowly turning around towards the beast. “Where you been, neighbor?”

Matt beamed at him.

He looked good.

Happy.

Far, far too happy.  

Rudy squinted.

Matt waited a beat, then scrambled back into staff entrance and knocked shit over on the desk back there in his haste to go hide behind Fogwell.

Uh-huh.

Yeah.

That’s right, troublemaker, go hide behind Grandpa. He’ll protect you, you little shit.

The new gym baby was a full two months old. He was fat and grumpy and his papa’s pride and joy already. Rudy managed to snag an opportunity to get the thing into his arms when Bert and Kenny came in, signaling for the youths that the senior citizen shift had begun.

Fogwell was the most distinguished of the senior citizens, but, of course, he would wait his turn until the rest of them had finished lavishing attention upon his fiftieth great-grandbaby.

Baby’s papa was proud as a peacock.

“His name’s Henry,” he told Rudy, while Henry wrinkled his nose and eyes up at him.

Henry.

Ehn.

Terrible name.

“He looks like a John,” Rudy said.

Papa, who Rudy had forgotten the name of at least six times since he’d joined the gym, laughed.

“I thought about callin’ him Jack,” he said. “But my girl drew the line there.”

Ah.

Right.

This was that kid.

Kenny had gathered everyone into a group huddle in the changing room the other week to explain seriously how they all needed to avoid the fuck out of this guy. He’d said in a whisper that the guy was one of them people into vintage shit.

A hipster, he meant.

A fuckin’ hipster in their midst.

God, there were more and more of them in the gym every day.

Rudy lifted an eyebrow at baby Henry.

He didn’t deserve to be called Henry. He really did look more like a John. But, for the sake of the dead, Rudy decided that he’d squint for as hard and long as it took for him to become a Henry.

 ---

 Fogwell’s had been legendary back in the day for producing pro boxers out of good-for-nothin’, trouble-makin’ guys with no other prospects.

Fogwell was that general from Mulan who made men out of boys (and the occasional girl. And the most recent kid who said that they weren’t a guy or a gal and if anyone wanted to throw down about it, they were posting their number on the cork board by the front desk).

Back in Rudy’s youth, that had been appealing as hell. And so he’d had a swagger on into the place, thinking that maybe he would pop his guns a bit in Fogwell’s direction and get the polishing he needed to make enough money to buy his girl a ring.

On the upside, Fogwell had, in fact, noticed him. But the downside was that Rudy had had no fucking clue what that actually meant, and so three years later, he’d found himself smoking only twice a week instead of every day, drinking goddamn protein shakes, and doing a daily fuckin’ jog like a military brat.

Fogwell had no time for dumb shit. He didn’t care if you wanted to kill yourself slowly with whatever vice you picked from the basket, but if you walked into the ring with his name on your back, then you would disgrace that name on pain of divine retribution.

It was way easier just to get one step ahead of the guy’s nit-picking than to suffer his judgemental silence.

That had been Fogwell back in the day, and that was still Fogwell in the now.

But as with any force of nature, even if the old man had planted his feet and announced his intention to rest there in that place for the next two millenia, the world around him still carried on spinning around.

Fogwell’s wasn’t just a facility for churning out pros these days. It wasn’t just legendary, now.

It was a fuckin’ institution.

God help them.

They were a tourist destination. Ghost hunters, folks on buses, sports fans, teen girls with a mighty need for a vintage-lookin’ selfie. You name it. They pressed their noses up against the yellowed glass to watch the people inside break their bodies down to build them up into something money-making.

It wasn’t an unwarranted curiosity, to be fair.

Fogwell had produced twenty pro boxers in the last several decades who’d really made it. Like, really, really made it.

Bert was one of them—to literally every one of the senior citizens’ surprise.

Bert had been a empty-headed wise-guy with a porn-stache at best way back when. And like, don’t get Rudy wrong, he was still an empty-headed wise-guy. He was just an empty-headed wise guy with a head like a helmet and a whole lot of money now.

Not that you’d have known it from lookin’ at him.

Bless him.

He was paying college tuition for all his kids and he was helping the older ones vet kindergartens with tuition or what the fuck ever, doing all that he could so that those babies didn’t have to live life out of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese boxes like him.

Bert had made it. That was the dream.

The dream was just that, though. A shot in the dark. A drop in a bucket. Kenny had done alright, just like Rudy had done alright. They’d had their ten minutes of time in the spotlight. Had made enough to get by. Had made enough to be comfortable in Hell’s Kitchen. To retire and become personal trainers or sports commentators or whatever the fuck opportunity jumped up in their faces.

A lot of fellas hadn’t made it, though. And then there were the Almosts.

Jackie had been an Almost, god rest his soul.

This new hipster kid at the gym with his baby had latched onto Jack’s image, found in old magazines and grainy footage, and had decided that that whole vibe fit the image that he wanted to live in.

It made Rudy sick. It made Kenny angry—hence the group huddle.

There were about seven of them left who’d both known Jackie and who still used the gym on the regular. Eight if you included Fogwell.

Nine if you included Matty.

Jesus fuckin’ help them.

This dumbass hipster kid didn’t even know who Matty was. Most of the newcomers didn’t. He was just some bright, perky blind guy to them. He was Center-Left-Second-Back bag. That was his bag.

And he was good.

He was a curiosity to the newcomers and the people pressed against glass—one of a handful of middle-weights in a sea of heavyweights. He didn’t look like everyone else. He wasn’t packing muscle like everyone else. He was lithe and coiled and looked, honestly, a little out of place to folks who didn’t know the gym as Home #2.

He was interesting to the newcomers mostly because he was 100% Fogwell’s favorite. Fogwell doted on him by ribbing him and bullying him viciously, by bumping into him and throwing him off mark left and right, and all the while, Matty just beamed.  

The newbies thought he got preferential treatment because he was blind. But that wasn’t it. Matty got treated that way because that was how his grandpa told him he loved him.

 ---

 Before Jake and Carlos and Omar and Matty, Jack had been Fogwell’s favorite up-and-coming rookie.

It had been no secret. Well. To most people.

Jack had been horrified when he’d found out.

No one wanted to be Fogwell’s favorite. That’s how you went pro whether you liked it or fucking not.

Jack had pleaded with Kenny for hours to take his place, but there was nothing that could be done. Jackie was the youngest and Jackie had come from a shit home life and Jackie would do anything and everything Fogwell told him to do because he was just that kind of sweet and respectful.

Fogwell could smell Jack’s lack of a father-figure on him like Chanelle No. 5.

He could smell it miles away.

Jack had actually been at the gym before Rudy had joined up. He’d been around since he was about seventeen. He’d come in on the heels of his big brother who wanted to go pro.

It quickly became apparent to Fogwell that Tom Murdock didn’t have what it took to be a boxer. He was just a bully. But that little brother of his, Tom’s punching bag, now he had some talent. He had the diligence and respect that the game, in Fogwell’s opinion, was severely lacking.

So Fogwell did what he did best and drove a wedge slowly between Tom and baby Jackie, separating the two of them so that he could get his mitts on Jackie and do something with him before Tom and his junkie sister took Jackie down with them.

Rudy had met Jack soon after Jack’s eldest brother had been arrested for murdering his wife and stepdaughter.

The kid was a wreck. He’d just turned 18.

He didn’t talk. He just fought and fought and fought until he cried and cried and cried. All on his own, from 5pm to 1am, at Center-Left-Second-Back.

Fogwell let him.

Fogwell came over to put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed when he finally dropped from exhaustion.

It was hard to watch.

The older guard at the time had bared their teeth and clenched their jaws as Jackie had pummeled his heart out against that bag.

No one could help him.

Everyone but Rudy, at that time, had seen the man he’d walked into the gym with. They’d seen this coming a mile away. And over a few days of that, it become clear to Rudy that Jack didn’t have a home to go back to that didn’t scream at him from morning until night. At that time, the gym for him was Home #1.

 ---

 It took about a year, but Rudy eventually got to know this weeping, heartbroken boy from the worst side of the Kitchen.

Rudy learned from the others about the Murdocks.

They were sinners and drunkards and addicts, word had it. The police were always in and out of their rooms, taking one of the five kids or one of the parents to jail for some damn reason or another. Neighbors wasted their hard-earned money on phone calls to the police for domestic disputes and violence and so on and so on. Everyone on the streets said to be careful of the Murdocks, especially them boys.

They got the devil in ‘em.

But not Jackie, Rudy learned.

He was shy, bless him. He wasn’t suited to those others’ kind of life.

Rudy actually had felt, for the second time in his life, strong brotherly feelings around this kid. He and his own sister didn’t get on until someone threatened the other. Then it was no-holds-barred, bear-like feelings. Just them against the world.

But Jack was different. He had puppy eyes with a constant black one and perpetually chapped lips. It had never occurred to him that he could spend a buck buying chapstick. It had never occurred to him that he could have friends that he didn’t have to smile at until his face hurt.

He didn’t really get what it meant to have relationships with other people and for the first six months of their acquaintance, Jack refused to meet Rudy’s eye, much less say more than five words to him.

He was more than respectful.

He was skittish.

The other guys, who were happy to haze Rudy, warned him that he if so much as looked at that kid, Fogwell would break his bones and his career would be over before it even started.

It had definitely turned into a kind of spite thing.

Rudy had absolutely been that kind of shithead back then.

He’d started by offering to hold Jack’s bag while he worked out his aggression. That had been a mistake.

He’d caught Fogwell snickering at him about ten minutes into it, after trying and failing that whole time to find a way to plant his feet that would let him actually hold onto the bag.

Jack had noticed.

Jack had gotten flustered and freaked out bad enough that Rudy had been forced to leave him be or else he’d hyperventilate or go hide in the backroom in a cupboard or something in self-flagellation.

It took some practice and some muscle, but they got there in the end.

Jack was a great sparring partner because he did not fucking go down. It was like trying to fight a pine tree sometimes. He would, could, and did take hit after hit without batting an eye.

And when it was his turn for offense?

Rudy was well aware that he’d signed up to be a human punching bag, but this? This was a lot.

Fogwell critiqued the fuck out of Jack’s everything.

His form.

His posture.

His aim.

His drive.

His commitment.

His tape.

His fucking hair.

Jack thought he was like that with everyone.

Rudy loved that kid like a brother, but he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. Not by far.

That had become more clear when Kenny joined their mottley crew and, aggravatingly sharp, had taken to teasing Jack. That was more frustrating for Kenny than anyone else because Jackie didn’t get a single joke or jibe.

No, Jack didn’t know Seinfield. Or Friends. Or Charlie’s Angels. No, he didn’t know anything about cars. No, he didn’t know about physics or chemistry or math. What the fuck was English lit? Wait, what’s the difference between books and literature?

God.

Bless.

That.

Kid.

He wasn’t unintelligent, he just wasn’t academic.

He was sweet about it, though. The youngest of five, he had no choice but to be sweet because all his siblings called him hopeless and useless and stupid, so he had to be something and so pretty it was.

Rudy had never met someone who performed so well under pressure and around two years into their friendship and, suddenly privy to the full extent of Jack’s honestly horrific, borderline surreal upbringing, he finally got it.

But then along came Grace.

The Lord’s agent herself.

Jack was a good Catholic boy who saw a nun and dropped his eyes, but for some reason, this novice caught his gaze and he was gone.

He got dopey and dreamy the night after she and some friends had snuck out in their novice habits to see a load of guys in desperate need of the Lord hitting on each other.

It was tooth-decaying the way Jack swooned for that girl.

Her name was Margaret, she told him saucily at the church one street over from the one he’d grown up attending, but he could call her ‘Grace.’

Jack banged his melon on a locker a week later at the gym and the jolt make him realize that he was in love with her.

He cracked his head a second time with everyone watching him in a mix of pity, exhaustion, and indulgence and then scurried off to the bathroom to hyperventilate over a urinal.

“Someone go keep Baby M from drowning in a sink,” Horace Whalin, a professional beast at the start of his career, had sighed.

Everyone had looked right at Rudy.

 ---

 Grace was the worst thing that could ever have happened to Jack.

Everyone at the gym knew it. Fogwell hated that girl with a cold passion.

She made Jack stupider than usual. Bolder than ever.

She made him think and made him question things and like, that was probably a good thing in terms of Jack’s life experience and mental health, but in terms of boxing?

Not good.

Fogwell was openly dreaming up schemes to break them up the day Jack came tearing into the gym and announced that he was getting married.

It took everything in Rudy not to start cackling right then and there. The entire gym’s necklines bulged with the effort not to fucking laugh. Fogwell went silent and blank.

He’d waved Jack in close and and when he came—because he would always come to Fogwell, no matter what—the old man set a hand on Jack’s shoulder and told him that if he brought that woman into the gym he’d kill him.

Jack stared up at him and said that they were getting married in a church, Coach. Why would he bring her to the gym?

At that point, it would have taken a saint not to laugh and the gym was full of only sinners.

 ---

 Grace was the worst thing that had ever happened to Jack, but Matty was by far, the best thing.

Fogwell, after being vindicated upon Jack and Grace’s abrupt and tragic separation, found that Matt could be used as a motivator for his up-and-comer.

Matty, of course, played the part beautifully.

He was unfairly cute with those delicate, whispy red locks and them big hazel eyes. He was bubbly and chatty. An unrelenting troublemaker. Just a barrel of laughs.

Fogwell took to letting Jack put Matty’s carrier on a bench next to the ring or on one of the metal bleachers around the mats in the weights and sparring room. He found that if Matty started whining or crying, that Jack got twice as motivated to finish whatever task was at hand with maximum efficiency.

Matt was the best thing to ever happen to Jack’s boxing career, truly.

He also immediately became the gym’s darling because all the veterans there at that point were dads. Rudy himself had had his first girl Tina the year before, but unlike Jack, the rest of them had childcare arrangements and the money to maintain them.

 ---

 It was just natural for people to gravitate towards the baby. Out of paternal instincts, yeah, but also because Matty was a source of constant entertainment.

He called everyone uncle until he was seven and he needed to be negotiated with to leave Fogwell be until he was nine. Fogwell didn’t mind him. Fogwell had unwittingly adopted him.

Matty didn’t meet his own uncles and grandpa. Jack couldn’t bear that. He took Matty to meet Bill, Jack’s eldest brother—the one who’d killed his wife—in jail and afterwards had been heart-broken and anxious for days.

Grace did not approve, it turned out.

Grace, who went by Maggie at that point, and who had given up her rights to be the mother of Jack’s child, remained one of Jack’s closest and dearest friends.

They still loved each other, and in Fogwell’s very correct opinion, that was nothing but trouble. He snatched Matty at every opportunity and informed him softly but firmly that he was not going to fall in love with a nun when he was big or there would be consequences.

Matt seemed to have come to understand this rule over time, but he never seemed to put together pieces as to why Fogwell was so insistent about it.

 ---

 When Jack turned up murdered, everyone at the gym decided that it was their fault.

It was surreal.

Unbelieveable.

He’d been right there, just fine, laughing and smiling the day before. Rudy had held his bag and Jack had told him to tell the girls and Mel that he missed them.

And, in a moment of crushing realization back then, Rudy had understood the implications of those words and then remembered how good Jack had always been about smiling at people.

He knew how to make himself seem okay and unimportant. He knew how to fade into the background.

Fogwell took it hard.

He blamed himself for not recognizing how bad things had gotten at home for Jack and Matty. He blamed himself for not booking him for more jobs, for pushing him harder and harder on his form lately.

Matty was taken away by social services and his absence from the table at the gym the next day finally brought out the tears that Rudy hadn’t been able to let fall.

He tried.

He tried, he did.

Over the years, Matty had become a brother to Tina, Angie, and Penelope. He fit right in that two-year gap between Tina and Angie. Rudy had him over when Jack worked and Jack had the girls when Mel needed a break from the screaming and crying. And really, by then, everyone’s kids were everyone’s at the gym.

It wasn’t a matter of who belonged to who, it was more of a matter of when someone belonged to someone.

Rudy tried to get custody or at least foster rights. Mel gave herself an ulcer over it, trying to think of how to arrange things to make their home safe for Matt. Trying to think of how to make space for him. He could share a room with Tina. They were still young. They probably wouldn’t mind after some growing pains. But social services said that that wasn’t possible. Matt was too high-risk for them. They didn’t have enough experience with ‘his type of child.’

Which was bullshit.

Matt wasn’t high-risk, Matty was traumatized and scared and with people he didn’t know, who didn’t know him.

That was what made him high-risk.

He knew Rudy and Mel’s house. He knew their girls. He knew their neighborhood.

Still, nothing.

Fogwell himself tried. Shocked the shit out of everyone at the gym, but Social services sadly shook their heads.

By then, Matt had been placed out already.

 ---

 Matt disappeared for five years. Just vanished completely. There was no sight of him until one day, Tina came home and said that ‘oh yeah, I saw Matty today’ while playing with her food at the dinner table.

Rudy and Mel had set down their forks.

Tina sighed and said that he was taller now, but he didn’t look good.

He looked sick, she said. With dark rings around his eyes and broken sunglasses. He’d been sleeping, leaning against the side of some stairs out in his school uniform at the Catholic highschool a few blocks away.

She’d poked at her chicken and then set down her fork and excused herself.

Rudy stroked her hair that night as she cried into her pillow for her lost brother.

 ---

 Matt was, by fifteen, a troubled kid.

Rudy heard shouting one day from Clinton Church and stepped out to see what was happening. He was shocked to see that familiar ginger mop struggling in the arms of two cops, swearing that if these people took him back to wherever he’d come from, that he’d kill himself. He’d do it. Don’t try him.

The priest was called.

Matt was forced down to the ground and handcuffed, still fighting.

It was--it was a whole lot to see. Kenny swore softly behind him and Bert left them to go back inside. He went to the bathroom and didn’t join them out on the mats for a while.

 ---

 Fogwell decided around then that enough was enough.

He went to the church and asked if he could borrow Matt for a while. He needed some help getting his accounts together and he knew Matt was a bright kid. Giving him a little work experience in a familiar and disciplined setting would be good for him.

But Matt wasn’t there.

 ---

 The hospital didn’t allow anyone to visit Matt. He apparently hadn’t earned the privilege of visitors from anyone who wasn’t on his care team.

Rudy felt numb at the front desk.

Jack’s boy had tried to kill himself. He’d warned them all that he would do it.

He’d apparently screamed himself hoarse that he wanted to be with his dad in the ground.

He was still screaming.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done any of this, Rudy came to learn through a few whispered conversations with some nuns from St. Agnes.

Grace had found him after the three attempts the nuns knew of. This last one was just bad enough that she couldn’t bring him back from the edge.

Grace’s eldest younger sister had committed suicide. Grace had found her and then left home immediately become a novice. To find her own son as she’d once found her sister was cosmic and divine cruelty—enough that even Fogwell shook his head and said it just wasn’t right.

 ---

 The first time Rudy saw Matty after the whole situation, he looked exactly as Tina said he did. Tired. With dark circles. Thin. His clothes threatened to fall off of him. They were threadbare and had holes in them here and there.

Matty didn’t talk.

He moved his head around a lot and jerked when anyone spoke to him or brushed against him, and he scrambled back and tripped sometimes if he was touched directly.

It was like looking at a smaller, thinner version of Jack all those years ago—this time with tightly bound wrists and a hospital bracelet that looked like it had been stretched and torn and chewed on.

Fogwell asked Matt if he thought he could do something with the accounts.

Matt said nothing.

Fogwell gave him a box of receipts and bits and bobs of payment cards and IOUs and Matt had frowned and put his hand into the box to touch its feathery contents. He’d lifted his face up in Fogwell’s direction and sneered.

“You can’t seriously live like this,” he’d said in a voice that almost brought tears to Rudy’s eyes. He’d heard Kenny clear his throat behind him.

 ---

 Matty was the smartest person Rudy had ever met.

He set Fogwell’s accounts into order in an afternoon and then he fucked off for a few days, only to come back and digitize the whole thing after making the Big Man himself sit with him and read everything out individually to him as punishment for his nasty, twentieth-century ways.

Matt was disgusted with Grandpa’s living conditions.

He banged into every object in the backroom and swore like a sailor, loud enough that the folks hitting shit in the front room could hear him.

It was hard not to laugh.

“WHY?” Matt finally raged at Grandpa. “WHY. WHY. WHY?”

Grandpa shrugged.

Matt flailed at him in agitation at the lack of verbal answer and told him to get into the fartherest corner of the room and to get a pen, they were going to organize.

Matt was the reason that Fogwell’s Gym had survived for long enough to become a tourist trap.

Matt put every document in that place in order, ready for an audit. He made computer systems for payments and receipts and direct debits. He singlehandedly bullied Fogwell into the new century and made him get a card machine.

He bitched and moaned and belly-ached until Fogwell had interviewed a handful of tax people with actual, non-criminal reputations and picked one and once he was done with all that, Matt harrassed him to invest in a deep clean for the place and to make it accessible by ADA guidelines—the whole nine yards.

Matt, at fifteen, breathed new life into Fogwell’s Gym and it was kind of amazing how the place went from barely hanging on to a decent business once more.

 ---

 After that, Matt seemed to be doing a lot better.

He didn’t have any more foster home placements. He didn’t try to hurt himself again. He decided, instead, that he was going to graduate highschool. He’d failed a fuckload of classes, though. Rudy found him despairing in the backroom over these and settled in across from him and asked to see the reports.

They weren’t good.

Matty’s teachers wrote constantly that Matt was extremely bright, but failed to participate in class or turn pretty much anything in for a grade. He slept in class. He seemed dazed. He didn’t ask for help or give any indication that he needed it.

His assigned para said that she found him challenging to work with. He was resistant to questions and seemed to be angry or, at best, uninterested in her speaking to him.

He was way behind.

Rudy had tapped the reports against the table back there and had taken a deep breath.

“It’s okay,” he told Matt. “We’ve got two years. We can make this work.”

And Matty’s head had jerked up from the table.

“We?” he’d asked in a small voice.

 ---

 Matt really, really struggled with high school. Not because he wasn’t smart enough, but because his experience was so wildly different from other kids. He didn’t go home like they did. He went to St. Agnes’s. He didn’t play video games, he read books. He didn’t smoke cigarettes or joints. He didn’t drink. He was under constant surveillance.

He was bullied. Relentlessly.

Fogwell was quietly furious when Matt came in a few times a week to type away at the desk, inputting receipts for the new secretary to deal with later. Matt was always hurt. Always fighting.

He got his classwork done out of spite, seemingly, but then went home to the orphanage and got harrassed the whole way.

He fought his peers like the devil himself.

It was…

There was…

Something not quite right with him.

 ---

 Bert pointed out when Matt was seventeen that he didn’t always use his stick like other blind folks. He forgot it sometimes and wandered around the gym like anyone else.

He didn’t trip over anything or keep fingers touching the wall like he usually did in other places.

They all chocked it up to him having grown up in the place.

Matt asked Fogwell to let him train.

Center-left-second-back.

That was Jack’s bag.

That was his son’s bag.

The veteran boxers all cycled through teaching Matt how to box. He knew—they all knew Matt already knew how, but there was always shit to learn.

Except that sometimes there wasn’t?

Matt seemed to already know everything that they taught him, including the nit-picky, little things. He listened to their descriptions, let them manipulate his hands and arms and hips, and then did what they asked immediately and with perfect form.

It was eerie.

It just wasn’t right. There was just something about it that wasn’t right. Rudy couldn’t put his finger on it.

 ---

 Matt graduated highschool the year after Tina and it was only when Rudy saw the draft of the commencement program slip out of his bag on one of the benches that Rudy realized that Matty hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

He picked up the program while Matt was attacking his bag and considered it, then did what was done in the gym and handed the program off to Fogwell who, in a booming voice, told Baby M to get the fuck over there, front and center.

Matt clung to his bag in terror at the sound. He, unlike his daddy, had the good sense to be reluctant to follow Fogwell’s orders. Eventually, with his tail between his legs, he skulked over and had his nose shoved in the program.

He pawed at it when Fogwell made him acknowledge it and mumbled something about not going.

Which was absurd.

“It’s not a big deal,” Matt said. “I’m not valedictorian or anything. It’s just highschool. And no one’s got time to go anyways, so what’s the point if it’s just me?”

God, this kid.

 ---

 Matt’s graduation was very Catholic. Far more Catholic than Tina’s had been, but when Rudy looked over his shoulder, he was pretty sure that even a school this Catholic hadn’t been prepared for the influx of nuns hurrying down from Clinton’s church, all bustling and excited about young Matthew actually getting his diploma.

Between those four (aw, Grace. Look at you trying to play it smooth) and the seven boxing families who’d shown up, Matt was embarrassed to the point of tears. He’d hidden behind his mortarboard for the thirty minutes it took for people started calling folks up on stage.

He didn’t want to come out to take any pictures afterwards, but Tina wasn’t letting that happen. Her sisters leapt on board with the program and Rudy had managed at least one picture of the four of them smiling. Even better, he had one of Matt trying desperately to keep a smile while Fogwell stood stiffly next to him in stone-faced approval.

 ---

 Matty was the first in the gym’s kid’s generation to graduate college, and then he was the only one to go on to law school.

It was only at that big graduation that Rudy finally saw Matt beaming like a loon—like he had up at Jack as a baby, but this time at the long-haired, chubby guy next to him.

This, legend had it, was the Roommate.

The one Matt refused to speak about to anyone at the gym.

Period.

At all.

There was no discussion.

That is, until he was forced by Fogwell standing menacingly over him in silent demand for a hug, to introduce them all to Foggy.

Foggy Nelson.

And then, just like that. It was exactly Jack all over again.

Veins bulging as everyone tried desperately not to laugh at Fogwell’s face at the realization that Matty had gone out and found a better, nicer Fog-person to be friends with.

 ---

 Foggy Nelson—Edward Nelson from the hardware store’s son—was not fucking good enough for Matty, Fogwell decided. He’d begun a stoic campaign to introduce Matt to every available boxer’s son and daughter in the city in the hopes that a little nudge would get Matty away from all them conniving lawyer-folk. That was all fine and well with Matt because Matt, they’d all learned after a few years in his company again, was a horrendous flirt.

God, this boy.

Incorrigible.

He flirted with Tina and Angie and Penelope and got slapped every time.

He flirted with Bert’s daughter Becka.

He flirted with Becka’s husband.

He flirted with Kenny’s son’s best friend at the son’s wedding.

He flirted with the new secretary’s sister-in-law.

He was completely unstoppable.

Kenny approved.

But Kenny also asked Matt pointedly if he and his roommate had worked things out yet and that sent Matt scowling and shuffling off to go hide behind Fogwell, wherever he was, for emotional support.

 ---

 Matt was Daredevil.

He had to be.

Everyone in the gym suspected this.

He was too good at fighting. To flexible. Too sturdy and relentless and angry to be anyone else. They all recogized his shoulders in those little blips of videos people posted online. They recognized how close he got to people from the way he get up in his bag’s imagined face.

He had some kind of superpower—some kind of 360 degree awareness was the best Rudy could describe it.

He felt like he remembered Jack freaking out about something like this a million years ago. Nattering on about super-senses in the aftermath of the accident.

Fogwell was the one who’d brought it up again after he’d noticed that Matt liked to come in at night and spar on his own.

One time, just once, he’d left one of the security cameras on, concerned that Matty might get mugged in the night on his own there.

But Matty wasn’t getting mugged anytime soon.

No, for real.

Matt was…maybe something a little beyond them.

The video Fogwell had shown the older guys before deleting it and telling everyone to mind their own fucking business had shown Matt throwing his weight at the bag—throwing legs and fists—in complicated, almost choreographed movements that spoke of lethal intent.

He moved like a weasel. Like a predator.

Like a devil.

God knew where he’d learned those moves. The boy had lived a lot of life in those few years he’d fallen off of the gym’s radar. There was no telling who he’d met or how he’d learned to be as he was, but things made a lot more sense after that.

Jackie had had a devil in him. It only made sense that his dramatic-ass kid had one, too.

Matty had made something more of himself than his daddy. In so many other things, but in this, too.

Fogwell’s Gym was protected. It was home to a devil in disguise.

 ---

 The hipster Jack-fan appeared with baby Henry a few more times before Bert asked him if he knew that his hero’s kid, who’d lived the life baby Henry was currently living, was actually a regular at the gym.

Hipster-kid gaped and fell over himself trying to ask Bert if he could meet the guy.

Bert smirked. And then waved across the place over to where Matt had just slithered in with absurd orange sneakers that he was very proud of. He was clearly on the hunt to go show Fogwell so that he could be disgusted.

He froze when Bert called his name.

The hipster’s jaw dropped.

“Matty, come tell this man about your daddy,” Bert said.

Matt stared.

Then made a sad, aborted gesture with his free hand that said that he had very important annoyances to make of himself, so could this maybe wait?

“You’re—you’re--?” the hipster stammered.

“Matt Murdock,” Matt said hurriedly. “Great to meet you? You’re the one with the kid, right? Congrats. Have either of you seen Fogwell?”

The hipster blinked.

“Uh?” he said. “Not today?”

Matt scowled.

“He’s not escaping these,” he said, tapping his way angrily back to the door. “I got him a matching set. No one is escaping them.”

The gym at large watched him stalk back out the door, tapping away furiously, no doubt on the way down the block to Fogwell’s house.

“That’s Matt Murdock?” the hipster asked.

“Man, I thought he’d be taller,” another newbie said.

“Kid, that is the least of your problems when it comes to Matt Murdock,” Bert laughed. “Now, all of you, back to work. This ain’t a dog and pony show. Go on.”

 ---

[yikesharringrove]

His Fault.

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Steve took Max first, grabbing her around the knees and lifting.

He didn’t know which kid was which, just picked them up and shoved them through the hole in the ground.

No thoughts in his head besides getting the kids to safety.

He was still dizzy from the fight, from Max’s wild driving, from being thrown into low oxygen conditions.

He grabbed Dustin.

The last kid to get through.

There was a rumble.

The ground shook.

And Steve stared death right in its face.

A pack of demodogs, heading right for them.

He grabbed Dustin, thought maybe, maybe he could shield him.

If this kid dies, it’s all my fault.

But the ‘dogs passed them by.

On their way to protect from El.

Because their plan didn’t work. Their carefully crafted idea to help El was bullshit.

He pushed Dustin up to safety.

He had brought these kids down here for no reason.

They had all gotten hurt for no reason.

All because of him.

-

Steve’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.

He was trying to get himself to get up, get out of the car.

Staring through the windshield at the small service.

Barb’s funeral.

The girl that died right outside his house. The girl who died in his pool.

The girl he killed.

By being too preoccupied with Nancy. By being too much of a stupid fucking jock.

It’s all his fault.

He got out of the car, stayed mostly to himself throughout the service.

He hugged Barb’s parents afterwards, offered his condolences.

He got the feeling that they never really liked him.

That’s okay. He doesn't really blame them.

And if they knew, if they knew what he did to their Barb-

They would do more than just not like him.

He spent the rest of the day in bed, thoughts of your fault your fault your fault whipping through his brain.

He killed Barb.

-

Steve was trying to think quickly.

It was a little tricky, what with the pounding in his head, the hits he was taking right to the gut.

He needed to somehow talk his way out of this.

Which sucked because talking has never been his strong point.

But he brought Robin into all of this. He had let Erica climb through those vents to get them into the elevator. He had helped Dustin suss out what the message meant.

Actually, he hadn’t.

He had been too fucking stupid to help with that.

No.

He had just encouraged the translation that was happening around him.

Had just walked three people right into the clutches of the Upside Down, and these violent goddamn Russians, and-

That one hurt.

He woke up sometime later to Robin yelling.

“Hey, will you stop yelling?”

“Steve! Oh my God! Steve!”

She sounded, actually relieved.

“Are you okay?”

-

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

Robin was sitting next to him, both wrapped in thick blankets.

They had their own ambulance, Nancy and Jonathan in the one next door.

He had watched them take Billy off on a gurney, watched them slam a defibrillator to his body until his heart started beating again, watched them load him into the back of an ambulance, and take him off to the hospital.

The adrenaline, the heavy drugs, it was all out of his system.

And he was crashing.

“I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I shouldn’t have talked Dustin into translating the tape, I shouldn’t have-”

“Okay, Dingus. Let’s get some things straight. I’m pretty sure Dustin talked you into the translations. I don’t know if you’d be able to talk Dustin into anything. And you didn’t rope me into shit.”

“I mean, I mean with the Upside Down. This whole fucking conspiracy. You deserved to go your whole damn life without knowing any of this.”

“But Steve, I know about it now. The milk has been spilled. So stop crying.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Yes, it is.

-

“Hi, welcome to Family- Nancy?”

Nancy had stopped in the doorway, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“Steve. I didn’t know you were working here.”

“Yeah. You know, with the mall being all, burnt down. And stuff.” She nodded slowly, stock still in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?”

“No. Thanks. I’m just browsing.”

“Well, uh, let me know if you need help. Or ask Robin, maybe. She’s better with the recommends.” Nancy seemed to startle, stepping into the store properly.

“Thanks, Steve.” He smiled tightly at her.

They really hadn’t talked since breaking up.

Of course, they’d spoken in the summer, but that was less exchanging pleasantries, more how do we stop the giant fleshy monster that’s trying to take over the whole world?

Which isn’t quite the same.

She browsed through the aisles, Steve doodling on the carbon pad next to the register.

She smiled tightly at him, a few tapes in hand.

“So, uh, how are you?” They hadn’t spoken since that night. Since he wandered over to her ambulance, checking in with her and Jonathan.

“I’m okay. Just working and stuff. Obviously.”

“And how’s Billy?”

“Managing. He’s in all kindsa therapy and stuff now.”

“That’s, that’s good.” She was all stiff as he handed her her change. “It’s good to see you, Steve.”

“Yeah, Nancy. Yeah, you too.”

He hated how shitty and awkward that had been.

Hated that she was the person he felt closest to for the better part of a year, and now they’re stuck with light conversation and forced smiles.

He pushed her so hard.

Always poking and poking.

Always too clingy, always too emotional, not emotional enough. Too insensitive, or just too much work.

He doesn’t know how anyone puts up with him.

-

“Hey,” Billy smiled softly at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, now that my little nurse is here.” Steve rolled his eyes, smiling back as he sat on the bed next to Billy.

He had brought him to his house from the military hospital.

Billy still had a long road of healing. His scars were pulled together, and the wounds were closed, but everything was still pretty rough.

“Can I get you anything?” Billy reached over for him.

His hands were scarred and rough, and he was still trying to regain feeling, the nerves having suffered far too much damage.

“Nah. Just sit with me.”

Steve took one of his hands, stretching his hand like the doctor had shown him.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Nah. My stomach’s all outta whack today. Don’t know if I could keep anything down.” Steve furrowed his brows.

“Are you, can I make you something? Soup?”

“Stevie, I’m okay. One day’s not gonna kill me.” It felt like the bottom dropped out of his stomach. Something must've shown on his face because Billy was trying to sit up. “Sorry, that was a shitty joke.”

“No, I just-”

“It’s okay. Sorry.” Steve tried to gather himself.

“Don’t like jokes about you dying. Thought you were dead for, for like a week, you know. Before they told us you were stable.”

“Baby, it’s alright. I know it was hard on you.” Steve blinked rapidly.

“But I mean, it’s like, youwere the one, the one in the hospital I shouldn’t,” he stood up, Billy wincing as the bed shifted. “I’m gonna make you something.”

He was holding back tears as he spread peanut butter and jelly onto saltine crackers.

Billy had the best luck keeping it down when he felt sick.

He felt like shit whenever he did that. Got all mopey on Billy.

Billy was the one trying not to die in a hospital bed. Steve was just, doing what Steve does.

Making everything about himself.

He brought Billy the plate, kneeling next to him in bed.

“You okay?” Steve just shook his head, plastering on a nice smile for Billy.

“I’m fine, Bill. Just try to eat? For me?”

Billy managed three of the crackers before he heaved into the garbage bin placed next to the bed.

Steve felt like shit.

Billy’s core muscles were still healing, and throwing up only made him sore, made him tired and in pain.

“Billy, I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t have made Billy eat. Shouldn’t have tried to make himself feel better by force-feeding Billy while he felt bad.

When he finally stopped, Steve helped him to the bathroom to wash out his mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“Steve, it’s not your fault.”

“But you said you didn’t feel good.”

“You’re just trying to take care of me.”

Keyword here being trying.

Trying and failing at taking care of Billy.

-

“Steve, are you busy tonight?” Dustin had thrown open the door to Family Video stomping inside.

“I mean, no but I thought, isn’t tonight your big tournament?”

Dustin sighed dramatically.

“The arcade is closed.”

Dustin had been saving up for months, using the end of the summer to mow neighbors’ lawns.

Steve had even paid him to mow his own lawn.

He and the gang were going to rage for hours, Dustin organizing a special secret prize for whoever got the highest cumulative score.

He had put so much thought into everything, had been so excited.

And the arcade was closed.

“Can I talk to Keith?”

“Be my guest.”

Dustin pushed into the backroom.

Steve could hear his voice, could hear him arguing with Keith.

He came back out, Keith following behind.

“Harrington, I told you, customers aren’t allowed in the back.” He pointed to the Employees Only sign on the door. “Can you even read?” Keith rolled his eyes. Steve studied his shoes.

“And Henderson, I told you, the arcade is closed for renovations. A pipe burst in the storeroom.” Dustin Huffed. “Just, rent a movie or something. But you know, don’t ask for Harrington’s recommendation.”

Keith laughed to himself as he retreated to the back.

“Like I would ask you for a recommendation. I know what kind of movies you like.” Steve forced a smile at him.

“Sorry about your game night.” Dustin shrugged.

“I thought it’d be fun. We haven’t played DnD since Will moved. It just feels wrong without him, I guess. I thought this could bring us back to the fun spirit.”

“It’s a good idea. I’m sorry you’re gonna have to postpone.”

Steve just kinda lived with a big ol’ bit in his stomach these days.

But every time something like this happened, something where his friend was sad, and Steve was completely useless to help him, the pit seemed to grow.

He wonders what happens when the pit gets too big.

-

Billy stretched his arms above his head, wincing slightly.

“You okay?”

Billy blew out a breath, rubbing his chest.

“Yeah. Just cold. It hurts.” They were standing outside, waiting for the kids to be finished with school.

Steve drove Dustin and Max home, usually brought Billy along with him.

Neil had been one of the flayed, the only casualty Billy said he didn’t feel bad for.

So Max had moved with her mom into a tiny two-bedroom house.

Billy was still staying with Steve for the time being.

“Oh! I got a sweater in my trunk.” Steve ran around to the back of the car, unlocking the trunk and digging through.

He kept his car pretty clean, just his bat, some jumper cables, and a go-bag.

So he should see the sweater right away.

But he didn’t.

He frantically shifted everything around.

“No, no.”

The sweater wasn’t there.

“Fuck are you, are you serious?”

He genuinely could cry.

Billy was blowing into his hands, rubbing them together when Steve slumped back over to him.

“Billy, I’m sorry. It’s not in there.” Billy squinted at him.

“That’s okay.”

“I thought it was, but I must’ve taken it out, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Just, you know, come here and make it up to me.” He had a lazy smile on his face. “Come keep me warm.”

Steve wrapped himself around Billy, burying his face in his neck.

“I wish I could keep you warmer. I wish I had that sweater.”

“Baby, I’m okay. Just achy.”

Steve made sure to turn up the heat full blast when they got back in, the kids in the backseat.

-

“Fuck!”

The bottom of the box had given out, tapes crashing to the tiled floor.

He had been on his way to reshelve everything, after spending all day in the back rewinding.

But here he was, checking each plastic tape for cracks as he tried to find something else to put them in.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington.”

Ah, yes. That’s what he needs right now. Keith standing over him while he cleaned up the mess of tapes.

“What’d you do now?”

“The box, it just fell apart.”

“You know, Robin really went out on a limb to you to get this job.” Keith was standing over him, staring down at Steve sill kneeling on the ground. “Maybe I should just fire you both.”

“Wait, no!”

Steve’s heart was in his throat.

It felt like he was gonna choke on it.

“You, you can’t, I don’t care if you hate me, okay, just, just don’t fire Robin!”

Keith loved to do this. Dangle his measly power as manager over Steve.

Robin said it was some kind of revenge fantasy for how shitty Steve was to him in high school.

Steve just figures he deserves it.

Bottom of the food chain now. That’s where he is.

The guy that thought he was the hottest shit to walk the Earth. The guy that barely graduated. The guy that had to linger around his hometown. The guy has no life. The guy that has no future.

“Why not? She vouched for you.” Keith was eating a pack of M&Ms, crunching each one loudly between his teeth.

“Just, just don’t.” Steve felt like he could cry.

“Then get this cleaned up, and I’ll consider letting you both stay.”

Steve just nodded.

He didn’t think his voice would work without cracking all over the place.

He found a crate in the stockroom, stacking the tapes as quickly as he could.

He liked reshelving.

The organization system made sense, and he could do it easily without having to know anything about the movies, without having to know anything besides the alphabet, and the genre sticker each tape had.

Robin was better with customers.

Better at making change and recommending movies. Better at talking to people without sounding like an idiot.

But he finished reshelving, and had to retreat behind the counter.

“You’re being weird today.”

Steve had zoned out, staring through the front windows.

“Sorry.”

“Bad night?” he just nodded slowly. He didn’t want to tell her about Keith’s little threat. She would just go on a rampage. Probably yell at him a lot. And if Steve being a fuck up didn’t get her fired, defending him for sure would. Plus, it’s not like it’s a lie. Most nights are bad. “Steve, are you sure you’re okay? It feels like,” she glanced around. “It feels like you’re getting, like, worse.”

“Sorry.” She furrowed her brows.

“That’s not something you need to apologize for, you know that, right? I’m just worried about you.”

“Sorry.” Her face pinched up even more.

“Steve.”

“Yeah, I, just you know. Not sleeping much.”

“I could come over? You said it’s better when there’s sound in your house. I can stomp around for a while.” He huffed a laugh through his nose, giving her the biggest smile he could muster.

“That’s okay. I’m managing, Rob.” She raised one eyebrow. “And besides, I, uh, I won’t be home tonight.”

She made a face at him, pursing her lips so she didn’t smile.

Billy had gotten his own apartment with the money the government had given him, a little thank you for your discretion gift when he was released from the hospital.

He had spent nearly a month in a coma, a month in which Steve had only left his room a handful of times. After waking up, delirious, and in pain, he had spent the next six months in heavy rehabilitation, in daily therapy, both mental and physical, in which Steve practically lived at the hospital with him.

They had bonded more than Robin could ever know, both boys spilling everything to one another, every dark thought, every bad memory.

Long story short, they were inseparable.

“Then have a fun night. And talk to Billy. Tell him you’re struggling.”

“I’m not-”

She stomped her foot, giving him a stern look.

“Yeah, okay.”

-

“Shit.”

Steve knew he had a key to Billy’s apartment.

But it wasn’t on his key ring.

“Are you kidding me?” He knocked on the door.

It took Billy a few minutes to come get him.

“I’m sorry, I, I lost my key.” Billy looked tired . It was Thursday. Billy was a stockboy at Meldvald’s on Thursdays. His doctor said getting a job would be nice, that it would help him rejoin society, make him feel good to support himself, all this shit.

Mostly, it just made Billy’s sore.

“It’s okay.”

“No, but, it’s not on my ring! I don’t know where it fell off, it could be anywhere, you might have to change the locks or-”

“Steve! It’s fine. Just get in here.”

Steve snapped his jaw closed. Billy shuffled back to the couch, groaning as he sat down slowly.

“Can I get you something? Have you eaten? I can rub your back if-”

“Harrington, just come sit with me.” Billy was giving him a little half-smile.

Steve stumbled over to the couch, and tucked himself right under Billy’s arm.

“What are we watching?”

“Some soap. There’s been a marathon all evening. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” Steve leaned his head against Billy.

He had no clue what was going on. Had a question on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask about the plot points, the characters.

But he’s bothered Billy enough tonight, making him get up to open the door, always, always bothering-

“Hey, where’d you go?” Billy was stroking one rough hand through his hair.

“Nowhere.”

“Robin called me from the video store.” Steve sighed, burying his face into Billy’s neck. “We’re worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, you’re always okay.” He said it like he was mad, like he was frustrated with Steve.

He pulled back, sliding to the other end of the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” Billy was staring blankly at him. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I’m not mad. What are you even-” he cut himself off. “Steve, talk to me. You’re getting, distant.”

“I’m-”

“Please stop apologizing.”

Steve swallowed thickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you. You’re slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to help you.”

“I-” Steve’s throat was closing up. “I don’t know what to do.”

Billy shifted stiffly, reaching out for Steve’s hand.

“Talk to me, Baby. You know I’ll listen.”

“I, uh, I just.” His jaw was moving, but he couldn’t form any words.

Billy took his hands, pulling him gently.

Steve let himself be tugged, let himself fall into Billy’s lap.

“It’s all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?”

“All of it.”

“Can you, maybe elaborate?”

“Everything. It’s all my fault.” His chest felt pulled tight, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. “Everything, everything. My fault.”

Billy had no fucking idea what to do.

Steve was breathing sharply, his eyes squeezed closed.

He had both hands in his hair, pulling roughly.

“Steve, hey.” He took his wrists, trying to stop him. “Steve, I need you to breathe, okay? Can you do that?” Steve shook his head.

“Just, just try to take as deep a breath as you can, okay?”

Billy was trying to remember what his shrink had told him, the tips for dealing with his own panic.

But watching Steve fall apart, well. It was hard for Billy to keep it together.

He sat with Steve, holding his hands until he opened his eyes, until he was breathing without Billy reminding him to do it.

“Steve. Sugar. Talk to me.”

Steve was still slumped over, still had his head in Billy’s lap.

He turned to bury his face in Billy’s thigh.

“Sometimes I feel like the world is crushing me. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Can you explain that to me? You said everything was your fault.”

“Like, like Barb. She, it was my fault she died, and my fault the kids almost got hurt in the tunnels, and my fault that Dustin and Robin and Erica got stuck in the lab, and, and, and I’m so bad at taking care of you. I can’t do anything right.”

Billy could feel his tears, wet patches soaking through his sweatpants.

“You do a lot of stuff right!”

“Keith told me he was gonna fire Robin today, because I messed up again.”

“Fuck Keith. No way that creep has firing power. And maybe you should talk to Robin. Or go to your boss about him. He just likes going on a power trip with you.

“And as for, well everything, Pretty Boy, none of that was your fault. Barb was killed by, by a monster-”

“At my house, at my party, in my pool.”

“Still not your fault.”

“I thought she had left, you know? I didn’t know she was out there.”

“That just proves my point! You didn’t know she was out there, you didn’t know what was going to happen. That whole event , it had nothing to do with you. And the kids like, fully kidnapped you to bring you to the tunnels. If anything, that’s my fault for, you know. Doing what I did.”

Billy took a deep breath.

“I know a lot about guilt. I know how it feels like you’re just, you’re drowning. And you’re never gonna get to the surface, but that, that stuff. People make their own choices. You can’t control what other people do, you can just control what you do. And you, you do nothing but good. You just love, and you love, and you love. You always do what you think is best, and that’s what matters.”

“I feel bad all that time. Like, like right now I feel bad because, because of course you feel guilty, and I’m saying shit that doesn’t matter, and my problems they don’t-”

“Don’t you dare say your problems don't matter.” Billy was tangling his fingers through Steve’s hair, playing with it gently. “Your problems matter . They matter to me. It hurts me that you're struggling. It hurts me that I didn’t notice.”

“Billy, it’s not your fault.”

“You say that like it’s so easy. You take my guilt and you ease it. And that’s what I want for you.” Steve wasn’t crying anymore, but he was still curled up on the couch, still had his face pressed against Billy’s leg.

“I don’t know how. I’ve been so thoroughly crushed under all this that I’m scared of what happens if I claw through it all.”

“Maybe you won’t feel like shit all the time.”

“Feeling like shit is the easy part. It’s predictable.”

“I know. It’s safe .”

“Yeah. What do people even think about if they aren’t thinking about all the problems of the people closest to them and finding ways to blame themselves?” Billy laughed at that. Steve could feel his belly moving next to him.

It was a nice moment.

“I don’t know. That’s what movies and books are for. When you’ve got shit else to think about because you’re not trapped under a mountain of guilt.”

“Probably why I’ve read so few books, then.”

“We need to start watching more movies.”

-

“We need to talk about Steve.”

“Hi, Robin. It’s great to see you. How’s your day?” Robin rolled her eyes. She was leaned over the counter at Family Video, flicking through a magazine.

“He had a break down last night.”

“Finally. He’s been hanging on by a thread for weeks,”

“Yeah, try years.” She looked up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“He like, unloaded fully. He still blames himself for the girl that got killed in his backyard.”

“Wait, he thinks that’s his fault?”

“Yeah, and the kids in the tunnels, and also you and Dustin and Erica being brought into the whole mess. And also that he’s bad at taking care of me? Which, don’t know how he got that one. He does a really fucking good job taking care of me.”

“Jesus. He’s like, stressed.”

“To put it lightly.”

“So, what’s up? Where do I come in?”

“I’m planning an evening. A We Love Steve Harrington party.”

“I can be snack duty.” He smiled at her, clapping her on the shoulder. “It just us?”

“Yeah. I figured to leave the kids out of this one.”

“Good choice.”

“Be over at seven.” She nodded once, giving him a two-finger salute.

-

Steve was curled up, Billy spooned up behind him when there was a knock on the door.

“Go get that, will you? I’m all stiff.” Steve turned around, looking at Billy all concerned. “Go on. I’m okay.”

Billy had to shove him away before he finally went to answer the door.

“Oh, Robin, uh, hey.” She pushed one of her shopping bags into his arms.

“I was invited for an evening of bolstering you up.”

Billy came lumbering in, throwing himself down on the couch.

“I, don’t get it.”

“Robin’s here because you need some lovin’.” Steve’s bottom lip wobbled.

“That’s really nice.”

“You deserve it.” Billy was looking at him seriously.

Steve tucked himself into Billy’s side, Robin shoving herself next to him on the little couch.

Billy had pulled out all his lumpy blankets, and they had already torn into a box of cookies.

Steve was all warm.

Curled up in the blankets, watching The Aristocats.

“Thank you, guys. For this. It means a lot.”

“Can it, Dingus. Thomas O’Malley’s gonna sing.”

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

how would you do a percy jackson adaptaion?

okay, so I know this is a controversial opinion right off the bat: I really don’t think it should be an animated series.

A large part of the appeal of the series is that it’s a fantasy series set very very firmly in reality. Literally, apart from the camps, you could go to every location hit in the books. Riordan mentions specific streets, buildings and landmarks, and that was cool when I first read them. I remember being a kid and waiting for him to set a scene in a place near where I lived! I remember trips to New York and being able to envision an epic war happening in the streets. So I think any adaption needs to be live action just to keep that same feeling alive, while I’m not knocking on animation, I just feel like taking the story out of real life would make it loose a little of the charm. Like, the scene where Manhattan is completely frozen in time? It would be haunting to see that in real life, but I feel like it would be less impactful if it didn’t…you know…look real? The series should be done in a way that makes you truly feel like you could just turn a corner and walk straight into a snake woman going about her day. 

Now: another large part of the appeal of the series is how funny it is, but a lot of that…is Percy’s inner monologue. He doesn’t actually voice most of it, there was even a book where Annabeth described him as being quiet. So, I think the best way to work around this: make it Interview With A Demigod. 

Imagine it’s got an interview with a vampire-esque setup- and this even works because within the riordanverse, the books canonically exist because Percy sat down with a ‘camp scribe’ and had his quests recorded. So, like, this isn’t even entirely out of left field. But just imagine, a college-aged, maybe a little older Percy, I can see it so clearly in my head, he’s wearing a sweatshirt that at first glance looks like it says NYU but a trained eye will see it actually says NRU for a camp jupiter easter egg, he’s sitting in some dinky little diner (maybe it can even be a monster donut or something with a clever greek myth related name) with a guy who’s recording the conversation on some old-ass tape recorder that keeps acting up but they can’t record on a phone because of the whole technology thing. Every now and then it’ll cut back to them to get some great Percy thoughts out there. They open with older Percy saying the ‘look, I didn’t wanna be a halfblood’ and then explaining where he was when the whole mess started. Once he get’s to “was I a troubled kid?” the screen fades from older Percy to 12 year old Percy getting in a fight with Nancy and her gang, and the voice over says the ‘Yeah, you could say that’ part as we see him get threatened by the principal to behave on the field trip. Boom, we’ve got an opening. Lowkey….I’m seeing Jordan Fisher as older Percy, but I’m not 100% married to the idea. 

And before anyone tries to argue that showing an older Percy would spoil he’s not gonna die in last olympian- like, reading the books, we all knew he wasn’t going to die. It was a first person narrative and he was consistently speaking in past tense lmao like we Knew he was gonna make it. We still enjoyed the series. It won’t ruin anything.

I want part of the score of the adaptation to be instrumental versions of songs from the musical, I think that could be a sweet nod to that team. 

They really need to nail camp halfblood. I know that goes without saying, but in order to keep the pacing of the story decent we can’t spend as much time falling in love with it like we got to with the book. The book is like, 24 chapters and the quest starts at chapter 12- for a movie or tv show, that’s just gonna feel like it’s dragging. So, the insanity of the camp needs to smack you in the face right away, and then it needs to endear itself to the viewers quickly after that. Don’t try to ease the viewers (or Percy) into the mythology is real thing, rip it off like a bandaid. He’s on his way to meet Chiron and Mr. D for the first time and even if he’s not comprehending what he’s seeing, there’s nature spirits and harpies all around going about their day. Hestia waves at him and then disappears into the flames. Hecate kids can be seen casting a spell on the porch of the Hermes cabin. The Stolls are seen pranking some Aphrodite kids. He sees someone surely die on the climbing wall but then you hear a faint ‘I’m okay!’. The Apollo kids put a rhyming curse on another cabin. Pure chaos all before he gets the ‘so, gods are real’ speech. And then after that…show how warm Luke is to him at the cabin and at dinner. Show the kids all goofing off at the campfire and really make it clear that they’re children. Show the strawberry fields rolling in the wind and Percy sitting on the beach. The whole couple weeks where he’s searching for powers and learning greek and latin with Annabeth can be a montage. Make it clear how hurt and scared he is when he finds out he needs to leave.

It needs to really get you feeling how Percy’s feeling, every laugh, every tear, every moment of fear or confusion needs to shine clear through. Like…think of Spider-Man Homecoming, the Washington monument scene. All things considered, it’s not the most high-stakes scene we’ve ever seen in that franchise, and when it cuts to the kids in the elevator, they’re worried but not quite freaking out, but that scene feels very high stress to watch because the movie is good at getting the viewers to feel what Peter feels. A Percy Jackson adaptation needs a touch like that, because Percy’s a very emotional kid and that’s what a lot of the scenes hinge on.

Lowkey- I’d love it if the casts of both the previous movies and the musical had cameos or bit parts (the movie cast did Nothing Wrong, it was the rest of that team). It’d be hilarious to see, like, Jake Abel as the owner of the poodle, or Logan Lerman as Older Percy and the reporter’s waiter that keeps trying to get in on the conversation, or Brandon T. Jackson as a satyr who’s still stuck grooving out in the Lotus Hotel and Casino. Kristen Stokes as a nature spirit, Chris as one of the ghosts stuck in the waiting room of DOA Records, just like any of those casts having small parts would be fun and sweet. 

There should be a lot of easter eggs for the bigger riordanverse. Promotions in the background for the new Tristan McLean movie. Gabe’s got a true crime documentary about the missing Grace children playing during his poker game. Mr. D is reading a paper about Rachel Dare’s father’s newest project. At some point while they’re still in New York they pass the Kane family’s mansion or whatever it was called. Annabeth keeps a picture of little her and Magnus on her nightstand. The barest of hints about the Triumvirate. Seeing kids in camp jupiter gear in some background shots, just out of notice of our main characters but implying the camps are going through similar problems (BITCH….if we got a titan’s curse adaptation…and we had a shot of Thalia in the foreground….but in the background we saw a blond boy in purple with a golden sword….well I would simply loose my Goddamn mind).

And show us how easily the mist lets things blend in, too- like, everyone thinks ‘Monster Donuts’ is just a normal chain, it’s just on an average street block, but if Percy looks through the window he can see who’s behind the counter. Show someone swindling some guys in a park and you have to look twice to realize he’s a gegeines. Like…how people are still trying to find all the background ghosts in haunting of hill house. I would LOVE to see a bunch of background monsters and mythical beings just going about their day as much as the mortals are while the gang’s questing. 

The effects need to be fun. The whole story needs to be fun, but one weird thing about the past movies are that like…in their attempt to make it gritty, none of the fantastical things happening on screen actually felt that exciting. We need bright colors and interesting choices, consistently cool action shots, a liveliness that makes you feel like you’re in the center of the action. I have absolutely no doubt Disney easily has enough funds to pull off great effects.

The characters need to be….in character lmao. Annabeth needs to be cocky and bratty with the skill set to justify it. Percy needs to be a sweetheart who pretends to be hardened because that’s what people assume he’s like. Grover needs to have dry humor and a Too Old For This Shit attitude whenever percabeth start bickering. Luke needs to be nice and friendly but in a specific way that you can look back after the betrayal and see he was trying to groom everyone. Sally needs to be loving, protective and strong. Chiron needs to feel defeated and determined at the same time. Mr. D needs to….be Stanley Tucci lmao

Also, I’d love if the adaptation could expand more on things that got brushed along in the books- Percy and Beckendorf’s friendship, Silena and Clarisse’s dynamic, make Nico’s crush on Percy a little more obvious, give Rachel some more development. One thing that haunts me about the books is Sally never found out that Gabe hit Percy. Absolutely they don’t need to make the abuse explicit, but I also personally feel like a lot of Percy’s mindsets throughout the series are somewhat a result of Gabe, and I’d like if that got, you know, acknowledged. Maybe in the scene where he figures out Gabe abuses Sally he could say ‘does he hit you too?’ or something to that effect. They could also go more into detail about Annabeth’s family, give Zoe some more depth….like the possibilities I’m screaming.

Okay this is already long and I’m getting tired but I can so clearly see a great adaptation in my mind….Disney please come through….It’s what we deserve…. 

[harrysgloves]

Let Your Hair Down (chapter xxvi)

Get caught up with the Let Your Hair Down Masterlist!

word count: 2,983

story summary: Harry gets more than he bargains for when he falls not only for you but your little girl as well.

chapter summary: Thea’s birthday party.

warnings: Language // violence // mentions of past sexual assault // attempted sexual assault... it’s a lot. It’s heavy so read with caution.

a/n: Please don’t murder me... you should have seen it coming. xx

>>><<<

It was finally Saturday. Your long crazy week of work and trying to plan a birthday party was finally over and you couldn't have been more thankful.

You had spent the whole week going absolutely insane over every small detail. All the thank you bags had to have handwritten glitter name cards on them, obviously. Which meant you sitting up in your kitchen at 2 am trying to figure out how to write faux calligraphy while Harry stood over top of you eating popcorn, telling you when you messed up.

Which resulted in you putting him on hot glue gun duty for all the little plastic jewels that had to be glued on one by one onto every tiara… for 25 kids' placemats.

Needless to say, he didn't criticize your handwriting again.

The only time he really started to throw a bitch fit was when you tried to figure out how to make macaroons at 3 in the morning. Both of you quickly decided to scrap that idea when you tasted your first batch.

"Pinterest fucking lied! These taste terrible!" You cried as you spit out the repulsive cookie that definitely should not have been considered a cookie.

"Fuckin' hell, love. I think ya tryin' t'poison me." Harry laughed at the glare you shot him but you had to admit that was the worst thing you'd ever tasted in your whole life.

He ended up buying the damn demon cookies from a local bakery and saved you a lot of tears.

They definitely tasted better which made you want to strangle Harry when he laughed at your face lighting up from the first bite you took.

"Told y'the recipe wasn't bad. Ya jus' can't bake." He smiled, placing a kiss on your cheek and jerking the box of treats away from you when you tried to go back for seconds.

All of that was over though and after this afternoon there would be no more meltdowns about placemats, place cards, or balloon arches. No more trying your weird baking at 4 am. Which you were sure Harry was very thankful for.

No, today was finally the day and as you dragged Harry to the hotel to set up one of the meeting rooms you'd gotten for the party you were glad it was almost over. You couldn't handle much more of this stress. She was turning 5 and you definitely went a bit overboard, you started to dread what party you'd have to plan for her sweet 16.

"The balloon arch is supposed to go over by the door." You said as you fanned out the pastel pink table cloth over the round 8 count table. Harry huffed and rolled his eyes but didn't say anything as he moved the arch for the 3rd time.

"Ya know they only care 'bout goin' to the pool." He mumbled out like he didn't want you to hear him.

"Keep it up and you're going to be sleeping on the couch tonight." You smiled when Harry turned around to look at you. The look on his face, priceless.

"Ya can't put me on the couch." He pouted big lip and all, making you bite your lip as you shrugged.

He was right, you wouldn't put him on the couch, especially not with a sleepover of 12 kindergarten girls that was going to be at your apartment tonight. But he didn't have to know that.

"Gotta go get tape from the desk for this banner." You sighed as you looked at the amount of work you still had left to do and not much time left to do it.

"Can you please go play bad guy and get Thea out of the pool? She needs to get her outfit on. I didn't wait 6 weeks for that princess dress to be shipped to us for her to not wear it when people get here." You asked as sweetly as possible when you walked pass him, stopping to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Why can't Sarah do it? Y'know I can't say no to her if she asks t'stay in longer." He followed you down the hallway stopping in front of the pool room door. His big puppy eyes staring you down as you walked away from him.

"This is exactly why you have to do it. Gotta get good at telling her no." You smiled when you heard him groan. Throwing the door to the pool room open as you made your way down the hallway and eventually to the front desk.

"Hey Ellie, can I have the tape, please?" You asked, leaning on the desk, nails tapping on the counter.

"Yeah, here you go." She smiled, her bright white teeth looking so great against the ruby red lipstick she wore all the time. Making you a bit jealous that someone could pull off that color so effortlessly.

"Oh, God." She groaned, eyes darting to the front door.

"Looks like we got a drunk stumbling in. I should go get Mack. He's better at dealing with this shit." She sighed, hands rubbing her forehead. Drunk guests were the worst, especially if they were drunk at 11 am.

You turned around to look at the damage, eyes widening the second you saw who it was.

The fucking bastard.

"Don't get Mack. I got this." Your voice laced with anger as you started right for him. You'd be damned if he ruined her party like this.

"Get the fuck outside." You growled, tugging on his arm. Nails digging into his flesh as you pulled him out the door and to the side of the building, doing to him what he'd done to you so many times before.

"What is wrong with you?" You yelled as you let go of him. He stumbled back against the brick exterior of the wall, his eyes immediately filling with rage but you could care less.

You were so sick and tired of being pushed around by him. Tired of being degraded and controlled but the one thing you absolutely wouldn’t put up with was him purposefully hurting Thea like this. She didn’t deserve a dad who would embarrass her in front of everyone by being blasted at her party, she deserved so much more than him.

And you were tired of letting him do this to the both of you.

"No, actually, don't answer that. Only a real piece of shit would show up to their daughter's birthday party completely hammered. I mean really, Ryan? This is a new low, even for you.” You stood your ground in front of him. Arms crossed tightly over your chest as you told him off. Told him exactly what you thought about him.

You were done holding back. This was the last straw.

“Oh, so now that you got your little bodyguard you think you can talk to me however you want?”

His inability to keep himself from stumbling around seemed to have totally disappeared as the visible anger ran through him. His jaw twitching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. Face flushed, eyebrows pulled together tightly when he gripped your arm so violently you whimpered in pain, trying your best to keep quiet, not wanting to show him any weakness.

You were so fucking done. You were done being pushed and pulled around by him. Done being controlled. Done with everything he’d ever put you through.

Your destroyed self-esteem.

Your inability to let people into your life.

Your constant fear of him lurking around every corner.

It was all his fault.

Your mind already made up that you weren’t going to take this lying down anymore. You weren’t going to wait for it to get better or for him to move on from him torturing you.

You were going to be your own goddamn hero.

Your hand connecting with his cheek with so much force behind it hurt your palm. His head snapping to the side from the impact, staying there momentarily before turning to face you. The deafening sound of your flesh slamming against his rung around you. The moment dripping with tension when he rubbed the side of his stubbled face. His jaw moving back and forth as his blue eyes darkened.

Any confidence you had seconds ago was quickly replaced with fear. The hand on your arm tightening like a boa constrictor. Pain shooting through your arm making you cry out. Your free hand desperately scratching at his, trying with everything in you to pry it off.

Your boots scuffing the ground trying to pull away from him, throwing all your body weight backward but it was pointless. He was twice your size and height. He was able to throw you so effortlessly against the brick wall.

You hit the exterior of the building face first. Your nose smashing against the brick so hard you heard a crunch. Yelling in pain as your eyes started watering. Blood pouring down your chin onto your white shirt.

You'd barely had time to register the fact your nose was broken when you felt Ryan's body pushed against your back, pinning you to the wall.

Panic, terror, regret- all running rampant through your brain as you screamed as loud as you could for help. Your hands hitting the wall you were pressed up against so hard you could feel your skin break open. Trying with everything in you to push hard enough to get him off you.

"You really don't know when to stop do you Y/N?" He sniggered from behind you. His hand brushing through your hair as he pressed his hips harder into you to stop your frantic attempt to escape him.

"Get the fuck off me!" You screamed as loud as you could. Your throat burning from how much you were yelling but it didn't seem to matter.

You really fucked up pulling him around the side of the building to tell him off and all you could think about was Harry was right.

You should have listened. You should have taken it more seriously, and now you're here with this fucking maniac and have no idea how to get away from him.

"Remember when you used to be such a good girl? Hmm?" He whispered behind you, lips touching your ear making you cringe away from him. Eyes closed, tears running down your face.

"I actually got bored with you for a while. You just listened so well, but this? No, this is great. We can go through all our little lessons again. You remember those, baby?"

Your eyes instantly snapped open. Mind reeling with all the things he'd done to you when you were married. That you let him do to you because you were married, justifying it in your mind as your "wifely duties".

"Ryan, stop!" You screamed louder than you thought was possible. Hands bleeding from how hard you were hitting the side of the building, legs trying to bend any way possible to kick him.

"Don't fucking move." He pressed his hand into the middle of your back, hard. Your shoulders aching from the position you were in.

You were starting to realize there was no way out of this. Your mind filled with anxiety and dread.

"When are you going to figure out that I own you? Hmm? You're mine and I'll do whatever I want to you." His voice sounded so pleased with himself. Like he was so happy to finally have you back in his complete control.

You wanted to puke. Tears rolling down your face as you sobbed. You wanted to get him off you. Wanted to go back into the party and hug your baby girl. Forget Ryan ever existed.

When his hand snaked around to the front of your jeans you lost it. Not ever wanting to go through this again.

"Stop! Stop!" You sobbed, trying to push his hands off you. Trying to crouch down to get away from him.

"I said don't fucking move." He grunted hand laced through your hair as he slammed your face into the wall again.

Your eyebrow splitting open from the impact. Vision darken for a second before flashes of tiny white fluttered through your line of sight. You groaned the second you felt more blood run down your face. Your hand coming up to wipe it away. Not even registering what else was going on around you. Feeling in a fog, your brain not seeming to put together things that were happening.

Until you heard it.

Heard her.

"Momma?" Her sweet voice rang out from the other side of the alleyway. Your head whipping around to her. Hoping it was some sort of hallucination but when you saw her running towards you, you knew you weren't that lucky.

"Thea, no! Run!" You screamed trying to push away from him and the wall. Trying to get to her and get her away from this.

She didn't listen, her tiny hands clasping around Ryan's arm, pulling with everything in her to get him away from you. Her cries for him to leave you alone broke your heart but when you felt the pressure off your back lift you really started to panic.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion.

His hand lifting off you.

Her pulling on him.

Ryan's hand swinging around him to push her away.

The sound of your baby hitting the ground is what snapped you out of it. Her hand covering her face. As her crying shrieks of pain pierced your soul.

You never want to hear that sound again.

It was only a second later when someone pushed Ryan off you. You heard them both hit the ground but you didn't pay any attention to what the hell was going on. Scrambling to pick Thea up and get her the hell away from him.

You scooped her up in your arms as she continued to cry. Her head buried in your blood covered shirt. Your arms tightening around her as you turned to run. Only glancing back once to see Harry on top of Ryan.

You couldn't stop to think about that though. Not right now. Not with Thea hurt.

"Call the police!" You snapped at Ellie as you ran past the desk. Her eyes widening as she saw the state of your face. Frantically picking up the phone and dialing 911 as fast as she could.

You bolted down the hallway, towards the meeting room where the party was supposed to be at. Grabbing your keys and purse. Leaving the meeting room only to run straight into Mitch's chest.

"What the fuck happened?" His arms clasping onto your arms, stopping you from running but you jerked away from him. Your eyes filling with tears, not wanting to be touched.

"Ryan." You breathed out. "Harry. Go get Harry."

"Where is he?" Mitch asked eyebrows pulled together, looking at Thea who had still not calmed down.

"What's going on?" Sarah asked, walking down the hallway with Mack following shortly behind her.

"With Ryan. Fuck, go get Harry. Out the side door. The police are coming." You started down the hallway, moving past everyone who kept trying to touch you, to stop you from leaving. Cringing away from all of them.

"Wait, Y/N, where are you going?" Mack tried to stop you, reaching out to touch your arm softly, making you swing around in your tracks.

"Don't fucking touch me!" You yelled, running down the hallway away from them. You didn't have time for this shit. You needed to get Thea out of here.

"Wait!" Sarah shouted after you. Trying her best to catch up to you as you ran out the front doors.

"Y/N, wait!" Mitch called out to you when the police cars started to pull up to the hotel. Harry rounding the corner to see you running with Thea to your car.

It didn't take him long to catch up to all of you. Sarah and Mitch trailing behind as Harry stood in front of your car.

"Don't do this." He said as you threw open your door. Pushing Thea inside from the driver seat. You chose to ignore him as you climbed into your car. Shutting and locking your door.

You had to get out of here. You had to make sure she was okay.

Your tear-filled eyes meeting his before starting your car. Hoping that maybe one day he'd forgive you for doing this.

But running was in your nature.

"Stop!" He yelled, hands hitting your car hood as you backed out of your parking spot. Flooring it down the road.

Tears and blood blurred your vision. You could feel your left eye throbbing, trying to close shut but you pushed through it. You had to get to a hospital to have her checked out.

She hadn't calmed down the whole time. Her cries and gasps for air were the only things you could hear anymore. You were hardly paying any attention to the road, constantly turning to see if she was okay.

Your mind ran with possibilities of things that could be wrong with her. She could have a broken bone, a concussion, any number of things wrong with her.

And you knew it'd be your fault.

"Baby?" You asked softly, eyes glancing over to Thea who had her knees pulled up to her chest, head buried in her hands.

"Thea?" You tried to be patient but you needed her to answer you. You needed to know she was okay.

"Theadora Skye. You answer me right now." You slammed on your breaks in the middle of the road. Turning to look at her, chest heaving, fearing the worst.

"Why'd he hit me?" She sobbed into her hands. Your heart breaking as you listened to her cry uncontrollably.

"I don't know." You sighed, staring off at the road. "But he'll never do it again."

[harderbetterfasterstarker]

2. For the first time in a decade, Tony has a sex tape leak. This one was filmed without his knowledge. As awful as it is having a non-consensual sex tape of oneself go viral, Tony never really cared whether the internet saw the full monty before—until now. This time he definitely cares. Because this time, the guy in the video with Tony—well, he looks undeniably like Tony’s 18-yo mentee. How do people react? What does the media do with the story? And most importantly, how does Peter react?

ahhh this was such a good prompt and it instantly caught my attention and inspired me!! sorry it’s a little longer than I initially planned for just random prompt fills but I had a lot of feelings~

tags: starker, mature, angst with a happy ending

The image quality is a little blurry, not quite in focus, but the bodies are clear enough, Tony’s fucking face clear enough as he stares at the man above him, runs his hands over toned skin and down to grip at the man’s ass, pull him to sink down onto him. The audio quality is great, though, picks up the man’s breathy sigh and the groan that gets punched out of Tony as he bottoms out, the slap of skin on skin as the man starts riding him, thin, lithe body twisting and grinding, the sound of Tony murmuring “that’s it, kid, yeah, just like that”, the little sigh the man makes when Tony reaches up to run a hand through chestnut curls and tug, and—

The video pauses, Tony pulling the man’s head back, exposing his undeniably younger face, toned body arching over Tony’s more solid one, the moment frozen in time as Pepper’s picture appears over the holoscreen image.

Tony picks up even though he doesn’t want to, wincing in anticipation.

“At least tell me he’s legal, Tony.”

She sounds more angry than he’d expected, though if she thinks she has to ask whether the man was legal Tony supposes it’s a reasonable anger.

“Christ, Pep, no—I mean—fuck, of course he’s legal.”

He hears her exhale of relief.

“You couldn’t have given PR even the slightest heads up? I know it’s been awhile, but you used to have a protocol for this, Tony.”

Tony winces—at the reprimand, at the reminder of a past when he’d had so many escapades that he’d tell some poor sap in the marketing department when he’d let someone film or take pictures of him in bed so they could be prepared for damage control, at the reminder that that protocol had fallen by the wayside long ago, when he’d first gotten together with Pepper (he hoped the poor marketing sap still had a job, just a better one), and, even worse, at the reminder that despite that, here he was back again, in his fifties with a sex tape leak.

“I didn’t know.” His voice is barely a croak, but he knows that Pepper hears him, even if she follows it up by repeating him incredulously.

“You didn’t know? You—Tony Stark—didn’t realize you were being filmed? What the hell happened, Tony? You used to be careful about this.”

“I know, Pepper, I—” he trails off, instinctively turning for where the bar used to be and then clenching his fist when he’s reminded of the fact he hasn’t had a drink in years. He takes a deep breath, hopes it’ll steady him, tries not to be disappointed when it doesn’t. “How bad did I fuck up, Pep?”

He hears her sigh, hears the shift in her from Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, to Pepper Potts, his ex-wife, one of his best friends, in spite of it all.

“With the company? It won’t be too bad. We’re past the days when the stock rose and fell on your latest news story, and you’ve got a long track record of being able to perform no matter how much of a shitshow your personal life is. With the media? Not great—you know how they love a breakdown story, and you didn’t do yourself any favors with how young he looks. But it’ll pass as soon as the next scandal comes along, probably sometime in the next forty-eight hours.”

Tony waits for the tightness in his chest to release somewhat, but it doesn’t.

Pepper hesitates and he thinks she’s going to hang up, but then she says, “With… him?” And Tony freezes, because he knows who she means, and it’s not the man in the video, and he hadn’t thought she’d know, hadn’t thought anyone knew, that was kind of the whole point of the man in the video, but he supposes that it’s not subtle to anyone who really knows him, not after this leak at least. “I… I don’t know, Tony. I really don’t know.”

The tightness in his chest is now a death grip, and he chokes out a “Thanks, Pep,” before he hangs up the call with a swipe of his hand and collapses back against his worktable. He finds his way over to a back corner, where his old car collection still sits, desperate to get his hands in the guts of his ’32 Ford Flathead Roadster, something old and finicky that he can get lost in for days, until all of this blows over and he can work on getting his life set back to rights. He’s only barely gotten his hands on the engine when he hears the sound of the doors to the lab opening and closing behind someone. He drops the wrench, which lands on a piece of the engine with an accusing clang, because the list of people with automatic access to his lab is short and—at this particular moment—terrifying.

He turns around with his heart already halfway in his throat, because those footsteps are familiar, and he’s greeted by the sight of the one person he’d been most hoping not to see right now. Peter Parker is standing in his lab, at 2 in the morning, peeling off the Spider-Man suit because of course the kid webbed over here, and—fuck, with dark circles and eyes red at the corners as if he’s been crying, and he looks nearly as bad as Tony must look. Tony tries to speak—he does, he really does—tries to say something comforting, or mentor-like, or even just honest, but it catches in his throat and twists and boils and all that comes out is a fucking joke.

“Come to deliver my mentor of the year award?”

Peter makes a strangled noise, and Tony flinches at just how abysmally he’s managed to handle this.

“Fuck, kid, I’m sorry—” he starts, but Peter makes a high-pitched noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob and Tony suddenly wishes he had the wrench back in his hand, because hitting himself with it as hard as he could would have been less painful than hearing Peter make that sound.

“You—y’ called him kid.”

Guilt rips through Tony so fiercely that he actually staggers back to lean against the car, quietly cursing. “Fuck, Peter, I’m sorry, he—I promise, he wasn’t a kid, he was young but he was an adult, he was a consenting adult who was free to do what he wanted, I—”

“And I’m not?” Peter’s cut him off, voice suddenly raised, and in it Tony can hear anger and pain and he it looks like Peter’s fighting back tears, and Tony wants desperately to know what to do, but all he says is “what?”, dumbly confused.

“He—so he’s young but he can be an adult and make his own choices but I’m just a kid, —‘m always just some kid,” Peter says, but Tony finally notices that Peter’s slurring his words slightly, and when he’s done talking he tries to take an angry step towards Tony but ends up swaying, needs to reach out and grab onto a workstation.

“Peter, are you… drunk?” Tony doesn’t bother to conceal the horror in his voice, not because Peter’s drinking—because sure he’s not 21, but no one waits until they’re 21 to start drinking, and Peter deserves as much normalcy as he can possibly get—but because this is Tony’s fault, he’s not drinking for fun with his friends, but Tony’s somehow driven Peter to get drunk, to drown himself in alcohol, and fuck he’s making all of the mistakes he’d never wanted to.

“So what if I am?” Peter says, “ ’s not like you care.”

“Christ, Pete, of course I—I always care, but—shit, how much did you even drink to get drunk, with your metabolism?”

Peter shrugs. “Dunno. Stopped counting. Doesn’t last long, anyway, but I just needed to—just needed to be drunk to come here and say—and say—” Peter slumps forward, as if all of the anger has been drained out of him.

Tony takes a tentative step forward, afraid that Peter’s drinking is actually catching up, suddenly terrified of what could be happening.

“Say what, Peter?” Tony asks gently, taking another step forward, but then Peter looks up and there are tears on his face.

“I don’t—I don’t know, I just—I don’t know if I can do this anymore, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s stomach drops, to the floor, through the floor, through the center of the goddamn earth, because he has apparently messed this one up badly, terribly badly, and Tony would trade every dollar he has to make this up to Peter, but that’s not how this works, and he wishes he could say the right thing, but he’s Tony Stark, and so even though as he takes a step towards Peter he realizes his own hands are shaking, all that he can say is, “Peter? Pete?”

Peter doesn’t seem to notice or care about his slow approach, just wipes at his eyes with the back of his hands and keeps talking.

“It’s stupid, but I just… I saw it and I told myself not to watch it, but then of course I did, because I’m stupid, and then I got jealous, and that felt even stupider so I started trying to get drunk, and it didn’t really work and all it did was make me realize that I—I mean, the way things were was fine, I could tell myself at first that you had Pepper, and then after that that you didn’t like men like that, or that you would never look at someone as young as me like that, but then there was that guy and—I just—I guess it’s just that’s that it’s me, that’s what I realized, that it’s not my age or my gender, it’s just me that you’ll never see that way, and it’s one thing to be half in love with someone and spend all your time with them when you know you can’t ever have them, and it’s another thing to—to—it just feels like rejection? Even though it’s not?”

Peter pauses to draw in a shaky breath, suppressing a sob, and Tony is aware that he’s trembling now. “Peter, Pete—what are you saying, Pete?” he whispers, mind stuck somewhere between overdrive and frozen, like a part that’s gotten jammed, trying desperately to whir through his thoughts but somehow just—stuck.

“I don’t—you’re right, Mr. Stark, I’m drunk, I’m not—I probably won’t quit in the morning or anything, I couldn’t—but I just—this was dumb, I should just—”

And Peter’s turning away, and heading for the lab doors, and Tony’s desperately trying to send the signals from his brain to his limbs to go after him, to take just one fucking step forward, but it’s not working, and all he can do is yell after him.

“Pete, wait, please!”

But Peter’s not stopping, just says, “It’s okay Mr. Stark, it was a mistake to come here, I’m really sorry, maybe we can just—pretend this didn’t happen, okay?”

And he’s almost at the door and Tony’s finally started to move, but not nearly fast enough, so he says, “FRIDAY, lock the doors!” And he knows his voice sounds a little throaty, a little desperate, but it works, because he hears the smooth click of the lab door sealing shut, sees Peter reach it and push uselessly before turning back around.

“C’mon Mr. Stark, seriously, I don’t wanna—just, please?”

“Pete—you were… jealous?”

And maybe it’s not the best place to start, but it’s the thing that Tony’s brain is stuck on, because it feels so laughable—that Peter could ever be jealous of someone who was only ever meant to be a cheap imitation of Peter. Peter just turns away, trying to hide his face again.

“Mr. Stark, I don’t wanna—I already said I was, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Tony’s close enough to touch him now, rocks forward as if he might and then thinks better of it, his brain trying to catch up. “Pete, I—I just—god, we were both supposed to be smarter than this. I mean—you honestly think it was a coincidence he looked like that?”

At this, Peter starts to turn around, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and hope, but Tony just keeps going.

“You don’t think every time I called him kid it was because I was picturing you? Shit, I’m sorry, but—you don’t know how hard it was not to give in and call him Peter.”

“Mr. Stark, what are you—are you saying—”

“Stop me if I’m—if you don’t want—” Tony murmurs, closing the distance between them to lean close and press his lips against Peter’s, so gently, tentative, a question. There’s a long moment, and just when Tony’s starting to pull away, resigned to his error, Peter answers, leans forward and wraps a hand around the back of Tony’s neck, pulls him close and opens his mouth in a shuddering gasp, kisses Tony back like he wants to drown in it, and Tony meets him with everything he’s got, finally wraps a hand in those perfect curls, drinks in the soft gasps from Peter until he’s weak in the knees and has to pull away to draw in great gulps of air.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers against his neck, where he’s pressed himself tight to Tony, wrapped in a hug like he’s as afraid of this moment dissipating as Tony is.

“Come to bed, Pete,” Tony says into the top of Peter’s head, feels him nod. And as FRIDAY unlocks the lab and they walk, intertwined, constantly touching, towards Tony’s bedroom, Tony’s mind is for once quiet, content in the knowledge that in a few minutes he can tuck Peter into bed beside him, for now just hold him while they sleep, and in the morning—everything will be better.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Say You Won’t Let Go

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1,830

Warnings: dean’s point of view, first person pov, fluff

Request by anon: Can you write a Dean x Reader based on the song Say you won't let go von James Arthur? I think it fits perfectly to Dean's third Reader POV but please do it however you want. Thank you so much.💕😊

Summary: Dean doesn’t believe he is fit for relationships until he saw you smile for the first time. Now, all he hopes is that you don’t end up letting him go.

Squares Filled: domestic au @spndeanbingo // rome wasn’t built in a day @as-the-saying-goes-bingo // pushed into them @spnfluffbingo // “Turn your greatest weakness into your greatest strength. Like Paris Hilton. RE: her sex tape.” @spnquotebingo // “dance with me” @goodthingshappenbingo // free space @spnsongchallengebingo // dreams, daydreams, and wishes for @trope-bingo // future fic @genprompt-bingo

Author’s Note: This is unbeta’d and all mistakes are mine. If you have any requests, please send them in!

Dean Winchester is a lot of things, but he’s not a relationship guy. Yes, I referred to myself in the third person, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am not fit to be in a relationship. My brother and I always moved around as kids, I never stayed in one place for too long, and I didn’t see a point to starting something new when I knew I wasn’t going to be there the next day or the next week.

I’ve done some bad shit in my days, talked back to virtually every grownup who stood in my way, and broke almost every rule. I’m not a good man, and I don’t expect some woman to see me and think they can change me.

It’s better off that I’m alone. Sammy is the one for relationships. He and Jessica are going on their third year into marriage with their first kid on the way. I’m happy for him, but that’s just not who I am…

… that is, until I met her.

I met you in the dark, you lit me up You made me feel as though I was enough We danced the night away, we drank too much I held your hair back when You were throwing up

I first met her in a bar. Jessica was out of town, so Sammy and I decided to go to a bar and have some brotherly bonding time or some shit like that. There was beer and pool, so that’s a good time for me. I could tell Sam wasn’t into it because all he was doing was checking his phone to see if his wife had texted.

“Man, go talk to your wife,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Go,” I nodded.

Sam wasted no time getting up and leaving the bar. And then there was one. It was getting kind of dead in the bar anyway, so I figured I could leave to my home and drink there. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about passing out in some strange place. I paid my bill and was about to leave when she walked in.

I stood frozen in my spot as soon as she smiled. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist going over to her, and I knew what I would say and do if she decided I was worth talking to. She looked like she deserved more which is why I hadn’t headed over just yet.

She headed straight to the bar, and I knew I had to stay. I would beat myself up if I miss the chance to actually talk to her. Her hair looked so smooth that I could run my fingers through it, her eyes stood out from everyone else’s, I knew I could stare into them forever if I could, and her smile made my brain short-circuit. It’s amazing I had the strength to walk over there.

Her friends were goofing off by the time I arrived, and they did something I’ll forever be grateful for. They “accidentally” pushed her into me, so she was forced to look up at me apologetically.

“I am so sorry. My friends just don’t know when to quit,” she giggled.

I think I died and went to Heaven.

“I’m Dean, what’s your name?”

“Y/N,” she winked and turned to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

So that’s how our evening started. Her friends kind of faded into the background as we got to talking. I don’t think I ever met someone like her in my life. She kept drinking, but I wanted to remain kind of sober so I would remember this in the morning. I did things that night that I wouldn’t normally do like dance and drink and stay… for a woman I just met.

She looked like she was such a fun and outgoing spirited person. I don’t know if this is love at first sight, but I’m suddenly picturing what wedding we’re going to have. Wait, no, that’s weird. Just take it one step at a time, Dean. She ended up drinking too much that she was throwing up outside with me holding her hair back, and I smiled knowing I’d rather be doing this for her than going home alone.

Then you smiled over your shoulder For a minute, I was stone-cold sober I pulled you closer to my chest And you asked me to stay over I said, I already told ya I think that you should get some rest

“Stay with me. Or come home with me,” she giggled helplessly.

“I am getting you a cab. You need to go home. Your friends already left,” I told her as I took out my phone.

“No, Dean,” she whined and pulled me closer to her. My hands automatically fit to her hips, and her arms wrapped around my neck. “You look like you want to stay. Be weak this time and come over. Turn your greatest weakness into your greatest strength. Like Paris Hilton. RE: her sex tape.”

“I already told ya, sweetheart, I think you should get some rest,” I muttered and touched her cheek with the pads of my fingers.

“I’ll be bored without you,” she groaned.

The cab that I quickly ordered showed up, and I made sure to get her inside without hurting her.

“I put my number in your phone earlier. Call me and maybe we can do this when both of us are sober,” I laughed.

She turned to get something out of her purse as I told the driver her address. He understood and started to drive away, and that’s when Y/N looked at me over her shoulder. She smiled so widely that it sent me straight into a sober state.

If her smile can do this to me now, I wonder what it’ll do to me when we’re older.

I'll wake you up with some breakfast in bed I'll bring you coffee with a kiss on your head And I'll take the kids to school Wave them goodbye And I'll thank my lucky stars for that night

I remember our first encounter like it was yesterday. Even if five years passed with a marriage and three children, I still remember what it was like to hold Y/N’s hair back as she threw up, or that goddamn smile she gave me when the cab left the bar. I knew I was going to marry her the moment I saw her I just never knew I could have this kind of life with her.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her, and I tell her that every day. To show a fraction of my appreciation towards her, I make her breakfast almost every day. I bring it to her in bed because I know she loves to munch on food before she ever gets out of bed. The tray usually consists of some cut fruit, apple juice, pancakes, and bacon. The smile I get whenever I bring this to her warms my heart more than coffee could ever do.

“The kids need to go to school,” she mutters when I bring her the breakfast tray.

“I’ll take them to school and wave them goodbye and tell them how much we love them. You just rest here and eat up. I’ll be back shortly,” I whisper and kiss the top of her head.

“I love you,” she smiles brightly.

That smile is definitely going to be the death of me, but there’s no other way I’d rather go out than by the hands of her.

“I love you, sweetheart,” I mutter and give her a kiss on her lips.

“I have morning breath,” she giggles, but makes no move to get away from me.

“Y/N, if I’m getting a kiss from you, I don’t care what’s in or on your mouth.”

“I’ll remember that,” she smirks and sits up so she can eat.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I say and leave before she convinces me to stay in bed longer.

When you looked over your shoulder For a minute, I forget that I'm older I wanna dance with you right now Oh, and you look as beautiful as ever And I swear that everyday you'll get better You make me feel this way somehow

By the time I made it back to our house, she is out of bed and getting ready for the day. She’s sitting at her makeup table putting on the slightest bit of makeup. She can go full on some days, but I tell her repeatedly that I love her without it on. It makes her feel better, so I don’t say anything as she brushes on some blush or whatever she uses these days.

“You’re back,” she smiles at me from over her shoulder.

I’m immediately taken back to the very first time she did that to me, and I remember how much we’ve been through since then. I forget everything I think I know and just focus on her in that moment--our moment as the rest of the world fades into nothing. Suddenly, I’m back to being twenty-six with the knowledge I’ll never find love like my little brother has. I’m not older, but younger, and trapped in the moment she walked through those bar doors with a smile that could kill me.

“Dance with me,” I state and pull her to her feet.

“Dean Winchester, what’s gotten into you?” she giggles, but does so, nonetheless.

“You make me want to dance, and I don’t dance,” I joke.

“You’re a very good dancer,” she says.

“And you’ll be the only one who ever knows that.”

I'm gonna love you 'til My lungs give out I promise 'til death we part like in our vows So I wrote this song for you, now everybody knows That it's just you and me 'til we're grey and old Just say you won't let go Just say you won't let go

Sometimes I can’t sleep at night but knowing Y/N--the love of my life--is lying right next to me is enough to bring my dreams to life. When we wrote our vows to one another on that day, we wrote them with love. I never planned on letting her go, not until we’re grey and old and life forces us to be apart.

Much like our first encounter, I remember our wedding vows to the very last detail.

“I vow to always be by your side, to love and cherish you even if you can’t do so yourself. We could run into every obstacle life throws our way, but I’d rather go through them with you than be in peace with someone else. I never thought I’d find this before I met you, and now I realize I’ve just been waiting for you to come into my life. Just say you won’t let go because I never plan to.”

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[cockasinthebird]

Stuck? Stuck.

This year for the senior weekend trip, Hawkins High students gets to enjoy a lovely stay at a hotel so cheap it's a risky gamble to even set foot there, and a Saturday trip to the Indianapolis Museum of Art, to which absolutely everyone is equally excited about.

Which is not at all.

Steve groans and sits up in the hard bed he has to sleep in for two whole nights, sharing his room with three other guys from his year that he swears he has never ever seen before, despite them all knowing his name and history quite well.

The drive here hadn't been that long, although it felt like hours, nerve ridden and anxious to not sleep in the safety of his own haunted mansion. Sure it's nice to be surrounded by people on all sides if he were to tell the truth, but...

Billy fucking Hargrove had been staring at him all day, sat two rows behind on the bus, and whenever Steve turned to look, he was met with an icy stare and suspicious grin. Billy had even actively gone out of his way to bump into Steve, push him around and kick his bags away, to which Tommy had laughed and patted Billy on the back, that fucking traitor. Sure they hadn't talked since after the fight with Jonathan, but Steve didn't know their friendship had been so fragile.

With an exhausted sigh and jittery hands, Steve carefully closes the door to his room, then heads down the hallway to find the elevator. He can never sleep when he's away from home, yet Dustin had convinced him that this is a great idea! Get out and have some fun! People always hook up on those senior trips! And then he did that Chewbacca wanna purr of a sound, prompting Steve to push his cap down his face.

The elevator climbs slowly up to his floor as he thumbs his lighter, on and off, on and off. Who here would he even hook up with that he hasn't already before he got together with Nancy? And now that they're over and Billy is running the school instead, Steve's odds had fallen even farther into the pits of hell.

He just needs to get out for a smoke, and maybe flirt his way to a drink or two at the sleazy bar; this place doesn't look like it cares about serving minors alcohol, what with the water stained ceiling and floor, the peeling tape, and the creaky as shit elevator, as it barely can manage a ding once it reaches the 4th level.

It whines just the same as he steps inside and feels it bounce dangerously underneath his weight. It requires several attempts and hard jabs from Steve before the ground floor button registers his attempts, and starts closing.

When just in the last second, strong fingers curl around the rusty metal and pries open the doors again.

That grin, those curls, the sun-kissed skin.

Billy fucking Hargrove.

“Where you off to, Harrington?” he asks with a flash of predatory teeth and steps into the limited space.

Suddenly Steve is feeling hot and claustrophobic, heart racing both from the presence of his enemy, and from the fear that the elevator might not be able to support both their weights.

“Why the fuck should I tell you?” he snaps and does his best not to meet those blue skies that just won't give him the same courtesy of pretending the other doesn't exist.

“Could be you wanted some company,” Billy says with a low tone that hints at something secret and suggestive.

“And why are you up?” Steve doesn't really care to know, but thoughts of why Billy might be up and about this late flows freely. There would only be one reason, and maybe it's the second floor where all the girls are located.

But he doesn't press the 2nd floor button. Simply puts his hands in his denim jacket and leans with his back against the wall.

“Oh you know exactly why I'm awake this late, princess,” Billy drawls out and licks his lips.

Which Steve doesn't notice, if anyone were to ask. He pulls up a cigarette from the back he has stashed in his back pocket, and slips it between his lips to save time once they're able to get away from each other again.

Yet it's gone just as quick, as Billy reaches out and snags it away, just to place it beneath his mustache. And Steve stares daggers at him, all too quickly he's angry, but really it takes no time with Hargrove around, as his mere presence in Steve's life in a constant source of pain and fury.

“What the fuck you asshole, give it back!” Steve frowns and clenches his fist with a strong urge to punch. It's been too long since he's felt the bliss of nicotine, and he can feel it in his blood. “Get your own shitty cigarettes.”

“Why don't you come over here and take it, then?” Billy muses with a cocky grin that goes from ear to ear.

“Yeah yeah, very mature, give me my fucking cigarette back, Hargrove. I'm almost out of smokes and patience with you.” Steve turns to stare at him now, a few feet apart filled with air so tense you could cut it with a fucking butter knife.

“Well that was quick,” comes the response as a mean spirited chuckle.

“Oh don't be like that; you've been harassing me all fucking day you shit!” And Steve steps closer, up to where he can feel Hargrove's breathing. “What is your deal with me?”

Billy lifts up his chin, looking all brash and smug. “Do I have to one?”

“Why else would you be making my life a living hell?” Steve's fists clench tighter. “Isn't it bad enough you stole my best friend and 'knocked me off my throne'?” he says with possibly the most infuriated air-quotes anyone could ever manage.

“Nope.” Short and crude, the p popping loudly despite the cigarette caught between teeth.

“Then what the fuck do you want?!”

And as Billy's grin somehow grows more sinister, he doesn't get to answer before there's an abrupt jump of the elevator and a nerve wrecking screech.

The loud whir of cogs and mechanics silent. The elevator has stopped.

“Are... are we...” Steve dares not say, as if that would make it real and not just his imagination.

Billy shoves Steve away and steps over to press a button, any button, and when there's no response, tries a second button, then a third, then every other option there. Punches the keys over and over and over-

“Fucking stop that! You're just making it all worse!” Steve shouts and grabs on to Billy's sleeve to tear him away.

“Oh like you know how a fucking elevator works!” Billy snarls back and pushes Steve hard for having even dared to touch him. “I know your grades, I've heard the questions you ask in class, I bet even Max could answer half the shit you can't!”

Steve doesn't even have time to think before he flings his fist after Billy, who catches it perfectly on the nose. Cigarette flies from his mouth, blood drips onto the sticky floor, onto Billy's dirty boots and his clean, white tee. And he continues being unable to think, as Billy fucking laughs.

“God damn Harrington, I can't believe you had the guts to do that,” he sounds near insane as he talks, swipes his tongue up to lick his upper lip clean of dark red. “You know you're gonna regret that now, right?”

“According to you I don't know shit.” Steve stands with his feet too far apart, shoulders raised and fists aching for more. As much as he would prefer not to fight, since he always gets his ass kicked, the rush of seeing blood flow from Billy's nose is invigorating.

No matter how prepared he thinks he is, Billy's fist still feels like a goddamn boulder against his eye, and barely has Steve staggered backwards at the brute force, before Billy grabs him by the collar of his striped polo and shoves him into a corner; caging him there with his own broad, muscular shape.

“You punch like a girl, Stevie,” his voice low and... oddly sensuous?

He reeks of cologne, teeth sharp and perfect like a wolf, body sturdy and thick, pressed into Steve with such intent that he can feel every inch of power.

“What are you gonna do now, Harrington?” Billy's chuckles like thunder in his chest as they stay flush together.

Steve feels his heart beat in his swelling eye, lumping in his throat, beating against his ribs like xylophones, and somewhere between his legs. Red really is a great color on Billy's lips.

“What are my options?” he groans out and wants to move away from the insufferable heat that's gathering too far down.

Eyes jump around every one of Billy's strong features, looking like a damn model from afar and up close like this. Jaw square and stubbly, an ocean's view in his eyes, a thousand eyelashes that he doesn't deserve to have, freckles like a starry night that he didn't even know existed on Billy's perfect skin, lips so hopelessly inviting despite the wicked grin.

And maybe Billy catches how he's being admired right now, because his smile falters to a slightly slack jaw. “Doesn't seem like you have any,” he mumbles out, tone uncertain of something.

“I fucking hate you, Billy.” Steve can't move his head away, can't tear his gaze from where that tongue peeks out to lick his lips clean once more.

With a timid whisper, barely more than a breath, Billy utters out, “I hate me, too.”

Lips meet with obscene force, Billy pushing against Steve's mouth as if it's his only source of life, and immediately Steve opens up; tastes the metallic blood that still drips slowly down from Billy's wounded nose, and feels that captivating tongue intrude deep as it urgently memorizes every inch of wet heat.

It's as if they've both been starving for years, and now they're all too worried it'll end in the blink of an eye.

Billy bites and pulls at Steve's lower lip with a guttural groan.

“Fuck, Billy-” Steve nearly moans out and tries to buck out his hips.

“Shut the fuck up, Harrington, or I'll punch you again,” Billy growls and dives back in to lick where his teeth had just tortured sensitive skin.

“Mmh- ah-” and Steve pulls away to say, “Do it.”

“What?” Billy has never looked more dumbfounded.

“Fucking hit me again.” Steve licks his lips clean of Billy's blood and stares intensely down at him. “Slap me in the face.”

And Billy grins like the devil, bites down on his tongue, breathing staggered as he contemplates on whether or not Steve is serious. Then brings a flat hand across a pale cheek.

It stings and burns throughout his entire body, anger and lust confusingly mixing and making his blood pump faster, his cock growing harder. He pokes at the inside of that cheek where he can practically feel the red hand print form.

“God you're a freak, pretty boy.” Billy wags his tongue and stares with a confident brow. “This why Nancy Wheeler left you, huh? She couldn't keep up with your perverted desires.”

Steve doesn't speak, simply digs a hand in between them, and oh what an exciting bulge he finds there, one that forces out an “Arrh,” from stained lips and feels the hips below urge closer.

“Like you're one to talk.” Now Steve is the one to smirk, crooked and looking like the cat that got the cream.

Which Billy fucking hates. All he can do is press their lips together again and grind his full dick against Steve's hand caught between them. His movement irrepressible as he rolls his hips and swallows every single moan that spills from Steve's puffy lips, pleased and turned on by every syllable, irritated that Harrington can't just shut the fuck up.

It would be all too easy to get caught like this. But isn't that just exciting?

That thought strikes both of them at the same time it seems, because just as Steve moves his hand out of the way, Billy's flies down tear away at their belts, all the while maintaining the rhythmic dance of their ever so insatiable tongues.

Neither dares to utter a single word, because the wrong one could stop it all too soon, so they settle on hushed grunts and groans, barely a cursed word till Billy's hand shoves into Steve's trunks once his fly is down.

“A-ah- shit, Billy-” Steve moans out and closes both his hands in the denim jacket.

“Be fucking quiet, Harrington, I swear to God,” Billy hisses out with his gaze low.

Attention caught on how fucking long and hairy Steve is, the head of his flushed cock wet with pre. He doesn't waste any time with getting himself out as well, his own leaking erection girthy with clear veins snaking around. Not as long as King Steve's magnificent dick, but definitely wider.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out hard at the sight of them both out in the open like that, shiny and standing at full size.

A moan cuts through him as Billy brings his free hand up to muffle every sound, with such force that it knocks Steve's head into the wall. The pure display of dominance that that move is, makes Steve leak even worse and struggles to keep his eyes open.

“I said shut the fuck up,” Billy's voice deep and threatening.

Steve feels as if he's staring death in the eyes, and all he can do is whine and thrust his hips into the iron grip around both their throbbing cocks. It's dry and uncomfortable, but fuck if it doesn't get him to where he needs to go.

And once again their minds must be in perfect sync, because Billy brings up his hand, and Steve watches intently as Billy spits into his palm, clear blue eyes never looking up to catch how burning amber stares.

Finally he gives in, when that slick hand twists around the two of them, and Steve's eyes roll back between fluttering lids as his mind goes blank with searing pleasure. A calloused hand, thick veins, hoarse groans, all of it the only things to matter in his world now, as every practiced jerk of his all too hard prick tears away at his self control and shoves him into the deep end of urges he never realized he had.

Urges he doesn't care to ignore.

Never before has he heard Billy go this long without insulting him, and he kinda misses it. He fights to open his eyes again, and catches how Billy's brows are raised high up and pinched together, his mouth wide as he barely manages to choke his own moans before they grow too loud, stare locked down where he's fisting them together with such fervor he could light a fire with it.

Steve is aching to hear Billy call him names, throw around abuse like it's nothing and shame him for something, anything. Perhaps tonight will give him new material finally, call him a queer or gay, just to then overpower him as he always does when they fight, now maybe followed by... a handjob? A blowjob? As long as his hands are on him, Steve won't complain anymore.

Can't complain when he's so close. He hadn't realized how badly he needed release at all till Billy had started pushing into him just minutes ago. Had their constant struggle just been pent up sexual tensions? Was this what it was all leading up to? An inevitability? Billy pumping his closed hand around them in a gross as all hell elevator, feeling every single inch of Steve's painfully intense erection?

“Fuck, ah shit, lift up your shirt,” Billy's quick to groan out with labored breathing that stutters as he speeds up his hand as fast as he can go.

And Steve doesn't hesitate to do as told, brings both hands from Billy's jean jacket to his own striped polo and lifts it up as high as he can, what with the way they're crammed together in a corner.

Feels the heat gather, the coil in his gut tightening till it's seconds away from springing, the vice grip around him doing wonders in pulling him to the edge, then shoves him off as he cums, hips shoving into Billy's rough hand with short bursts as he moans against the one stealing away his air, feels how he ejects wet heat all over his abs in a toe-curling feat.

Shortly followed by Billy as he empties all he's worth onto Steve's stomach, forehead pressed on top of the hand covering Steve's mouth, eyes still unblinking as he watches what a gorgeous mess they're making. He squeezes their spent dicks till the last drop drips down his broad fingers, and then lifts up his hand.

Ensures that Steve is watching, as Billy sticks out his whole tongue and licks his hand clean, sucking on the digits till there's not a trace left.

Steve moans into his hand at that, and despite the fact that he's been depleted of all his energy, still feels it jolt through him and burn into his memory for forever.

Finally Billy pulls his hand from Steve's mouth, and wipes the spit off in his jeans as he steps away.

And Steve nearly collapses without the support of thick muscles to keep him up, boneless in the afterglow of the best orgasm he's had in months. But... what's he going to do with the way they've painted his abdomen? There's no fucking towels or paper here, and he can't just take off his expensive polo shit and use that! He stares down in slight panic and gestures with his hands as if he's just going to, what, wipe it off?

When his sight gets blinded by something soft that reeks of musky sweat, and he catches Billy's shirt before it would fall to the floor. He looks up to see Billy put his jacket on again.

“Use that to uh...” He points to the cum that slowly runs down Steve's exposed skin.

Although hesitant for very good reasons, Steve does eventually wipe himself dry with Billy's tee, and awkwardly hands it back, as if he can really use it for anything now.

And a prolonged silence fills the air between them, as Steve remains in the corner and Billy struggles a bit with the doors; no clue what floor they're on anymore, and the counter above probably hasn't worked in years.

“What happens now?” Steve asks cautiously from where he's sitting in the same corner, a spot that he dares not leave.

Billy groans out a complaint and shakes his head at the immovable steel doors. Then goes to sit next to Steve with only slight space between their bodies.

“You mean if we make it out of here alive?” he laughs, and hears Steve give a tired chuckle as well. “That depends...” his tone grows wary and serious. “Harrington... if you tell anyone about this, I will fucking kill you, you understand?”

Their eyes meet, and in Billy's there's a storm of mixed feelings. Fear of getting hurt, premature anger of being found out about, and maybe hope? But that could just be Steve projecting his own thoughts and feelings onto the other.

“And what if I don't?” Steve swallows hard around the anxiety that clumps together in his throat. “What if I don't tell anyone about... us?”

One corner of Billy's rather stern grimace quirks up. “Then I'll see you tomorrow night.”

[platypanthewriter]

The Prince and the Pauper (that drives an Uber) Ch. 2

Part One | Two | Three | Four

Prince Steve paid for the hotel—he wanted one with neon lights, ideally a blinking palm tree, for some reason, until Billy explained you couldn’t order food. In the face of a royal pout, he offered to pick up pizza, and Steve studied the menu on his phone before ordering five pizzas, deleting them, and yanking Billy closer to consult.

Billy watched him scroll through, and leaned closer. “I could tell you all the reasons you don’t want to stay in the cheapest motel,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Steve’s ear to make him duck his head in a grin, “—but...I’ve never stayed in a nice hotel.”

“Ohhhh,” Steve trailed off, then pulled him into a soft kiss. “You should—you should definitely get to, I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

Billy breathed a sigh of relief, remembering driving back from his dad’s place, Max silent as he got a motel room and brushed rat droppings off the pillowcases. The sticky carpet had adhered to their shoes, making a crisp tape-like noise when he returned with sandwiches, and realized Max had gotten him out of the way so she could cry in the bathroom. He had tiptoed out, walked around the block, and come in again.

The idea of taking a prince to a motel with foot-long wads of hair and crud whipping wildly from the front of the AC units, or pipes so rusted out the water looked like old blood...was a great idea for a horror movie, he thought, imagining the cursive, loopy pastel font of the movie he was currently in. I want a romcom, he admitted to himself, watching Steve flick the pizzas away to frown at tourist guide listings.

“The nicest,” said Steve, scrolling through search results. “Hot tub?”

“I’d probably be impressed anyway,” Billy told him, staring at the pictures of penthouse suites. “That’s so much money, no!”

Steve grinned at him. “Their security is best. Technically I am a target of assassination attempts—”

“Technically?! What happened?!” Billy choked, his hands tightening on Steve’s arm without his permission, like he was going to prevent...something. Steve blowing away in the wind, maybe, or someone shoplifting him. This was what the money was for, he reminded himself, resisting the urge to laugh hysterically—he had driver duties now, and one of them was to hang onto his prince’s hand like a helpless moron.

Steve grimaced. “It’s been years. And I was in the car with an archbishop—”

“What happened,” Billy said, and Steve grimaced, hunching his shoulders.

“A...car...bomb?”

Billy didn’t even think, he just yanked the other full-grown man in the car towards him, squeezing his muscular shoulders until Steve banged into the the gearshift. “Jesus christ on a cracker,” Billy whispered.

Steve was muttering something else in a language Billy didn’t know, swearing and rubbing his hip, and Billy let him go.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Billy apologized. “Sorry.”

“I don’t think I was the target,” Steve laughed, reaching over to pull Billy’s face close enough to kiss his cheek, while Billy’s head played a unhelpful recording of every movie explosion he’d ever seen, burning tires spinning away, and people trapped in crushed metal as the gas pooled near the flames. “I was greeting a black archbishop from Zimbabwe,” Steve said casually. “There were nazis—” he flapped his hand.

Billy made some kind of weird noise in his throat, cleared it, and said “Give me the fucking directions, we’re getting you to a fucking hotel.”

“A nice one,” Steve laughed, checking his phone. “We can get dinner.”

“Is that the only time somebody tried to kill you?” Billy asked, staring at the phone and repeating the address in his head, as a mantra.

Steve winced, opening his mouth, then biting his lips. “Uhhhh...noooooo?” he trailed off, and Billy smacked randomly at the passenger seat, unwilling to take his eyes from the road. He connected with something, soft hoodie over muscle, and Steve laughed, pushing his hand away. “Um. I…”

“You are a shitty liar,” Billy told the prince in his passenger seat.

“Maybe don’t google me,” Steve said, grimacing, and Billy gunned the motor to get through the yellow light. “Why,” Billy hissed. “Did your family get gunned down behind a theater? Are you the goddamn Batman?”

“What?” Steve snorted. “No? Aneurysm.”

“Holy shit, jesus christ,” Billy said, clenching the steering wheel. “Fuck, I was kidding, goddamn.”

“Just my mom,” Steve shrugged, as Billy shot him a disbelieving glance. “It’s fine, I don’t even remember her, I was just two—”

“Oh my god,” Billy choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry, holy crap.”

“She was a beautiful princess?” Steve said brightly, laughing at Billy’s enraged muttering. “My dad didn’t take royal title when he married her—he didn’t want to quit his job—so everybody joked that if he’d been a prince, he could’ve woken her up with a kiss. If only he thought ahead, right?”

“That’s horrible,” Billy whispered. “That’s so fucked up.”

“It’s a little funny,” Steve said, shrugging, and Billy groaned, pulling into the parking lot under the hotel.

Steve was watching out the window, his brain probably somewhere else entirely, when Billy pulled up to the window and accepted the paper ticket. “Oh, wait,” Steve said, as Billy pulled around to look for a parking space. “Did you have to pay? I never have to pay, I forgot—”

“Poor little rich boy,” Billy muttered. “Nah, I’ll pay on my way out.”

“Mmn,” Steve said, sighing. “Okay.”

“Sorry I said stupid shit about your parents,” Billy told him, grimacing as Steve got out of the car and wandered away to frown around the parking garage before smiling, waving back at Billy, and pointing triumphantly to the stairs. Billy started to follow, then remembered there was an entire goddamn crown rolling around in his backseat, and climbed over to stretch for it, and wrap the thing up in Steve’s discarded starchy white wedding jacket. “Jesus,” Billy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and getting out. “Sorry, again,” he said again, trotting up, and Steve shrugged.

“How nice? You want the honeymoon suite, or—”

“I just don’t wanna wake up to a crack-smoking rat sucking my dick,” Billy told him, eyes narrowed. “You can get STDs from the sheets in some of those motels.”

Steve blinked, staring at him, his mouth twitching. “That’s...vivid,” he said, biting back a snicker. “What do you think? I think I deserve a honeymoon suite,” he said thoughtfully.

You deserve anything you want, Billy didn’t say, or I love you. He cleared his throat. “Sure. What’s that do? You get wine or something?” He wasn’t, strictly speaking, supposed to drink on work nights, but Max would understand. Probably. Billy ran his fingers through his curls, making a face.

“This one sounds like it’s breakfast in bed for two—”

“I’m onboard—” Billy cut in immediately, and Steve laughed.

“—they put rose petals on the bed, I guess?”

“Only fair,” Billy nodded, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder to look at the pictures. “Princes probably need some flowers to feel right. Few woodland animals, maybe.”

“...you saying I should sing at the birds on the balcony?”

“Yeah, charm some pigeons,” Billy nodded. “Tell ‘em you got good and laid on your honeymoon.”

The lady behind the hotel desk didn’t realize they were together, and tried to step between them to take Steve to his room, but she apologized profusely when Steve grabbed Billy’s hand.

Once they got there, Billy stood staring at the glass shower in the middle of the room. “...I feel like a creep just standing here,” he said, frowning.

Steve snickered, pulling the hoodie off over his head. Billy watched him fold it and sit it on a chair, and missed it already—Prince Steve, cozy in Billy’s faded hoodie, smelling like laundry soap. Steve pulled the shirt off too, and then Billy wasn’t thinking about anything but skin.

Billy peeled out of his shirt, and swaggered closer to lift Steve’s chin for a kiss.

“Mmn,” Steve hummed into it, then pulled away, sprawling back across the bed. He propped himself up on his elbows to rake his gaze up and down Billy’s body.

“Surveying the goods?” Billy asked, flexing, and resisting the urge to cover the slight softness of his stomach, come from nights eating in the car between fares instead of hitting the gym, and evenings with Max eating ice cream and watching stupid TV.

“Never done this before,” Steve said, off-handedly, and Billy folded his arms on reflex, feeling his smile turn a little mean.

“Never what,” he laughed. “Never fucked a guy? Or a what, a servant? Never been this bored?”

“Jesus,” Steve sat up again, brows scrunched over uncertain brown eyes. “You want to stop? We can—”

“No, no,” Billy took a slow breath, imagining his therapist’s voice. Listen to what people actually say, she’d said. “Sorry. I—I’m—you’ve never done what. Exactly.”

“Any of this,” Steve said, pulling his legs up on the bed.

He was scrunching himself up, Billy realized, pulling his limbs in to protect his tender underbelly, and Billy forced himself forward and put his hands on either side of Steve’s hot, slightly stubbly face. “Hey, hey, you’re all...pillbugged up. Uh...nobody knows you’re gay?” he asked the prince, in the honeymoon suite, trying to be...gentle.

“I’m not,” Steve said, scooting back against the headboard, and Billy jerked his hands back.

“Well, I’m glad I helped you get that straight,” he shot back, scrambling off the bed and yanking his pants off the floor.

“Wait, wait, Billy—” Steve crawled after him, swinging his legs down, and Billy stopped, registering his prince was so hard he was leaking, his dick rubbing shiny streaks across his legs as he moved. “I’m not straight, wait, I’m—I like men too, and—” he frowned into the middle distance, bending his knee up again, to lean his chin on it, “—I was at a red carpet thing and Indya Moore walked by and my heart stopped, I swear to god, I am definitely into…” he mouthed at the ceiling, frowning. “Thudes?”

“...sorry,” Billy said, dropping his jeans, and rubbing his face with his hands. “Sorry. I keep—I’m waiting for the punchline, tonight, sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said cautiously, and Billy walked back over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No, shit, I’m sorry. Sorry,” Billy said, reaching out to squeeze his prince’s hand. “You’re...perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” Steve shot back, narrowing his eyes, and Billy snorted a laugh and coughed. Steve sighed. “I should look up the words,” he said, beckoning. “So that doesn’t...happen again. Come back. Come here.”

“Thought maybe I scared you straight,” Billy huffed a laugh, scooting closer, and Steve smirked up at him.

“Gonna have to try a lot harder than that,” he said.

“Lemme kiss you,” Billy told him, feeling hoarse, then jerked with surprise as Steve surged up to kiss him open-mouthed, tasting of mint and latex, and pulling Billy across him onto the bed in a crash of elbows, knees, stiff bridal uniform trousers, and bumping teeth. “God, feels like I just married you,” Billy whispered, rubbing his nose with a wince where it had connected with Steve’s jaw.

He could feel his face getting hot again, but with Steve grinning under him, all he could think about was soft lips, and the warm, firm skin against his. “Should have carried you across the threshold,” he whispered, bracing himself on his elbows to hover over Steve’s chest.

“Maybe you should’ve,” he said, laughing. “Maybe—”

“Maybe I should,” Billy said, sliding off the bed to scoop the royal heir into his arms, spin them both around—Steve whooped, slinging his arms around Billy’s neck and kicking his feet—and walking them out the door of the hotel room.

It locked.

“Oh shit!” Billy breathed, and Steve burst into snickers, hugging him tighter around the neck.

“I’ve got the keycard in my pocket,” he whispered, kissing Billy’s jaw. “Husband.”

“Shit,” Billy answered, laughing along now he knew he hadn’t locked them out. Steve squirmed around to dig into his pocket, and waved it at the door. “Good thing it’s not real,” Billy said into his hair. “Married to me, jesus.”

“You want a divorce already?” Steve asked, blinking wide eyes up at him, and Billy spun them around, kissing him on the way to the bed, his muscles complaining as he wished he’d spent more time at the gym and less time trying to keep track of Max’s anime addictions.

“No, no, you want me, you’ve got me,” Billy panted, sitting on the bed and letting them both fall sideways, so Steve’s legs were half on top of him.

“Good, I can’t take getting dumped that often,” Steve mumbled, sliding his hand around the back of Billy’s neck, and yanking him into a kiss.

Steve was warm, and laughing, and Billy pushed back on questioning his good luck. Something had to go right eventually, he told himself. Balance out the rest of my life. He oofed as Steve rolled on top of him.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, sliding his hands over Billy’s chest and shoulders with a little intent smile like he was exploring the unknown.

“Hey,” Billy whispered back, folding his arms behind his back, both so he could watch, and to make his arms flex. “Finding anything good?”

“Started out good, keeps getting better,” Steve mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he scooted forward to lean in for a kiss. Billy was already feeling his face heat, wondering who even said shit like that, when their cocks brushed, and he groaned, bucking his hips into the sensation. “God, I’m so lucky,” Steve mumbled against Billy’s lips, and Billy barked a laugh, yanking him in by the back of his head and hair for a slow kiss, the kind where Billy could see what made his prince hum happily and press closer.

Steve shifted on top of him, squishing and sliding their cocks together, and Billy made an undignified squeaking noise into his mouth. Steve lifted his head, laughing, and then leaned in again just as a knock came on the door.

Billy didn’t even register the noise, pushing himself up on his elbows to chase the kiss he’d been deprived of, but Steve pushed him back down, laughing. “Stay here, I’ll get it,” he whispered, and Billy blinked after him, bereft.

Room service brought half the menu, it looked like, and Billy stared, sitting up. “...you’re probably hungry,” he said, laughing, and Steve lifted a few lids and stuck his finger in one, then closed the lid again and crawled over, sticking a finger full of maple syrup in Billy’s mouth as he dropped next to him.

Billy watched him, feeling his skin heat again at Steve’s matter-of-fact appraisal of his dick, which was hard as rock, dripping from watching Steve peel back out of the robe, and bend over the cart.

“Hungry for you first,” Steve said, lying half on top of him so he could fist their dicks together, and looking kind of delighted as he tried it. Billy wondered in passing if Steve had watched something similar in porn, or invented it himself, but couldn’t hold back a groan at the feeling of tight, warm skin on his cock, and Steve’s smile as he kissed the syrup off Billy’s lips. “Even sweeter,” he whispered, and Billy snorted a laugh, his face so hot it burned.

He’d meant to make it good for Prince Steve, soft and slow, and there he was, pinned and writhing, his fists clenched in the sheets, while the royal hand worked his cock. “Billy,” Steve whispered, his breath hot as Billy moaned against his mouth.

“Anything,” Billy mumbled back, and came all over their stomachs. Steve was only a few seconds later, and Billy hugged him close, sticky and panting. “Anything,” he whispered again, burying his face in Steve’s hair.

“You’re enough already,” Steve laughed, smiling. “I was just saying your name. You’re perfect.”

Billy snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure,” he said, smiling back.

Steve sat up, frowning down at his messy stomach, and Billy swung his legs off the bed and ran to the bathroom. He returned with a wet cloth to wipe up his prince’s belly, then fold it and scrub it over his sides, and up his chest, until Steve laughed and kissed him again, squishing the gross washcloth between them.

The next morning, Billy went to slide out of bed and get to class, and Prince Stephen of Blois, Grand Cross of the Order of the House of Orange, rolled over to slide an arm around his waist, kissing his side. The royal stubble tickled, and Billy squirmed around to face his attacker.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, reaching up to stroke his knuckles down Billy’s stubble.

Billy realized there was no reason compelling enough to leave, and crawled back over his fare-turned-seducer and prince. “…what are you doing today?” he asked, and Steve raised his eyebrows, then pulled Billy down to lie on top of him. His warm hands slid up Billy’s back as he hummed thoughtfully, and Billy was relieved to find the squirming body under him was nearly as hard as he was.

“…thought you said you had class,” Steve whispered, and Billy laughed, nuzzling in to kiss his neck.

“I get…okay grades…” Billy mumbled, catching the skin of Steve’s neck between his teeth, and feeling him groan. “…miss a day.”

Steve’s groan turned more resigned. “How about we meet again after class?” he asked, and Billy froze, then sat back, frowning down.

“…you can just tell me to stop,” he said.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Steve told him, grabbing Billy’s hand and kissing it, so Billy could feel the royal breath, warm across his knuckles. “But you—you stopped working to take me bowling, I can’t make you miss school.”

“It’s okay,” Billy laughed, his eyes fixed on the prince kissing his hand, like they were at Cinderella’s ball. “I’m not that dumb,” he muttered. “I can miss one day.”

“You’re not dumb,” Steve frowned, and Billy’s grin widened.

“You wanna bet, pretty boy?”

“I was…what if I want to…see you again?” Steve muttered, and Billy raised his eyebrows. “You have to tell me no, if I’m interrupting something—“

Billy squinted. “The fuck do you mean, see me again. You’re going back to—to Europe, right?”

“Not today,” Steve sighed, stretching, and then rubbing his face so Billy couldn’t see his expression.

“Just a few days, though,” Billy insisted. “I can free up my time, I’m nobody important—“

Steve dropped a hand to Billy’s thigh. “So you do want to see me,” he said flatly, and Billy swallowed.

“Y-yeah,” he laughed, watching Steve’s hands, instead of his face. “Of course. You got time for me, I’m there.”

“...okay,” Steve said, and he sounded like he was smiling, so Billy looked up to see his foreign royalty with a little grin on his face, and pink cheeks. Billy leaned in to kiss him, and Steve mumbled happily against his mouth. “...alright,” Steve said, stroking his fingers through Billy’s tangled hair. “I’ll see you after your classes. Text me.”

Billy half-wanted to threaten him. Say ‘if you don’t mean that, just fuck me now,’ but he took a slow breath, and didn’t do anything insane, like punch next to Steve’s head, and whisper threats about liars. “Yeah,” he said, getting up off the bed, wishing he could just—just jack off looking at Steve, lying there with his long legs and the curve of his ass cheek hanging out of the blankets. He thought about Max’s face if he admitted he’d tried to ditch work and school for some kind of sex marathon with a stranger, and yanked his jeans up.

“Love to watch you leave,” Steve sang, hanging half off the bed, and Billy burst out laughing, and nearly stumbled and fell with his jeans halfway up his hips.

“Call me,” he called back as he yanked his sweatshirt on. It smelled like expensive cologne, and he didn’t look back as he left, thinking hard about cleaning the kitchen drain to try and get his cock to go back to sleep. Steve yelled something as he closed the door, but Billy just ducked his head and ran for the stairs.

Billy’d organized his classes to be done, most days, by eleven in the morning. It left time for homework, and packing lunches for he and Max the next day, and a nap before work.

At eleven-oh-three, he was playing with his phone, biting his lips, and looking at the contact picture of Prince Steve failing hard at bowling. Finally, he tossed it in the passenger seat and drove home.

There was folded, stacked laundry on the table, along with a piece of paper that said ‘BROTHER SHAMING: what has he left in his pocketses’ on which dwelt an empty bottle of sunscreen, a pile of quarters, the now-half-wrapped, linty Starburst candies he’d grabbed instead of cigarettes, a handful of shredded Kleenex, a tube of eyeliner that was oozing blackened water onto the note, tiny bottles of mint schnapps and mint mouthwash, and a gooey pile that might once have been a cookie. Billy bit his lips together, raising his eyebrows, and cleaned his pockets out right there on the table.

It was sort of the opposite of a treasure hunt, usually—wadded up wrappers full of gum, stuff people left in his back seat—but today he slapped down the wad of hundred-dollar bills Steve had given him, and heard Max gasp from the doorway.

“Oh my jesus,” she whispered. “Billy. Did—what did you—did you—did you get a sugar daddy? Are you—are you letting some asshole millionaire fuck your ass?!” She grabbed his wrist, squeezing it hard, but he was laughing too hard, half-collapsing against the table, to answer helpfully. “Did you rob a bank?!” she squeaked. “Did you fuck a bank robber?! Billy!”

“No!” He cackled, dropping into a chair, and leaning his face in his arms. “No, no—”

“Is it real?!” she hissed, crouching to eyeball the money at face-level, then shuffling close to sniff it. “It smells like Skittles,” she whispered. “Billy...you could go to jail, don’t whore yourself out to counterfeiters—”

He laughed so hard he wasn’t even making noise anymore, and she punched his shoulder.

“At least make them pay with real money!” she hissed. “Is your ass counterfeit?! No!”

“No,” he wheezed, and she smacked his shoulder.

“What did you do,” she growled. “What the fuck, brother mine.”

“It’s real,” he whispered, trying to stop giggling. “It’s real, it’s fine.”

“What did you do to get it,” she asked, eyes narrowed, and he grinned at her ferocity. “Billy. Are you safe,” she asked, grabbing his sleeve, and he nodded, wiping his eyes.

“It’s fine, Max, I swear. I didn’t do anything shitty—”

“Did anyone do anything shitty to you,” she growled again, like a redheaded wolverine, and Billy started snickering again, grabbing her and noogieing her head until she yelled and yanked hard on a handful of his hair.

“I’m okay,” he told her. “I don’t owe anybody anything, I’m not in trouble, and I didn’t do anything I didn’t wanna do.”

“...okay,” she said suspiciously. “Can we...spend it? All we got is cereal and canned beans.”

“Yeah, go nuts,” Billy sighed, leaning his chin on his arms and imagining Steve’s grin, pressed against the door of the bathroom stall as he tried to hand his one-night-stand enough money to let Billy relax for a month. “Don’t, like, blow it all, but get some greens, maybe. I wanna take my car in, see why it’s making that whinny.”

“Damn. Yeah,” Max stared at her hands as she counted the money, then shook her head. “Christ, Billy, we could get a new toaster.”

“...it works,” he muttered, but eyed it speculatively. “Maybe we should wait. Save it, y’know. Just in case I—”

“It sparked so bad yesterday it was—it was like lightning in the kitchen,” she said with a grimace. “I threw a Pop Tart in and didn’t have the lights on, and I pushed the thing down and—GAH. Seriously, one of these days, you—you’re gonna find me on the kitchen floor with smoking hair.”

“Okay,” Billy nodded, making a face. “But then we gotta save some. I get sick, there’s no way to cover bills—”

“I know that!” she yelled. “That’s why I want a job, asshole!”

“I can do this!” he yelled back, and she narrowed her eyes, taking a step back and away, and Billy bit his lips, turning to face the other way. “I—I’ve got this, okay, just—just fucking—go to school and shit, you’re fourteen—”

“You’re eighteen!” she shot back. “You can’t even buy liquor!”

“I know!” he shouted at the wall, wanting to scream. “I know, I—I’m—we’ll get a fucking toaster, okay, I—I got you, will you just—”

“You don’t have to!” she shrieked back at him, and the neighbor started pounding on the wall.

“Shut up,” Billy sighed. He grabbed his phone, stomped into his bedroom, and locked the door.

He could hear Max slamming around in the kitchen, and he groaned, burying his face in his pillow, when his text alert went off. He clicked it, sniffling.

Prince: You off in time for lunch? Or dinner?

Billy stared at it, and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, blew out, and texted back.

Billy: Out of school

Billy: don’t have to work today because somebody handed me a stack of CASH last night

The phone rang, and Billy cleared his throat before he answered.

“You wanna pick me up? I’ll get you lunch,” said his prince.

“Y-yeah,” Billy nodded, wiping his nose.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, and he sounded so urgent Billy wanted to bawl.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, curling up tighter on the bed. “I—I’ll come and—you still at the hotel?”

“Yes I am,” Steve said, “I’m—is there anything I can do?”

“You already fucking did,” Billy grated out. “I have money and my kid sister is all excited to have a toaster that won’t kill us and worried as shit I’ll get sick and we won’t have any money left—”

“A toaster?” Steve repeated, startled. “Are you—you okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Billy growled out, his vision blurring with tears again. “I’m—it’s fine, it’s just—” Steve waited, and Billy rolled onto his face, punching the pillow. His throat hurt. “I don’t have custody,” he whispered. “She—I’m her step-brother, you know, I just—god. Anything happens to me, she’s—”

Steve was quiet at the other end, and Billy wondered whether he’d hung up. “...but you’re fine?” he asked finally. “Right now, you’re okay?”

“I can do this,” Billy told him, swallowing hard. “She doesn’t need to—she’s trying to—she’s just a kid, she doesn’t need to—”

“...she’s worried about her brother?” Steve asked, and it sounded like he was smiling.

“She wants to get some—some sleazy job that’d hire kids,” Billy growled at him. “Help pay for things. She’s gonna do something dumb—”

“Maybe there’s a way she could help?” Steve suggested, and Billy sat up, glaring out the window, then down at his hands.

“She doesn’t need to! She already—she did all the laundry, and she’s out with your money buying food—she’ll probably cook something shitty—”

“I could get her dinner too,” Steve offered, laughing.

“She’s fourteen,” Billy hissed at him, and Steve was quiet for a long moment.

“Uh.” Steve paused. “Um...you know you’re her brother, right?”

“I’m not, that’s the problem—and I know, I’m—I’m trying, I just can’t—I can’t get it right, I never get anything—”

“Wait, wait, Billy,” Steve interrupted. “Billy.”

“Yeah,” Billy whispered, wiping his eyes.

“Just...why do you do all this?”

“The fuck do you mean why,” Billy yelled. “She called me, she—she needed—she needed me to—”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agreed, “—but why’d you do it?”

“I didn’t want my fucking dad to fracture her eye socket!” Billy told him, squirming under the covers to muffle his voice.

“...jesus,” Steve whispered. “But you did all this for her, right. She moved in with you?”

“I got an apartment,” Billy mumbled. “Ditched my roommates.”

“...so you did it to help her.”

“I had to,” Billy groaned. “The hell was I gonna say?”

“You could have called the police?” Steve suggested.

“What, wait until he does it?!”

“No!” Steve laughed, sounding a little raw himself. “But all this—all these—all this you do, you do for her? You do all this to help her, right?”

Billy narrowed his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“Why can’t she help you?”

“She’s a kid!”

“...can I see you? Can I meet you somewhere?”

Billy cleared his throat, again. “Yeah. Yes. Let me—” he took a deep, shaky breath, and got out of bed. “Where do you want me to go?”

“...what if…” Steve trailed off, and Billy’s throat closed again, as he registered the mess he’d just dumped in a stranger’s lap. “What about a movie?” he asked, and Billy started snickering.

“You can just hang up, jesus,” he said, stretching. “When somebody starts moaning all this shit. You met me once.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Yeah, once. Liked what I saw, though.”

Billy glared at the phone, his heart pounding as he wondered whether princes actually went to some kind of charm school, specifically to cause heart attacks in Uber drivers. ‘Course, somebody smarter might not take him so serious, he realized, then groaned dramatically through his fingers. “Fine. Awesome. What movie you wanna see?”

“I do not know,” Steve said slowly. “...trying to search while I’m talking to you, and it kind of…where is there even...”

“I’ll come get you,” Billy told him, smiling irrepressibly. He ducked his head as he walked out of his bedroom, and caught the pajama pants Max threw at his face.

“The hell are you going?!” she asked, sliding across the floor in her socks to glower up at him. “No! We’re watching Die Hard! You said!”

“Gonna meet him again,” Billy said, pulling his shoes on. “He’s leaving town.”

“You’re trading your ass to your drug lord again?” she asked, sounding resigned, and Billy stared at her. “Uh-huh. Try to get twenties this time, lady at the grocery store thought I was a hooker, I think. Probably. Or I robbed a bank? Or I robbed a hooker that robbed a bank—”

“She what,” Billy mumbled, horrified, but Max shoved a handful of granola bars in his pocket, and held the door open.

“You got condoms?” she asked, her eyes narrowed, and Billy shouted back a YES, MAX, I FUCKING DO as he fled down the stairs, his cheeks burning hot.

Part One | Two | Three | Four

[amomentsescape]

Could you do a headcanon/fic where Jerome killed your parents and you try to help the GCPD find him but when you see him you catch feelings?

A/N: I got really sucked into this one. It ended up being a little long so I hope you don’t mind!

Warnings?: A few angry cuss words.

I Should Hate You (Jerome Valeska x Reader)

(Part Two)

It’s funny how after all of the documentaries and crime shows that you watched, you never realized how quickly a murder could be committed. 

You were gone for two hours- two hours that you wish you could take back more than anything.

You were just getting groceries. It wasn’t something that felt necessary to you, which may be why the guilt was becoming unbearable.

You came home to see the yellow tape already being put up. And God, the police. There were so many of them. You swore you had never seen that many badges in one place before.

The moment you got out of your car, they were practically sprinting to you, attempting to keep you away from the house.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to-”

“This is my house!” you practically screamed at them. “This is my house, and those are my parents that were in there!”

Their faces immediately softened to a slight look of apology. Your first reaction was to think that they felt bad for trying to stop you, but you quickly realized that it was for something else.

Your eyes shifted over only slightly, but it was enough to see the black body bags lying only several feet away from you.

You couldn’t say anything; your voice failed you. You simply looked back at a few of the police officers in front of you, processing the situation.

The sounds around you became muted, and your mind became empty. Your senses were so numbed out that you didn’t even notice the tears falling down your face until the salty taste hit the tip of your tongue.

Your trance was only partially broken when you heard a voice getting closer.

“Get back to the scene. Let me take over with this.”

You looked up to see a familiar man in front of you. His eyes were slightly glossed over, but the stern tightness of his mouth told you that he had gone through similar situations many times before. 

‘Of course he had,’ you thought. 

“Excuse me,” he said softly. “I’m so very sorry about your losses. I’m Commissioner Jim-”

“Jim Gordon,” you finished. It seemed your voice finally found its way back to you.

He simply stared at you for a moment, surprised you were still thinking clearly.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Gordon.”

You felt a little apologetic for coming off so bluntly. You didn’t mean to be rude, but you also didn’t care like you usually would have. The loss of your parents still hadn’t hit you fully. Your mind was still rather hazy, and there was a little hope in your heart that maybe this was all a mistake.

He cleared his throat a bit, trying to collect the right words to say.

He decided to just cut to the chase.

“We know who did it.”

That seemed to lift the fog around you very quickly. Your tears began to spill again from reality hitting you another time.

Jim placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, connecting his eyes with yours. 

“I know all of this is probably too much right now, and I understand if you feel uncomfortable with this decision. But we’d appreciate if you would be able to help us with the case.”

His hand tightened briefly before letting go, his eyes still remaining on yours.

“You are the only family they had in this area from what we gathered. The man who did this has still yet to be caught. We need all the help we can get with this.”

Your first reaction was to just say no. You wanted to go home. You wanted to make your parents dinner like you had been planning to do. You just wanted things to go back to normal. But a part of you was still connected to the reality of it all.

You knew that things would never be the same again. But what could you do? Take down the bad guy? Fulfill the sudden vendetta that had been placed on you only moments prior?

Your heart and mind finally agreed on the answer.

“Take me to the GCPD. Tell me what you know.”

——————————————————————————

Jerome Valeska.

The name made your blood boil and your tears ever-flowing.

You knew who he was a long time ago. How could you not? He was, and still is, one of the most dangerous people in Gotham. His escape from Arkham only added to his reputation.

And you hated him. You hated him for killing your parents, for murdering innocent people. But you hated him the most for taking your happiness away.

Jim had accepted your offer quickly and took you back to the police department as soon as he could.

There were no signs prior to the murder. Nothing was taken, but the house was a wreck. All except for your room.

Jim had a hunch that Jerome wasn’t done. He knew that he’d come back to the house. Why? He couldn’t answer.

It didn’t take long to clean up the house so you could continue living there. They already knew who did it, and Jim was a little softer with you about the whole situation.

He had a police officer outside your house every night for the past week. You felt safer knowing that someone was there for you, but it didn’t help alleviate the emptiness of your home.

Jim promised that you would be safe. He kept a type of alert system with you that would let the GCPD know if something was wrong right away. All it took was a quick push of a button and the police would be there in only a few minutes. 

You trusted him and agreed to the decision. You also had a gut feeling that Jerome would come back. He was the type to love a challenge, and you were going to give him one. You had confidence that things would be fine, and that you were going to be part of the reason why the red head would be back inside that damn asylum.

This all changed rather quickly.

It was around 11 pm when you heard the sound.

You, of course, were already awake. You hadn’t been able to sleep since the situation had occurred. The feeling of loneliness was enough to keep you up at night, and you refused to fight with it anymore.

The sound of a door banging downstairs forced you out of bed, making your way to the hall.

You were scared, but there was a feeling of reassurance as well. That police officer was still outside your house. It was almost impossible for someone to get past him without his knowledge. 

Or so you thought.

Your back made quick contact with the cold wall behind you. The shadows in the hallway made it difficult for you to see what was going on until you felt a slight breath on your face.

“Well hi there, Gorgeous.”

Your eyes locked with his quickly. You expected to be angry. You thought that the moment you looked at him you would scream or fight back, maybe even cry at the built up grief that had been accumulating for days on end. But instead, you stayed silent.

His goddamn eyes. 

Instead of feeling any of the emotions that you were expecting to, you only felt the beating of your heart against your chest. Your stomach twisted into unfamiliar knots as you kept your gaze on his. 

Your mind was screaming at you to push him off, to fight back. The man before you killed your family and was surely going to kill you too.

But your body failed you. And Jerome took notice of this.

“You’re not scared of me, are you?”

You simply shook your head.

“You’re prettier up close, you know?” he continued on.

That got your attention. Your brows furrowed at him as you watched his signature grin grow wider.

“You can go fuck yourself, Jerome,” you spat back.

He laughed heartily at this, his grip on your arm grew a little tighter. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, but it prevented you from moving much.

You also took notice at the way his thumb rubbed against your skin. It was as if he was caressing your arm in some odd way.

“Only if you help me, Dollface.”

You let out a disgusted spat, but you couldn’t fight the slight blush that crept up your face.

“You killed my family, you bastard,” you responded angrily. “So if you’re going to kill me too, just get it over with already.”

The hope that maybe the police officer was going to rush in at any second had finally faded down to nothing. You were too far from the alert and your phone to contact anyone. All you had the decision of making was to scream to gather attention from anyone who could hear, but you didn’t want to.

You were angry at yourself for finding the man in front of you absolutely perfect.

You should hate him. You HAVE to hate him. Run, fight, anything!

But you ignored them all. The way his eyes trailed down your face, and the way his hand kept exploring your upper arm made your heart flutter in a way that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

He let out a sigh.

“But you see, I don’t want to kill you. Why do you think I waited until you were gone last week?”

You felt a sudden pang of anger in your gut.

“Why did you kill them?” you asked. The sound of your voice came out softer than you would have liked.

He let his smile drop as he pushed himself closer to your face. His nose was practically touching yours at this point, but all you could seem to focus on was the way his lips twitched so close to your own.

“Parents,” he began, pushing the whisper against your skin, “are nothing of importance.”

He pulled away from you suddenly. Your eyes fixated on the knife in his hand, realizing that you were in more danger than you had originally thought.

He twirled the black handle in his palm, his face unreadable.

“My own mother didn’t give two shits about me. She held me back, forced the true nature of who I was into a cage.”

You kept watching him, your heart beat picking up at an unnatural rate.

“You are something special, (Y/N). You don’t deserve to be in a cage. You deserve to be praised upon the highest shelf.”

You found yourself shifting closer to him. He was like a magnet that couldn’t be stopped. 

You didn’t understand why he was being so kind to you, or why he was acting like he already knew you.

“What are you going to do, Gorgeous? Turn me in? Try to fight me?” He let out a laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you. In fact, I want you to come with me.”

The fact that he wanted you with him wasn’t what scared you. No, it actually did quite the opposite. What worried you was the slightly stained knife in his hand.

He had already killed someone on his way to your house, you were sure of it. And he would probably do the same thing once he left as well.

“Give me the knife, Jerome. I won’t turn you in if you give me the knife,” you responded.

What the hell were you thinking? Were you really going to let this criminal go?

You looked up at his face and noticed the way his gaze scanned to your lips and back to your eyes.

Yes, you were.

When he didn’t respond, you let out a groan of frustration.

“I know my parent’s had knife wounds! I know the body they found two weeks prior had their throat slit! That knife must be goddamn important to you, Jerome. So give it to me, and I’ll let you go.”

He only shook his head at you.

“This is my only weapon right now. You really want to ruin my fun?”

You ran your hand through your hair in exasperation.

“Yes. Give me the damn knife so I know that you can’t hurt anyone else. At least for tonight!”

You knew that this wasn’t really the bargain you had wanted, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do what needed to be done.

He made a ‘tsk’ sound with his tongue.

“No can do. You’re not-”

He suddenly stopped at the sound of footsteps downstairs.

“Miss (Y/L/N)? I noticed that your door was open with no sign of you down here. Is everything alright?”

Oh, now the police officer noticed. Of course.

Jerome smiled as he moved his gaze back, placing his hands on either side of your head onto the wall behind you.

“So, Doll. What’s it going to be?”

Your eyes moved from the top of the stairs back to the psychopath in front of you, your heart and mind being torn apart.

“All it takes is one little scream- one little yelp.” His face moved impossibly close to yours again, your breath hitching in your throat.

You didn’t know what you were thinking. In fact, you were sure you were going to regret it as soon as you did it.

You looked at the knife beside your head and grabbed for it.

He quickly retracted his hand and let out a sigh.

“I told you, Doll. You’re not getting this from me.”

You heard another call for your name downstairs. You let out a silent breath as you finally thought ‘fuck it.’

You smashed your lips to his as you grabbed the knife from his now loosened grip.

You heard a slight sound in his throat at the sudden feeling of your mouth to his.

You pulled away just as soon as you had kissed him though, and yelled to the stairs.

“I’m here! Everything is fine!”

You looked back to Jerome and mouthed a ‘get out’ to him.

His stunned gaze moved from the knife in your hand to your eyes as he began to smile widely. 

He started to speak to you just above a whisper as the police officer’s footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs.

“Oh, Gorgeous. You better believe I’ll be coming back for that knife.”

You gave a slight push to his chest, trying to usher him back to your room so he could leave through your window.

He let out a chuckle as he began to back up quickly.

“And for you,” he finished.

You finally watched as his figure hopped out of your room just before the officer got to you. You looked down at the knife in your hand, trying to shake off the feeling of hope bubbling inside your chest.

[caandlelit]

omg werewolf matsukawa elaborate i want dem hcs

ok so ive got this horrible word doc with my jambled mess of a concept for this witch makki werewolf matsun fic im writing its like 3% done expect it within 2 business years

(edit. this post is too long but i cant stop typing this is good)

werewolf matsun is the SEXIEST idea ever anyone thats done it is doing gods work because that shit is hot . its fucking sexy okay

in my barely formed au he becomes a werewolf in third year

he hears about weird sounds in the forest at night ok

and he convinces witch hanamaki that they shld camp out and see what it is 

because he’s been so interested in the witchy supernatural shit since even before he met him 

and hanamaki is like okay fine But im wearing my warding pendent and matsukawa is like WHEN WILL U ADMIT YOU’RE A WITCH and hanamaki, mid-putting on his witch hat, ruffles his hair and says idk what ur talking about

they camp out and they’re just bantering and its cute and fun for 2 hours then

matsun hears growling and snapping noises and he’s like hanamaki stay in the fuckin tent 

and obviously hanamaki is like on god that is the stupidest thing uve ever said issei no

 and matsukawa steps outside and he holds a hand back to stop makki and he steps out and looks around, eyes narrows 

and he’s like … straightening up and furrows his brows and ‘theres nothing here’ 

and he feels like everything is slow and odd and unreal and he turns and sees bright, yellow eyes and he hears the snarl and jerks back 

and he’s being attacked and leaped upon and he shouts curses and screams and theres sharp teeth at his side and the smell of matted fur 

and hanamaki sprints out and ?? magic spells it away (leave me alone) 

what is the spell? what kindof witch is hanamaki? what does he say?

(begone thot!) 

the wolf creature howls and thuds off, fast and loping and hanamaki turns and he’s panicked and is like ‘issei? oh FUCK’

matsukawa is like fuck fuck fuck 

leaning against a tree and lightheaded and he collapses, head back against the trunk and sweat pouring down his temples, iron in his mouth where hes biting his tongue to keep from scremaing at the sharp pain

touches his side and his fingers come away bloody 

his breath is heavy and hes like takahiro im dying 

and hanamaki’s dropping down beside him and lifts his arm and says shut the fuck up you’re not dying you asshole and hes sniffling 

and matsuns like im sorry i dragged u out here and hanamaki’s like shut up shut up. issei. shit . issei you were right 

and hes like wh what was i right about and hes like you were right. im a witch . and youre not fucking dying here, asshole

issei mumbles fuck yeah and does like a little fist pump

and he whispers a spell to carry him over back to his house 

and he bandages him up and matsun is tired and in pain and staring at him in the moonlight 

MONDAY

go to school and matsun has white bandages wrapped around his side hidden under his shirt and hes a little scraped up even though hanamaki healed and cleaned up as much as he could

someones like oooh matsukawa your arm is scraped up wtf 

and hes like yeah man i got in a fight to protect takahiros honor 

makki’s like yeah…. :/// he lost 

and matsuns like shut up asshole and theyre laughing and theyre good theyre okay 

half way through the school day, long and tired and the bell seems louder and harsher and shriller and everything is too bright and loud and making his eyes and ears hurt 

in the bathroom matsun takes off the tape bc hes feeling nauseous and everything feels a little too much for some reason hes assuming bc of the wound, maybe its infected

and he checks it while hes inside and the bandages come off and 

its clean no bite no blood no mark 

and he stares at it and says what the fuck and texts hanamaki 

and hanamaki sees the text and its just ‘SOS BATHROOM NOW PLELASE’ 

asks his teacher to let him go to the bathroom and he steps into the bathroom and matsun spins around and gestures at his side and chest wordlessly 

hanamaki like blinks at the sight of matsuns abs and then blinks again at the healed skin and hes like what the fuck  

so

he has sharper vision and sense of smell and hearing 

and hes like takahiro……..everything feels horrible and too much and hanamaki’s like ok so what do u want me to do knock u out so u don’t feel anything? and matsukawa’s like huh actually and hana’s like Shut up Dumbass

werewolf matsukawa suddenly stronger and hanamaki so so bitter about it ignoring his personal ‘im attracted to him’ feelings and pretending hes mad abt the super strength

matsukawa’s eyes glinting yellow on occasion and hanamaki trying not to scream bc god that’s sexy

the day they see the healed skin they like walk home silent and shell shocked 

matsukawa staring hollowly at the sidewalk his posture lost

hanamaki squinting off into the distance

makki opening his mouth angrily at one point

only to close it defeatedly bc he cant even……

a conversation in hanamaki’s bedroom along the lines of 

‘issei why is my life literally teen wolf why am I stiles from teen wolf’ 

matsun perks up ‘oh that’s dylan o briens character right? does that make me derek !!!’ 

and hanamaki turns from where hes muttering angrily and squints at him and says slowly

‘why the fu- dude? u r scott ??? because u are a FUCKING WEREWOLF ??????? why would u be derek ???? ur my best friend that turned into a GODDAMN WEREWOLF-‘ 

‘okok calm down hiro fine fine chill out‘ 

matsuns like slumping like ‘ugh, scott. i don’t wanna be scott hes painfully straight-‘ 

and hanamakis like throwing his hands up and shouting like ‘SO THEN !! why would u want to be derek!!!’ 

and issei’s like ‘…….nevermind we r not in the state to have a conversation about teen wolf, a show neither of us finished and obviously dont have any knowledge about’

im gonna have it properly set in 2013 itll be so cringey and fun

matsukawa also has insomnia and and gets migraines sometimes 

and hanamaki’s witchy incense smelling house and bedroom having him nodding off so easily and he sleeps over a lot 

especially after he gets bitten, because the migraines get worse

moreso near the full moon

and he comes in through the window and hanamaki is half asleep but always automatically pulls up his blanket and lets him in

big spoon matsun

he curls into his chest as best as he can, pressed tight between the wall and matsukawa

also i have this 

italics: makki

bold: mattsun

list of signs pointing towards issei probably being a werewolf: 

got bit by a giant dog-creature the bite mark disappeared next day (???? freaky shit)

sudden super healing and durability (useful for when oikawa serves the ball into your head – lmfao)

sudden heightened senses (my headaches r .. multiplying - :( )

sudden super strength (fuck u issei – i didn’t ask to be bitten takahiro – oh no u were bitten how sad for u and ur six pack – the werewolf actually decided i deserve super strength bc of how cool i am – and immeasurable pain every full moon too huh ???? – ...sacrifices were made)

90% sure he got stupider – sign of a dog brain ?? (FUCK OFF – do u want me to explain what a percentage is <3 – no </3)

hair growth (wtf does that mean ??? – it means i suddenly have more chest hair its very weird – ngl to u u were already pretty hairy -  fucker)

eyes turn yellow sometimes (wait, really????? – yes its so fucking weird – that sounds fucking epic actually – no comment)

big dick energy went up the ROOF (ok that’s enough asshole – tell me im lying hiro.)

edit: ok the full moon happened we’re all traumatized and hes definitely a FUCKING werewolf.

ill finish this as a fic one day ill post when i do

might also make a useless porno oneshot with just werewolf matsukawa and ? possibly dancer makki im very into dancer makki atm

long post im very sorry but !!!! thanks for the ask