#Getting my silly little hopes up<3 even though that fucker is dead!!!!

[rusty-gloinks]

sam is going to become a main character

jumps up and down!!!!! youre so right!!!!!

[cagestark]

-Unfinished-

That’s the title, btw.

About this: Stuckony, college!au with older Tony. NFF. 9.4k. Minor CBT, daddy kink, spanking mentioned. 

-

“Steve - 3 o’clock.” 

Steve doesn’t tilt his head up from where he is looking at his phone, but behind his dark tinted sunglasses, Bucky knows that his blue eyes are scanning the crowd that crosses the southern sidewalk of the quad. Bucky knows when Steve has spotted the man in question because his mouth parts enough for a breathy exhale, tongue wetting his lower lip. 

“God,” Steve murmurs. “No chance he’s a student.” 

“Forties,  you think?” Not that there aren’t students of all ages moving on campus today, but there are no bags by his side, no pack slung over his shoulder, no sense of eager urgency as he stands watching the afternoon sun play off the fountain that’s dead center of the open, grassy area. Faculty or family, Bucky thinks.

“Couldn’t say for certain,” Steve says. “Wouldn’t say for certain. Jesus, he looks good.” 

“Better than good, come on, admit it.”

“What makes you think he’s interested?” 

“No wife at his side,” says Bucky. “But more importantly, no straight man is stylish enough to wear boots like that.” 

Steve gives a long suffering sigh. He slips his phone into his back pocket, and Bucky takes the moment to admire the way his boyfriend’s shirt clings tightly to his biceps. Buying Steve shirts is a chore, always too loose around his trim waist and always too tight across his chest and arms. A chore, but no crime. At least, not one Bucky’s suffering from. “Well,” says Steve. “Should we introduce ourselves? ‘S only polite.” 

Bucky gives a shark’s grin. 

Up close, the man is even more striking than he’d appeared across the quad. He has thick, dark hair that lays with stylish disorder, and neatly groomed facial hair threaded with gray. His eyes are hidden behind dark Ray-Bans, but they can see his eyebrows rise steadily at their approach, the corners of his full mouth slipping upward. He’s more than a head shorter than they are, but his petite stature belies a strength. 

Steve, ever amiable, offers his hand. “Hi there. Steve Rogers, Art postgrad. This here is—” 

“James Barnes, Criminal Justice.” 

“—do you need any help finding your dorm?” 

As they speak, the stranger’s smile grows wider and wider. He reaches up to push back his sunglasses, really dark eyes surrounded by healthy lines hinting at many smiles. When he takes Steve’s hand in a firm shake, Bucky feels downright jealous of his own boyfriend’s palm. Hastily offering his own, he’s treated to a calloused palm that is small in his own grip but no less strong. 

No wedding ring.

“Tony,” says the man. “Boys, you should know I’ve been playing the game longer than you’ve been alive.” 

“What game?” Steve asks, grinning widely. They all take note of the way Tony’s eyes drop to Steve’s mouth, the full lips, the neat lines of white teeth, the facial hair he’s taking way too much fucking pride in (though Bucky sure as hell doesn’t mind the beardburn). 

“If you know the game, then you should know how to play along,” Bucky says, winking. 

Tony laughs, the lines around his mouth and eyes blooming. The sound makes Bucky’s gut flutter, his chest clenching tight with fondness that feels too strong to have for a man they’ve just met. “I’m no student,” says Tony. Then, a little more cautious:  “I just finished moving my son in. Freshman; bioengineering.” 

Bucky’s eyes nearly roll. He reaches out to put a stabilizing hand on his boyfriend’s strong shoulder, leaning into him dramatically. Yeah, Bucky has father issues, what else was he going to get growing up with a ma who raised him and his sisters alone after their old man walked out? The gray in Tony’s facial hair had called to him, but the downright authenticity in him being a parent? Bucky can feel his cock tingling already. 

“You hear that?” Bucky leans in to whisper into Steve’s ear dramatically. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tony watch them, notices dimly the flicker of anxiety that passes through his expressive eyes, the drawing of his brows together. His eyes widen with more than a little incredulity when Bucky goes on to say: “He’s not just a daddy, he’s a dad.” 

Steve slips an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and pulls him close, patting at his head with theatrical indulgence. “Your weakness,” Steve sighs. 

Tony snorts, turning away to stare out over the quad and pretend to give them privacy. A healthy flush rises to his face, a few shades short of a flush. Flattered, Bucky thinks. Maybe he’s been turned down recently for his age, for having a grown son. Maybe he thinks he’s getting too old to attract lovers but he’s dead fucking wrong. 

Steve murmurs something else to him but it falls on deaf ears because Tony’s head has turned back towards them, eyes widening in horror. Bucky reels just in time to catch a football as it strikes him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him a little. Sprinting across the quad towards them is a familiar, dark skinned man who looks more delighted than concerned.

“Jesus Christ, Wilson!” Steve barks, demeanor changing from soft to authoritative in an instant. “What the hell are you thinking, kickin’ a ball this direction? You could have hit someone!” 

“Just Barnes,” Sam pants. “No great loss.” 

“I’ll remember that next time we’re in a sociology class and you’re begging for my notes, buddy,” Bucky says, throwing him the ball. Sam catches it with a dry thud, tucking it under one arm to greet Steve with a pat on the back.

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns to see Tony, eyes flickering between his sternum where the ball made contact and Bucky’s face. “Are you alright? I’m sorry I didn’t notice it sooner. Fuck, I thought it was going to take your head off.” 

“I’m alright, doll,” Bucky says, realizing a little too late the endearment slipping off the tip of his tongue. 

Tony snorts in a way that makes Bucky feel silly for falling into familiarity so soon. “I’m hardly a doll; I’m twice your fucking age, James.” 

“Bucky,” Bucky supplies. “Friends call me Bucky. Twice my age, huh? Does that mean you’ll call me ‘baby’?” 

“Means you should address him as sir, Buck,” Steve chimes in. Tony licks his lips, a subconscious action that he and Steve can’t help but zero in on. Feeling the heat of their gaze on him, Tony reaches up to slide his sunglasses back down over his eyes, a loss Bucky downright laments. The silence that rests between them feels thick with something. Promise, Bucky hopes. Chemistry, for sure. 

“Oh Jesus,” Sam mutters, breaking the moment. “Y’all make me sick with that fifty-shades of gray bullshit. If I have to hear Rogers spanking the holy hell out of you one more time I’m going to mistake it for a domestic dispute.” 

“Hey, let’s not make light of domestic violence,” Steve says. When he glances over (hoping for a blush, a flush, any sign that their banter is affecting him), Tony’s head is ducked, and maybe he’s looking at the ground, politely playing spectator in the conversation, but Bucky thinks that maybe he’s looking at Steve’s hands, broad and strong and capable of delivering spanks that have Bucky’s teeth chattering. 

Bucky ups the ante. “Can’t mistake it for nothing than what it is, Wilson, not when I’m thankin’ him after every spank.” 

“If you were spanking him right,” says Tony suddenly, flashing eyes that burn from behind his sunglasses. “The only word he should be able to say is please.” 

Bucky’s mouth goes dry, a ringing in his ears as he stares at Tony’s confident, experienced gaze where it rests on Bucky’s own boyfriend. He’s got the urge to go down on his knees then and there, to ask for a demonstration that will leave his ass aching for days. By the time his soul returns to his body, he’s missed half of whatever Sam is saying.

“—came over here to find you two fuckers because some of the other boys asked me to. Want to throw some ball? The field’s clear for it.” 

“Hell yeah,” Bucky says to cover up the fact that he wasn’t listening. “Steve?” 

“Sure,” the blond agrees in his calm, agreeable way. 

Tony clears his throat, taking a step away from the group. Bucky and Steve share an alarmed look from behind their own sunglasses. Tony strikes them as the kind of man who always keeps a foot out the door, but they don’t want him to get away so easily. Especially if what he really wants is to be there as bad as they think he does. 

“Nice meeting you boys,” he says. “Enjoy your game—I’d say stay out of trouble but if you’re anything like I was, that will only encourage you—” 

“Whoa, you’re leaving already?” Bucky asks. At risk of coming on too strong too soon, Bucky reaches out to put a gentle hand on Tony’s shoulder, watching him closely. When the man’s mouth parts a little, no sign of being uncomfortable visible in the set of his shoulders or the lines of his face, Bucky squeezes a little, feeling burning skin through Tony’s leather jacket.

“We could really use a referee,” Steve offers. In a stage whisper: “Bucky cheats.” 

Bucky pulls away to lightly punch at one of Steve’s broad shoulders. “That’s Steve’s way of saying I’m talented. If we have an unbiased judge for once, will that put to rest this cheating bullshit, Steve? Then Tony, you’ve got to come watch. Unless you’ve got someplace to be. Is your wife waiting in the car, maybe?” 

Tony snorts softly. He holds up his hand, free of rings. “No wife. But if you’re any good at this game, you already knew that.” 

“If you’re so knowledgeable, then you must know that we needed to hear you say it,” Steve counters lowly. It’s Steve’s turn to put one broad palm on Tony’s shoulder, and the size difference between them is enough to have Bucky’s throat squeezing tight like when Steve’s got a hand around it. Fuck, he could see it all in his head like the filthiest show: Steve bending Tony in half across the island in their off-campus apartment together, Tony’s smaller figure riding Steve, making eyes at Bucky across the room. But he’s getting ahead of himself. “What do you say, Tony? Help us settle an old score?” 

“At your service,” says Tony, grinning widely. 

-

“What the fuck are you doing, Tony,” Tony mutters under his breath to himself. The field looks lovely,  even if the lines are faded and not yet repainted. The grass is lush and green, providing the perfect background for Steve and Bucky’s pale bodies. They’ve got him set up on the first row of the stands so that he has ‘the best vantage’. 

The vantage is pretty fucking good. When the two grad students had joined their half-dozen friends, the two had immediately shed their shirts, giving them to Tony for safekeeping. Thank God for sunglasses, because it gave Tony the freedom to let his eyes wander over two of the most sculpted chests he’s ever seen outside of a magazine or television. It’s fucking obscene how broad Steve’s shoulders are, the way they taper to his slim waist. Neither of them has a single hair on their chests, and Steve is notably lacking the fine line of hair that Bucky has running from his navel down into his shorts. 

Tony remembers those days. Waxing, working out, keeping his body firm and appealing so as to attract and delight whatever sex he wanted to go home with that night. That had changed after Pepper, her not-so-playful wondering of Why are you trying so hard, Tony? You’ve already got me. Their breakup years ago had swept all the dirt from beneath the rug, and her accusations of infidelity still stung after all this time. 

Still reminded Tony that he was just a washed-up old man compared to these kids horsing around on the football field of his alma mater. If he wanted to have a midlife crisis, he could go to the nearest dealership and buy a corvette. But is that all this is? When the two had approached him like tigers closing in on a tasty meal, he’d felt flattered. Almost embarrassed. He’d done such things during his college days—volunteered to wear the ugly red shirts that would set him apart as a student underclassmen could look to to ask questions. Escorting freshmen and sophomores to their dorm rooms had been the perfect way to strike up conversations, and Tony had ended up inside those dorm rooms more times than he could count. 

He’d never been interested in men like him, though, always more interested in people his own age. If he’d seen a man in his (very) late forties with so much gray, he never would have given them the time of day. Too old for the casual lifestyle. He’d been prepared to tell the boys that, to send them on their way. But the same reason he didn’t was the same reason why he wasn’t meant to have casual-sex anymore. He caught feelings too quickly. Fifteen years of monogamy has reconditioned his brain, and now he craves the connection. Wonders what Steve and Bucky do on dates together, if they want to travel, if there’s room between them for another person. 

“Tony, you dumb bastard,” he sighs to himself. Then, louder, cupping his hands around his mouth: “Hey—! That was holding, Bucky! Roll around with Steve on your own time!” 

On the field, Bucky has Steve pinned to the grass. His torso, damp with sweat, catches the light as he twists to listen to what Tony’s saying. The grin he gives is far from apologetic, and judging by the way one of Steve’s large hands splays against the curve of his boyfriend’s waist, Steve is hardly a victim. 

The rest of the team boo at Bucky, Sam cuffing his head gently as they all set up another play. 

This must be foreplay for them, Tony thinks fondly, working hard to keep from grinning. The two of them have basically spent the entire game with their hands on each other. Tony won’t say he’s unaffected by the sight of two attractive men grappling with each other, of the position of power he’s in. When he shouts stop, they stop. Clearing his throat, he shifts, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees and hide the growing bulge in his jeans. His own jacket has been removed and sat to the side, too hot to wear it in the direct sunlight. 

When Steve misses a signal because he’s too busy looking at Tony in the stands, it’s a good fucking feeling. 

The kiss the two of them share when Bucky scores a touchdown (even if he’s on the opposite team from Steve) is open-mouthed and deep, both of Steve’s hands cupping either side of Bucky’s face to hold them together, the searing heat between them enough for Tony to feel even so far away. One hand drifts down to cup Bucky’s ass and Tony groans under his breath, forced to turn his gaze away. 

By the end, Bucky’s team has won. 

“Losers buy drinks!” Sam shouts to cheers from all. 

A Monday night and they’re going out for drinks, oh to be young again. 

Tony meets them on the field and is roped into an exuberant, sweaty hug from the victorious Bucky. They are easily a head taller than he is, and even though Tony isn’t some twink (he works out plenty often, though warding off heart disease isn’t sexy in any way shape or form), he can’t help but feel dwarfed. The hard planes of Bucky’s body pressed flush against his own, the way Steve’s eyes glitter as he takes in the sight of them—there’s a heat pooling low in Tony’s gut. 

“Congratulations,” Tony says, breathing in the masculine scent of sweat. “And Steve, my condolences.” 

“Thanks,” Steve laughs. 

“Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen,” says Tony. 

Bucky pulls back, frowning down at Tony. “What, you’re not coming with? Steve owes you a drink too. The referee gets the first drink, as a matter of fact. Come out with us.” 

“Yeah, Tony,” says Steve coming up to wrap an arm around Bucky’s waist. The look they give him leaves no room for interpretation. Tony isn’t slow—for some reason he can’t begin to imagine, these two want to fuck him. Taking him out for a drink is far from a contract set in stone, but it’s the next step to Tony ending up between their sheets. Steve lifts a hand to thread it through Bucky’s dark hair. “Do you want us to beg?” 

Tony licks his lips. “That would be a sight.”

“Is that a yes?’ Bucky asks. “Or should I get on my knees? You know—to beg.” 

That image spears through Tony’s gut like a lightning bolt. “I could come out for a drink or two.” 

-

One by one, their friends take their leave in various states of intoxication, many of them with aching cheeks and chests from laughing. Tony is a fucking hit, witty and sarcastic and clever. He roasts the boys like he’s one of them, but Steve and Bucky are all too aware of how he isn’t. The wisdom in his eyes, the sadness of his silences when he slips out of the conversation and loses himself in his thoughts. 

Sam plays the most excellent wingman. When he leaves, dragging Bucky up out of the chair to grab him in a bone-aching hug, Sam mutters in his ear, “I like this guy. Treat him good.” 

“And then there were three,” Tony murmurs, voice nearly lost to the noise of the bar. “Should we call it a night, or should we order another drink?” 

“I don’t know about you two,” Steve says, “But I need to slow down. Maybe we should order something with a little more sustenance than the typical bar food.” 

“Burgers?” Bucky offers. “What do you say, Tony? Are you in?” 

Tony’s glossy eyes flicker between them, narrowed in playful confusion but with a healthy dose of skepticism. He’s had more to drink than any of them, starting out with hard liquor (letting everyone try his expensive aged whiskey) before tapering off to beer. His body is loose, face flushed, but he’s just as quick. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two are trying to get me...sober. Which is actually a refreshing change of pace from the people I’m usually at bars with.” 

“You don’t have to stop if you don’t want to.” 

Reaching out, Tony finishes off the last of his draft before pushing the glass away. The smile he gives them is so fucking handsome, none of the anxiety or self-consciousness in his gaze the way there had been at the quad. What this incredible man has to be self-conscious about, Bucky has no fucking clue. Tony rubs his hands together. “So. Burgers?” 

Over burgers, the conversation changes tempo from the fast-paced, superficial topics they’d discussed among the other college boys. The three of them may as well exist in their own little world; once the bar’s busy hours began, they moved to a smaller table in the corner to free up seats for larger parties, families flooding in to have their last dinners with their college kids before driving away. Gravitating towards each other, heads always leaned close to be heard over the music, Bucky has seen the waitress turn away from them more than once, unwilling to break the spell they all seem to hold over each other. 

“So your son’s going to school for bioengineering?” Bucky asks, licking grease off his fingers. 

Tony’s eyes watch the movement, so Bucky plays up the action, giving a flash of teeth and tongue before sucking his fingers clean. He’s already feeling more sober, the greasy food soaking up the alcohol in his stomach. Tony reaches out for his sweating water glass and takes a large gulp that has Bucky hiding his smirk. “Peter. Yes, he’s always been especially interested in advanced prosthetics.” 

“He’s in the right place then,” Steve says. “We’re number one in engineering this side of the Mississippi, and the head of the bioengineering department is top in her field.” 

Tony smirks. “No need to sell me on the college, kids. I went here myself.” 

Bucky leans forward. “Major?”

“Which one?”

“Ho-ly shit, Steve. You hear that? Which one. All the ones, Tony, all the ones.”

“I have a Masters in electrical engineering and physics.” 

“Fuck me,” Bucky breathes. “You’re a genius.” 

“It’s funny that you say that,” says Tony. “I have been called that once or twice or ten dozen times.” 

“Can we ask about Peter’s mom?” Steve asks. He immediately regrets the question when Tony’s face falls from its easy smile. The crowd mills around them just outside the gravitational pull of their table, and Tony leans back in his chair to watch it for a long silent minute. Steve nudges the older man’s foot under the table. “Hey—you don’t have to answer that.” 

Tony waves a careless hand, though there’s nothing relaxed about his expression. “It’s fine. Peter was the result of a one night stand during my younger less responsible days. Mary and I co-parented fine. She passed away after a terrible accident many years ago, when Peter was just a boy.” 

Bucky’s heart aches, a physical weight in his chest it sinks like a stone tossed into water. “I’m so sorry,” he says. 

“Me too. She was a very good woman and an incredible mother. After she died, I knew I couldn’t care for a young child on my own, so I remarried. Pepper is an awesome step-mother; when I was leaving Pete’s dorm, he was just booting up his laptop to Skype with her and show her his room. We divorced a handful of years ago because of—irreconcilable differences. It was rough on Peter.” 

“And on you,” Bucky surmises. 

Tony winces. He lifts his water to try and hide behind it. “That obvious?” 

“Do you miss her?” Steve asks. His face is clear and open and sympathetic; Bucky knows him well enough to know that he isn’t the easily jealous type, that even if Tony said he was still madly in love with this ex-wife Pepper (and what kind of name is that, Bucky wonders) Steve wouldn’t take it personally. 

“No,” says Tony without preamble. “The fighting was bad. I worked too much, I didn’t want more children, I didn’t make her feel wanted. She was convinced that if I wasn’t being intimate with her, then I was being intimate with someone else. My porn history is what really tipped her off to my changing proclivities. I thought, I’m too old to be having a sexuality crisis. She thought I’d misled her—tricked her into marrying a gay man.” 

“There’s no such thing as too old,” Steve says with tenderness. “And you hardly could have tricked her if you hadn’t known yourself.” 

Tony’s smile is misty, distracted. “Yeah. Well. Jesus, boys, would you look at the time?” 

“Tony.” 

“It was sweet of you kids to humor me, but I really should get going. It’s a long drive back to New York City.” 

“Are you sure? You had a lot to drink,” Bucky says. There are a host of reasons why he wants Tony to stay—at this table, in this moment, in this bar—but more than anything, he wants Tony to be safe. And he wants Tony to want to stay. 

“I’ll sober up on the walk back to the university’s parking lot, don’t worry.” 

“Our place is close by,” Steve says. “We live in an apartment for graduates. It’s small and the walls are thin, but it’s clean and you’re more than welcome to stay and drive back in the morning.” 

Tony frowns. Bucky wishes that he’d push those ridiculous tinted glasses back so that they could see the darkness of his eyes and whatever might be swimming in them. Face flushed with either drink or anger, the older man scoffs, pushing away his water. “I really don’t get you two. There were half-a-hundred other men and women in the quad who would have been happy to go home with you. Why the hell did you target me? Look, here’s some life advice: try to avoid picking up middle-aged men with as much baggage in their past as they have bags under their eyes.” 

“Wait a minute—” says Steve firmly. Bucky can feel the tenseness in his form mirrored in his boyfriend’s body, a rising sense of alarm that the night is not turning out the way they had hoped. It happens sometimes: Bucky and Steve will pick up a person only for the night to end outside the bar. But judging by Steve’s clenched jaw and the way Bucky’s own heart pounds, this isn’t a situation they’ll be able to walk away from - not without shooting their shot properly. 

But Tony makes a derisive noise to stop Steve before he can start. Reaching into his wallet, he takes out an obscene amount of cash to leave it on the table. “Please. No more. Thanks for trying to repair an old man’s pride.” 

They watch his figure as he begins to shuffle his way through the crowd towards the exit. 

“I don’t wanna let him go,” Bucky says. “Not right now, but not tomorrow morning, neither.” 

“You really like him,” says Steve, more of a statement than any question. He takes a last drink of water before standing hastily. “Then we’d better not let him walk away without knowing.” 

Outside, the air has a chill in it. People stream along the sidewalk wearing jackets to protect them from the beginning hints of the New England fall. Their height gives them an advantage as they search the crowd for a shorter head of dark, impossibly fluffy hair. Steve takes a firm grip of Bucky’s arm, pointing, whispering a breathless, there! 

Bucky sees him. Tony has stopped the next building over and is leaning heavily against the brick wall, both hands rubbing at his face as if trying to wipe the remnants of sleep away. The people flooding in and out of the bar have disguised Bucky and Steve’s exit; they nearly make it to him unseen before he turns and begins to walk away back towards the university, when a knot of fear that’s tied itself deep in Bucky’s throat makes him call out, “Tony!” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Tony’s face displays a complex series of emotions that Bucky can’t properly follow—but at least he doesn’t run. Stepping out of the crowd’s current, he lingers at the mouth of an alley while the two younger men catch up to him. 

“I know I left enough cash,” Tony says tiredly. 

“We aren’t here about the cash,” Steve says. “We really had a good time tonight, and we don’t want it to end. If you’d rather head home alone instead of with us, could we at least get your number?” 

“My number?” Tony asks, eyes wide. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “What for?” 

“To text you,” says Bucky. “To maybe set up another time to meet up whenever you’re back this way.” 

“Come on, boys,” Tony murmurs, his voice nearly lost to the crowd. He looks at them with soft, sad eyes. “Come on. Let's just quit pretending.” 

“Who’s pretending? What will prove it to you? You want me to beg? I offered it once before. I’m not above it.” 

Neither of them can miss the way Tony’s throat bobs at the suggestion. Before anyone else can say a word, Steve’s hand is pressed to Bucky’s shoulder. When Bucky glances over, he sees the cool level gaze and immediately goes soft and spacey in the head (though hard everywhere else). 

“Go on,” Steve says to Bucky. His voice is low and sure and goes straight to Bucky’s cock. “That’s what he wants. You want to give him what he wants, don’t you? Get down on your knees and beg him.” 

“Steve,” Tony croaks. 

The rest of his sentence is lost at the sound of Bucky’s knees connecting with the pavement. Tony looks good from down here, Bucky thinks dimly, looks good from every angle, but there’s something about being on his knees that makes Bucky see through different eyes. 

“Please don’t be done with us,” Bucky begs through numb lips. Behind him, the raucous mill of the crowd melts into white noise. They’re only just inside the mouth of the alleyway. People would barely have to turn their heads to see them and the thought sets Bucky’s nerves on fire.  “Please, give us a chance.” 

A long breath comes out of Tony’s nose, jaw clenching and unclenching. His looks from Steve to Bucky again and again before he lets a tentative hand reach out and touch Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s eyes fall shut at the feeling. There’s a reason why he keeps his hair long. Mouth parting, he tilts his head into the older man’s touch. 

“Jesus,” Tony breathes. “What am I going to do with you, kid?” 

“There’s plenty you could do,” Steve offers. “But you don’t have to do anything at all, if you don’t want to.” 

Then Tony is kneeling in front of him, shifting those tinted glasses until they rest in the impeccable cloud of his hair. He takes up all the space in the alley, all the space in Bucky’s vision, all the space in his brain. 

“What about you, James?” Tony asks. “What do you want?” 

Without any hesitation: “I wanna make you feel good.”

They kiss. There’s no preamble, no gentle exploration; Bucky and Tony are both masterful kissers after years of experience, and at the moment neither of them are sober enough to worry about finesse. Bucky takes Tony’s tongue into his own mouth and suckles, swallowing the way the older man groans. His facial hair abraids Bucky’s mouth and chin, the sting making him feel raw and hot all over. It’s one of the best kisses he’s ever had, and if it’s an omen of how the evening will progress, it’s a very fucking good one. 

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, pulling back. His breath fans across Bucky’s face as he laughs, one hand coming to rest on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m not twenty-five anymore; this kills my knees.” 

Steve, who had nearly blended into the shadows while watching them with bated breath, helps Tony up, adding, “I guess Bucky and I will be the only ones on our knees tonight.” 

Then it’s his turn to kiss Tony, tilting the older man’s chin upwards and cupping the back of his head with one broad palm. They are the antithesis of each other: one tall and broad, pale and blond. Bucky groans at the sight of his boyfriend’s jaws opening, the hint of hollowness in his cheeks as he licks into Tony’s mouth. 

“God,” Steve mutters when he pulls back to catch his breath. “That whiskey tastes even better comin’ off of your tongue.” 

“How close is your apartment?” Tony asks. 

“Too far,” Steve says roughly. “Too far for me to not have my hands on you. Yes or no?” 

“Yes. Yes, yes.” 

The two of them coax Tony deeper into the alleyway, his boots echoing off the concrete. When they’re a safe enough distance from the prying eyes of the street, Steve leans with his back against one brick wall, pulling Tony’s back to rest against his chest while Bucky presses himself flush to the man’s front. There’s no hiding Bucky’s erection which presses into the soft cotton of the t-shirt beneath Tony’s jacket, and when Bucky shifts a thigh between the man’s legs, there’s no way to miss Tony’s erection either. 

Tony sighs in pleasure as Bucky drags his thigh along his cock. When his head tilts back, Steve is there nuzzling into the side of his neck, scraping teeth along the sensitive skin. 

“Fuck me, look at him, Steve,” Bucky pants. With hands firm on Tony’s hips, he tugs the shorter man up while angling his own hips down until the bulge of their cocks can drag against each other. “He’s so fuckin’ beautiful, isn’t he?” 

“Like art,” Steve rumbles into Tony’s neck. “Wanna pin him up against the wall—” 

“I think I can feel what you plan on pinning me with,” Tony breathes, arching his back. 

“You think?” Steve asks, rutting his hips upwards. It punches a gasp from Tony’s mouth that Bucky swallows with his own. 

Between them, Tony must feel like the pivot on a seesaw, dragged back and forth, both of them desperate for whatever part of his body they could touch. Steve splays a wide hand against Tony’s breastbone between his open jacket and drags his palm from one pec to the other, fingers taking one clothed nipple (hard and delicate as a glass bead where it pokes through his t-shirt) and working it over, tender and merciless. 

In front of him, Bucky guides his hips so that Tony maintains a steady pace where their cocks are grinding together. He hasn’t cum in his pants since he was fifteen years old with his first girlfriend writhing against his lap, but he feels liable to repeat history tonight. 

“You feel so good,” Bucky groans into the juncture of Tony’s neck. “Been thinking about this ever since I spotted you on the quad, even more at the bar. Every time you’d flirt with the waitress I’d almost pop a stiffie. Nobody’s got a right being as sexy as you are.” 

“You’ve got it—ah!—wrong,” Tony pants. He’s wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck, the fingers of one hand tangled and tugging at his hair. “Watching you and Steve roll around on that football field was like pornography. The hell do you think I had my jacket in my lap, for?” 

Bucky barely manages to stifle an embarrassing sound in his throat. His balls feel tight and heavy, as if he’s been edging himself all day long. His jerking thrusts against Tony’s jeans begin to become sporadic as he chases that high. His sweatpants will be ruined—they probably already are, if he’s leaking like a faucet how he thinks he is—but all consequences and repercussions fade as the coil of heat in his gut winds itself tighter and tighter. 

“‘M gonna cum,” he gasps, shivering when he hears the breath Tony sucks in at his words. 

“You want that, Tony?” Steve asks. “You want him to cum or do you want him to wait? You get to decide tonight—” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice strained. “Don’t make me stop, please don’t make me, he feels so good, Steve—” 

“Stop him,” Tony gasps, though his own hips offer no help considering he arches them to rub the burning line of their cocks together. “Don’t let him cum.” 

Steve reaches out to press firmly on Bucky’s chest until he stumbles back away from the warm cradle of Tony’s hips, an undignified noise slipping past his lips. From a distance, he’s treated to the incredible sight of them: Steve holding Tony flush against him, the way Tony’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, the obscene bulge in his denim and the way his entire body jerks when Steve thrusts his cock against the lush curve of Tony’s ass. 

“Jesus, you all aren’t making it easy on me,” Bucky says, palming his eyes. 

“Tony’s right,” Steve says firmly. “He deserves better than this. We need more room.” 

“Apartment?” Tony wonders through swollen lips. 

“Apartment. Let’s go, sugar, we’ll take a shortcut.” 

-

What the hell am I doing? Tony wonders for the thousandth time that day as they walk briskly down alleys and jaywalk across streets. The thought replays in his head like a track on repeat. His own erection wanes quickly thanks to a heart condition and as a lovely perk of aging, but he hardly minds when he sees how ridiculous the two younger men look trying to hide their half-hard cocks while navigating the downtown area. Tony removes his jacket and offers it to Bucky who has a tell-tale patch of darkness where the head of his cock has rested. The sight makes his heart pound. 

What the hell am I doing, he thinks again when the two of them pin him to the wall in the elevator of their apartment building, both of them grinding their respective erections into his hips while teasing the sensitive skin of his neck, hands creeping up under the hem of his t-shirt to trace his quivering stomach. 

He feels infused with some sort of youthful madness. The three of them stumble out of the elevator with swollen mouths and tented pants and he feels young again. Even for just a moment while Steve takes the time to unlock their apartment door. Then the three of them are tumbling over the threshold and Tony remembers—right, he’s on the wrong side of forty. 

“Goddamnit,” he hisses when his knee cracks against the doorframe. The twin expressions of horror on Bucky and Steve’s faces have his pained groan turning into laughter, even as Bucky leans down to wind one of Tony’s arms over his broad shoulders and help him to the couch. 

“Jesus, you okay?” Bucky asks, kneeling down between Tony’s spread thighs and tenderly running his fingers over Tony’s clothed knee. 

“Fine,” Tony laughs. “Still a little drunk.” 

Bucky’s eyes flash upwards, pale, liquid heat. His fingers trail up, up, until they trace the seam at the crotch of Tony’s jeans. “Too drunk?” 

“Not that drunk, kid,” Tony smirks. “Not by far.” 

“Good,” Steve says from where he’s locking up the door. “Do you want Bucky to suck you off?”

The idea, spoken so casually as Steve pauses to rifle through the drawer of the foyer table, sends a bolt of electricity down Tony’s spine. He’ll never get used to it—that flippant way Steve speaks about Bucky, as if Bucky is just an item Steve feels welcomed to loan out. Sure, you can take him home, Tony. Just rewind him before you bring him back. 

“I think he likes the thought of that,” Bucky says lowly, his mouth curving upward to hint at wickedness. 

Steve stops, rustling papers falling silent as he glances over his shoulder at them. “Tony? What do you want?” 

“I’m amenable,” he admits, far more breathlessly than he’d like. 

“Then get to it, Bucky, I’m looking for our papers we got from the clinic.” 

“Lookin’ in the wrong place,” Bucky teases. “On top of the ‘fridge.” 

Then he leans forward and licks a broad line up over Tony’s denim-covered cock. It barely registers as pressure on his dick, but it’s the imagery that has the blood rushing from his head in a torrent so strong he feels dizzy. Bucky keeps his eyes cracked open, glittering as he takes Tony apart, laving him from outside his jeans, dragging the line of his teeth down the growing bulge to laugh at the sound that slips past the older man’s lips. He opens wide to mouth at Tony’s balls, the heat from his breath and tongue seeping through the denim. 

“Finally,” Steve breathes, drawing Tony’s attention. He holds out two pieces of paper—how the hell he expects Tony to read given the lack of blood in his brain, Tony has no idea. “Bucky and I get tested regularly. Here’s our most recent screening, and we’ve only slept with each other since then.” 

“I don’t have mine,” Tony says. His voice sounds strained from the effort it takes to keep his hips still and not fuck up into Bucky’s mouth. “Condoms okay?” 

“More than fine,” Steve says. “God, look at you, Bucky. Makin’ a mess of him.”

“Get me something and I’ll blow him proper.” 

Steve retrieves condoms while Bucky unfastens Tony’s jeans. He gets distracted by the sight of Tony’s cock straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs and leans forward to nuzzle against it. It takes all the breath from him. When was the last time Tony felt desirable? To have Bucky looking at him this way, refusing to withdraw his mouth from Tony for longer than a moment at a time—it fills up an empty, wounded part inside of him that he had avoided acknowledging in the first place.

“Finally,” Bucky breathes, snagging a condom up from where Steve drops them on the couch cushion beside Tony. Tony wants to mirror the sentiment, but his throat is shut tight while he watches Bucky tear open the condom with expert fingers. 

Steve kneels down next to his boyfriend. One hand cups Bucky’s jaw and briefly turns his head so that their mouths can meet. If Tony thought he was breathless before, he knew differently now. It’s pornography in person, it’s erotica come to life watching both of these hopelessly attractive young men kiss each other so filthily, tongues flashing pink when they adjust the positions of their mouths. 

The aching of Tony’s cock is painful. When he reaches down to rub the heel of his palm over it, it offers only the briefest reprieve, his eyes fluttering shut. Then Steve’s fingers wrap gently around his wrist and his eyes open to see the both of them watching him, flushed with swollen mouths. 

“Sorry,” Steve rumbles. “We are easily distracted.” 

“Then you’re among like-kind,” says Tony. 

“May I?” Bucky asks, holding up the condom. 

“Please.” 

“Hips up, sugar,” Steve murmurs. There’s a fluttering of embarrassment at the endearment—in some ways Tony feels infantilized—but it’s been so long since he was called any sweet name (besides Peter’s fond, exasperated dad’s) that a larger part of him feels choked at the name. Swallowing hard, Tony shifts upward so that Steve can work the jeans and underwear down and off.

Bucky reels off a line of expletives at the sight of Tony’s cock: long, cut, flushed. It jerks under their gazes, the head slick and sticky. He can’t help but laugh under his breath at the expressions on their faces. The laughter ends when Bucky reaches out to trace his fingers up his shaft, thumbing at the sensitive skin beneath the head. 

“You’re perfect,” says Bucky. 

“It’s a cock.” 

“Yours,” says Steve. “Is there anything about you that ain’t perfect?” 

“I’m positive there is, but I really can’t think of them right now,”  Tony says, thighs tense from the effort it takes to keep still under Bucky’s explorative touch. When a warm palm cups his balls, rolling them tenderly, feeling the heft of them, all semblance of language leaks from Tony’s ears. 

“God, you need to cum, don’t ya?” Bucky asks. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Bet you don’t like to cum with your kid in the house, but he’s been hanging around night and day to spend time with you before he went away to school. Has there been nobody since your ex, Tony? It’s like you were saving it up for us. It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll take care of you. Just how you deserve.” 

With careful fingers, Bucky places the condom at the tip of Tony’s cock before rolling it down his aching shaft. Then Bucky is chasing the edge of the latex with his mouth, heat and pressure enveloping him. Tony makes a guttural sound, fingers scrabbling at the cushions of the sofa for purchase.  

“Don’t be greedy, Buck,” Steve says. With a hand on the nape of Bucky’s neck, he coaxes his boyfriend back off of Tony’s cock so that he can lean forward and lap at it with his own tongue.

“Holy shit,” Tony slurs drunkenly. While Steve sucks on the head, Bucky places open-mouthed kisses along the shaft. They urge Tony’s thighs wider and wider so they can comfortably take turns rolling his balls in their palms, tugging softly, hurting him in the best way. It helps to keep his orgasm at bay, though he still feels it creeping over him. It centers in his lower gut, a liquid heat relocating to his balls. 

“He’s getting close, Steve,” Bucky breathes, his lips brushing against Tony’s shaft. “His balls are drawin’ up. Feel—” 

“God, you’re right.” 

“Don’t want to cum yet,” pants Tony. 

“Do you want us to stop?” Steve asks. 

That idea is painful in a way Tony can't tolerate. 

“No, just—” His hands release their death-grip on the sofa to bat their hands out of the way. Using one hand to press his cock towards the flat of his stomach, his other hands slaps at his heavy sac. Gasping in pain, he doubles over on instinct to protect his most sensitive parts while the pain lances bright and sharp through his gut. As he catches his breath, he feels how his erection has waned. Still hard, but not in the danger zone. Had he been any closer, the blow to his balls might have made him cum, no matter how bad it had hurt. Tony’s always been one of those people to enjoy pain with his pleasure. 

“I don’t like that,” Bucky says, frowning as Tony uncurls and leans back to his original position. “Don’t hurt yourself. We coulda just put a ring on you—” 

“Rings will only do so much,” Tony laughs, still trying to catch his breath. Then, with surprising diffidence, he mentions, “Sometimes, I like to be hurt.” 

Steve groans, collapsing forward to rest on Tony’s thigh. Muffled, he says, “Don’t tell me that, Tony. Have mercy on me.” 

“Steve’s a sadist,” Bucky admits, grinning. He leans forward and laps at the latex covering Tony’s cockhead. 

Tony lets out a shaky breath through his nose. “Is that so?” 

Steve lifts his head and pins Tony in place with the heat behind his gaze. “Can’t help it,” he says, voice rough. “I love...confusing people. Take Bucky for example: the first few spanks, he flinches away, right? Puts up a real fuss. But position him so his cock’ll only brush against my leg if he’s arching his back, and he’ll be thrusting out his ass for me to spank in no time at all. Work a person over with pleasure and pain and they’ll start cravin’ both.” 

“Work me over enough so that it doesn’t hurt so fucking bad when you’re following too close at the grocery store and step on my heels, will you?” Bucky deadpans.

“You're doing too much talking,” Steve says. With a firm hand, he cups the back of Bucky’s head and coaxes him down until Tony’s cock bumps his cheek. “Go on, baby. Choke on him.”

Tony gives a groan that is mirrored (though muffled) by Bucky. That impossible heat and force of suction surrounds his cock as Bucky’s lips slide lower and lower, tongue working against the thickness as best as it can. When Tony’s cockhead brushes the firm back of his throat, Bucky’s dark eyelashes flutter shut. Steve is just as enraptured as Tony, watching with hooded eyes even as he presses down with more force on the back of Bucky’s head. 

Bucky gags, the back of his throat spasming around the most sensitive part of Tony’s cock. Tony moans long and low, reaching out to brush away the stray strands of hair in the younger man’s face. Bucky’s eyes flutter open at the touch. The whites are flushing red, tears at the corners as he continues to gag and gag and gag, massaging Tony’s cock with his throat. 

“He loves it,” Steve whispers over the wet, obscene sounds of Bucky choking. 

“That true?” Tony grits out. “Do you love choking on cock, Bucky?” 

Steve relents his grip so that Bucky can pull back, mouth wet and red and gasping for breath. “Your cock,” he says with a cracking voice. “Love choking on your cock, daddy.” 

“Fuck,” Tony groans, legs shaking. “Don’t call me that, you shouldn’t call me that—” 

“He shouldn’t call you that, or you shouldn’t like it?” Steve wonders. 

“Both.”

“He loves it too,” Steve whispers. He’s the devil on Tony’s shoulder, feeding him everything he needs to hear to drag him deeper to sin. “Look at him. If you bent your leg and gave him your shoe to rub against, he’d cum quicker than you could blink. It’s the power imbalance. He’s getting off on it, so why can’t you?” 

Bucky pulls back. His voice is throaty when he laughs and says, “Steve, I think you’re usin’ your mouth too much.” 

The blond man laughs. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

Then both of their mouths are back on Tony’s cock, licking and sucking, making sure to run their lips over every last inch of him. Sometimes they are distracted enough to pull back and kiss for a moment, mouths swollen. Sometimes they refuse to part from Tony, instead lapping at each other’s mouths from around Tony’s cock. The heat in him builds slow like water turned from simmering to boiling. He reaches out and pets his hands through both of their hair, Bucky’s so fine and dark, Steve’s so thick and golden. When one of their thumbs drifts to the sensitive skin behind his balls and rubs in a slow, firm circle, all at once he feels like he’s vaporizing. 

“I’m going to cum,” he warns. 

Steve pulls off, nuzzling wetly at Bucky’s temple to say, “Go on baby, you’ve earned it. You finish him off.” 

Instead, Bucky pulls off too, looking at Steve with mournful, sulky eyes. “I want his cum, Stephen.” 

“Don’t talk to me, talk to him!” 

Bucky turns that heated gaze on Tony instead. He looks absolutely debauched: face flushed, sweat gluing strands of dark hair to his pale temples, mouth red and swollen. Leaning forward, he drags his smooth cheek along Tony’s throbbing cock. “Why can’t I have it,” Bucky mutters with all the morose energy of a teenager. “Come on, daddy, lemme have your cum. I'd strip this condom off of you and drain you, suck you dry."

It’s, fuck—what, like it can’t tempt him? It does. He hasn’t cum in anyone’s mouth since Pepper (and as per her preferences, she’d then spit). He’s never had someone acting positively thirsty for his cum. It's a heady feeling, something he could get drunk off of, could get used to. But Tony was a young queer man during the AIDS crisis. He knows that safety matters more than the heat of the moment. 

“You’ll take what I give you,” he says. “And I will give it to you, once we all know it’s safe and we can enjoy it properly. Now—be a good boy and, and suck daddy off.” 

If Bucky notices that the words are stilted coming from Tony’s mouth, he doesn’t show it. A noise slips from his throat, raw and high and desperate, and then he is leaning forward and taking as much of Tony’s cock past his lips as he can, groaning wetly when it chokes him. Tony’s fingers tighten, pulling harshly at Bucky’s roots as the heat in his balls builds back to boiling point. 

A warm hand reaches out to push Tony’s shirt up, baring the long line of his soft abs. He places his palm just beneath Tony’s navel just in time for the muscles there to clench up tight as Tony cums. 

For a moment the pressure builds and builds, leaves him standing at the precipice and looking over the edge for so long that he thinks it might last forever. Then one firmer press of that thumb behind his balls snaps the tether that held him back from plummeting down. His entire body tenses as his balls draw up tight. No sound escapes until his cock finally begins to release its spend, and then the only sounds in the room are Bucky’s wet gags and Tony’s choked groans as one of the best orgasms of his life is wrung out of him. Maybe it’s a good thing he shoots into a condom instead of down the kid's throat, because it seems to last forever. Steve presses him firmly to the couch even as his body spasms in the throes of pleasure, a comforting weight. 

“Jesus,” Tony whispers to the ceiling, body wracked with aftershocks. 

“Did you hear that?” Bucky rasps letting Tony’s softening cock slip from his mouth. Tony blinks down at him, unsure if there was something he as supposed to hear—a knock on the door, the wet sounds of the best blowjob of his life—but then he realizes that Bucky is speaking to Steve. “He said he will give it to me. That means we’re not finished, right? There’s gonna be more between us, right Tony?” 

Tony breathes out, his heart soft. Now that he’s cum, he feels the post-coital exhaustion coming over him. Christ, it must be late. The best way to spend his evening (if they’ll let him) would be to spend it pressed between their stacked, warm bodies.

“I’d like there to be more,” he admits. The blood returning to his brain brings back all of his doubts, his fears, his insecurities. What the hell is he doing, letting two young men take him home, letting two young men work their way into his heart like this? Surely it is doomed. But if there’s even the slightest chance of otherwise, then Tony feels obliged to follow it down, to see it through right to the end. 

“We can take all this slow,” says Steve, the voice of reason. “Exchange numbers. See each other next time you’re in town to see Peter. See what happens.” 

“I’m an exclusive kind of guy,” Tony admits. Realizing the irony of having such a conversation with his pants down, he works them back up over his hips, tying off the condom and depositing it in a trash can Steve produces from beneath one endtable. “Fifteen years of monogamy will do that to a man. If I’m talking with you two, I won’t be talking with anyone else.” 

“That’s fair,” Bucky says, leaning his cheek against the denim of Tony’s jeans. One side of his mouth quirks upwards. “Besides, you’ll have your hands full with the two of us, anyway.” 

“We’d extend that same courtesy,” Steve says, poking Bucky in the ribs. “Besides—I don’t think anyone is going to be peaking our interests. Not if they aren’t you.” 

“That’s sappy.” And everything he’s ever wanted. 

“It’s true, though.” 

“Steve’s a big softie,” Bucky teases. Throwing his voice in a poor imitation of his boyfriend, he adds: “I’m Steve and my childhood asthma left me with a huge complex—I want to make you crave pain and then make you vegan pancakes in the morning.”

“That’s it—” Steve slaps Bucky upside the head. “No pancakes for you in the morning. None.” 

“What about for me?” Tony wonders softly. 

Steve’s smile, when he turns it on Tony, is bright as the sun. “For you? All the vegan pancakes.”

Bucky mutters something foul under his breath, and all at once Steve is towering over him, chest nearly pressed against Bucky’s shoulder, a solid disapproving wall of muscle. The brunet has to turn his face into Tony’s thigh to hide his smirk. Tony watches the display of dominance with raised brows. 

“You’ve been pushing me all night, Buck, and I’ve just about had it.” 

“Just about?” Bucky asks. 

Steve’s eyes cut to Tony. “You said something earlier today, about the proper way to spank somebody. Care to show some pointers, daddy?” 

Tony’s cock, spent as it is, gives a valiant jerk. At his feet, Bucky’s entire body shivers. He turns to look up at Tony, his eyes like molten silver with all the heat and desperation packed behind the irises. It’s been so long since he spanked anyone properly (or was spanked in return); surely it would take him a few swings to get back into the hang of things. 

He has a feeling that Steve wouldn’t be the only one learning a thing or two tonight. 

Clearing his throat, he says, “I think I can help with that.” 

[snowdice]

Road Trips and Missing Persons (Part 13)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Patton & Virgil, Virgil & Deceit, Logan & Patton, Emile & Remy, Roman & Remus & Janus

Characters: Patton, Virgil, Deceit, Remus, Roman, Logan, Emile, Remy

Summary: Patton was just getting groceries. The next thing he knew, there was a knife at his throat and he was an unwilling uber driver. Virgil’s on the run after the murder of his dad, and it’s not just his paranoia that’s telling him he’s being chased down. He has to get somewhere safe, somewhere he can trust, and all he has is a couple of stories from his dad and a name: “Green Bellow Foods and Dispensary.”

Notes: Secret Agents AU, knives, carjacking, kidnapping, murder mentioned, guns mentioned, pepper spray, blood mentioned, drugs mentioned, explosions (more to be added)

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve affectionately named it the Goblin Brain Fic because it’s helping my brain actually get motivated for studying. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 My Master Post

Remy was slumped down in his seat as Emile continued to lecture him on all the possible consequences of his actions over the past 24 hours. Jeezy creezy was Emile miffed about all of that. Remy had been trying to blow it off, but Emile was fully, painfully aware that he’d almost had lost his brother today and Remy was going to hear about it until Emile’s lungs aches.

“And another thing…” he said.

“Wait,” Remy said, and Emile did because there was a lace of panic to his tone.

“What?” Emile asked.

“The tracker stopped working,” Remy answered pushing buttons a little bit desperately on his device.

“It went completely offline somehow,” Remy said.

“Did it get turned off?” Emile asked. “Or run out of batteries?”

“It doesn’t turn off and the batteries are designed to last for years,” Remy said. “It can even track through 20 feet of water. The only way it could stop sending a signal this abruptly is if the thing was destroyed.”

Emile paused. “You said Virgil knows what the blinking light means.”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible that he knows, or well, ‘knows,’ you’re dead? Barbara did send a man after him, he could have mentioned it.”

Remy stared down at the device in his hands.

He pressed a couple of buttons and studied the screen for a moment. “You little shit,” he groaned. “You threw it out the fucking car window, didn’t you?”

“How do you know?” Emile asked.

“Because if I look at the history, it was going at 65 miles per hour down the interstate, suddenly stopped cold, and then went offline probably when another car inevitably crushed it.”

“Ah.”

“Well, at least the fucker’s probably okay. Dammit Virgil! Where are you going?” Remy pushed a few more buttons almost idly as he thought. “Let me get into Virgil’s head for a minute: emo music, dark clothes, would rather have his toenails ripped out than go to parties, makes split second decisions based on little info. Yep! Got him.”

Emile rolled his eyes, but Remy wouldn’t have noticed as he had his own eyes closed. “Hmm. So, I’m Virgil. My bitch mom killed my dad and sent someone after me. I have no idea what’s going on, but I bolt out of there because fuck mom. I want to get the hell out of dodge so I convince someone to drive me somehow, I guess, but where would I want to go? Someplace safe. Where’s safe? Maybe Emile, but obviously that’s not where he went. Or Janus, but he’s too connected to mom. I don’t really know anyone else, especially not someone who could help with this sort of stuff.”

Remy thought for another long moment. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Emile asked. “What oops?”

He could tell by the expression on Remy’s face that he was not going to like the answer. “I may have let something… slip.”

“What do you mean, Remington?”

“Um, well you see,” Remy said. “A couple of months ago Virgil was being, you know, himself: a little shit. He may have, possibly, found some papers.”

“What kind of papers?” Emile asked.

“They were nothing important!” Remy assured. “There wasn’t any dangerous info in them or anything, but…”

“But?”

“It is somewhat possible that they had the name on them.”

“How possible?” Emile asked, eyes narrowed on him.

“He asked what Green Bellow Foods was and why they needed 50 top-of-the line computers outfitted at an old factory.”

“And what did you tell him?!”

“Nothing!”

Emile glared at him.

“Okay, well I had to tell him something,” Remy mumbled. “I just kind of said that I knew the owner well and was working with him on some stuff. Then I told him not to worry about it, which was probably a mistake, because he’s Virgil. So, then I found him snooping in my car. At that point I had to sit him down and talk to him. So, I told him a bit about Logan.”

“Remy that’s not nothing!”

“I didn’t use his name or anything. I just told him a couple of really, extremely, tremendously, vague stories, so he didn’t think I owed money to the mafia. Which, yes, he did suggest.”

“That’s worse!”

“What do you want from me Emile?!”

“Some common sense!” Emile answered. “I’ve been comparing you to the rat in Ratatouille for years, but I’m starting to think you’re more of a Pinky from Pinky and the Brain.”

“Hey, ouch,” Remy replied. “Also, I personally subscribe to the theory that Pinky is actually the intelligent one who is foiling Brain’s evil plots from the inside. So, there.”

“Now is not the time,” Emile said.

“Oh, it’s not the time to discuss cartoon theories?” Remy mumbled into his lap. “Must be serious.”

“It is serious! Virgil is missing!”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Remy snapped. “I know, Emile.”

There was quiet. Emile took a breath. “Okay,” he said, calmer. “Do you really think he’s going to Logan?”

“He’s headed somewhere,” Remy answered, “and wherever that somewhere is, it’s inexplicably down the most direct route towards base.”

“Well, Virgil is smart. I don’t think he’d just keep going so quickly without a destination in mind. We should call Logan.”

“Do you honestly believe Barbara doesn’t have your phone tapped when Virgil is missing? If you had one of Logan’s phones, I might agree with you, but as it is, we’d be giving away our position, and possibly clueing her into Virgil’s plan. If he shows up at base, Logan will take him in no question. It’s less dangerous for everyone this way.”

“Fine,” Emile said. “We’ll just keep driving towards Logan and hope you’re right about where he’s going.”

“Of course, I’m right,” Remy said lightly. “I’ve got the paternal instincts going on. Course, they didn’t stop the knife throwing incident of ’09. I blame Janus for that, though.”

Emile shook his head at him.

“It is good for when he tries to steal sweets, or that one time he brought home a baby piglet and tried to hide it from me in his bedroom. Or when he’s feeling anxious about something but won’t tell me because he thinks it’s silly.” Remy’s own fingers tapped out an anxious pattern against his knee. “It also worked with the golf cart incident, but it was too late. Again, I blame Janus. He messes with the paternal instinct meter. He’s far too unpredictable and I make the mistake of thinking he’s responsible, which he is half the time, but the other half of the time I remember that he’s still mostly a kid and one that grew up in an unstable environment. Did I tell you that last month they went and won a bunch of tickets at the arcade and used them to get those 5 ticket rubber ducks and just unloaded them all over my room? Honestly, you’d think a 21-year-old would have a better use for his money or at least have the brains to go buy them at a store. He could have gotten like 500 more ducks for the same amount of money. Of course, it was his mom’s money, so I guess I can get behind wasting it on arcade games and rubber ducks. The prank was apparently based on some comedy sketch Virgil found online.”

“You’re doing the thing again,” Emile pointed out calmly.

“Stop psych evaluating me,” he shot back.

“Fine, fine,” Emile said. “Keep distracting yourself from your emotional responses with silly stories. See if I care.”

“Thank you,” Remy replied. “I will.”

Emile sighed as he started back up again mumbling something about having taken away Virgil’s Gameboy after catching him playing it at 3 o’clock in the morning. He claimed this wasn’t because the boy hadn’t gotten any sleep on a school night, but because he’d insulted Donkey Kong to Remy’s face. After that story had run its course, Remy continued to babble at an increasingly fast pace about all sorts of things. Emile imagined most of the stories he sprouted off were quite embellished.

Emile had tried to turn on the radio once, but Remy had slapped his hand away saying, “The next one’s a really good one.” So, he had resigned himself to his fate of tuning out Remy’s coping mechanism to the best of his abilities and just focusing on driving for the next 45 minutes. Which is probably why he noticed that traffic had strangely decreased. He didn’t really pay the fact that much mind until the traffic suddenly increased… in the form of a wall of stopped cars.

“Jenkies, what’s going on?” he asked, as he came to a stop at the end of the line of cars.

“Um…” Remy said looking out of his car window. There, staring into their car with beady black eyes was a cow. As Emile watched, said cow leaned forward to drag its tongue across the passenger side window. “Shit.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 14

[aforrestofstuff]

What do you think the OPM characters' guilty pleasures would be? I feel like Tatsu loves soap operas and Atomic Samurai secretly loves a really popular boy band, like SMAP

Thanks for your request, anon! Sorry this took me so long to get to, you were buried in my inbox lol. But I hope this was worth the wait because oh boy this required all 3 of my brain cells.

Tornado of Terror: As you said, soap operas. She also loves candy apples in canon. But...she also is a HUGE fan of those really cheesy Cosmopolitan magazines that have all of the personality quizzes and the “which hot male celeb would date you” scenarios. She doesn’t fall for it one bit. In fact, she hate reads those fuckers in the same way that people pay to go see bad movies. It’s fun.

Silverfang: Yoga and following along to some cheesy-ass 80s workout videos. I’ve said he likes yoga in a previous headcanon, but he also likes to exercise along to some obnoxious 80s pop while some dude in a leotard instructs him on what to do from a TV screen. He wears sweatbands and legwarmers, too. The whole shebang. He only does it when he’s alone, though. Sometimes he’ll try to teach yoga to his disciples as a way to help them decompress after a long training session, but his workout tapes are his best-kept secret.

Atomic Samurai: I don’t know what a SMAP is, but he’s definitely got some questionable music choices going on considering he’s... well, the way that he is. I’d say he likes to listen to old country, like Marty Robbins and Glen Campbell. It’s really funny because you’ve got this intimidating man from Japan (or a fictional universe basically set in Japan) with a badass katana and shit but inside that empty head of his, there’s just a faint “out in the west Texas town of El Paso....”

Child Emperor: Picking at scabs. He’s often on his knees fixing shit in his lab, and he probably gets burned all the damn time from playing around with lasers so he’s undoubtedly always has a wound healing somewhere. Whenever he’s working on something, he’ll just absentmindedly pick at his scabs. It’s a bad habit and he knows it, but nothing beats the feeling of peeling off an entire patch of that shit. So satisfying.

Metal Knight: Buying books. He doesn’t even read them. He just buys bigass novels with smart-sounding names to fill up his library because he thinks it’ll make his dick grow another three inches or some shit. One of the few things he likes in this world (besides homicide) is the smell of a new book. If he’s feeling particularly pissy, he’ll go into his library and just ssssssnnnnnnnnnniififfffffffffff. He spends an outrageous amount of money on it. If he has anyone over (which is unlikely, but hypothetically speaking) and they mention his library by asking something like “have you read all of these?” It’ll be one of the few times in his life that he’ll feel shame.

King: Reading and writing fanfiction based on his favorite video game/anime series. Nobody knows he does this except his small following online, of course. And even more so, nobody online knows he’s an ultra-popular S-Class hero who’s friends with the most powerful man on earth. He’s actually a pretty decent writer, he just doesn’t take himself too seriously so the plotline to his stories tend to get a little haywire and overly self-indulgent. Let him have his fun. He just wants to be a Sailor Scout.

Zombieman: Singing. He actually used to be a good singer (he sounded like a discount Steve Perry back in the day), but constant smoking really fucked up his voice. He might as well have lungs the size of grapes because he can’t carry a note for more than 2 seconds without wheezing like an accordion with asthma. He’s never sang in front of anyone before because he thinks it’s silly thing that isn’t worth showing off. Play anything from The Eagles though, and he’ll have a hard time resisting.

Drive Knight: He likes to open up panels in his arms and legs to play with the wires (basically a robot’s version of nerve endings, I’m assuming) just so he can feel something. It’s kind of sad because he doesn’t experience pain or the cold or being tickled... (I know what y’all are thinking and you’d better STOP). So he sometimes takes it upon himself to dick around with his insides and dip his toe into what it feels like to be human, even if it’s just for a little bit. He’s super secretive about it (he’s just secretive about everything, really) because he doesn’t want anyone to know that he desires something outside of being a weapon of mass destruction justice.

Pig God: His whole schtick is basically indulging in a guilty pleasure — pigging out on delicious food with no regard whatsoever for one’s overall health. Other than that, however, he does like to collect body pillows. There, I said it. All he fucking does is eat and he’s too much of a big boi to be going out 24/7, so he’s gotta be on the internet/watching anime/playing video games/reading manga during all of that downtime between his stints of doing hero work. His bed is fucking ginormous to handle all of that big boy-ness and on it, he has his body pillow nest. He rests on a throne made for kings. A true icon.

Superalloy Darkshine: Also working out along to some cheesy 80s exercise videos. His hero outfit was inspired from what those ravishing instructors would wear on the television. Well, it was supposed to be a full leotard but it ripped every time he flexed just a tiny bit so the speedo is the only thing that’s left. He’s gotta hella rhythm and keeps up with the music using little to no effort. Although, he can’t go too hard because he’s also a big boi and he’ll literally shake the entire building if he gets too turnt up. Dance muscle boy, dance.

Watchdog Man: Eating too many dog treats lol. Sometimes while he’s stationed on his little podium thing, visitors will leave him little offerings like dog treats and other miscellaneous food items/toys. He never takes them or eats them in front of people, but he often brings everything home with him after a long day just to gobble that shit up. He’s gained a little weight since he started doing it but you can’t even notice it because his suit is hella bulky. Some of it is due in part to stress-eating because being a dog and dude at the same time is hectic, but it’s honest work.

Flashy Flash: Racing shit. Whenever he’s on his travels during, say, assassination missions or hero work, he gets hella bored really quickly. So, to help with this, he’ll often race birds or planes flying in the sky on his way to his destination to see who’s quicker (it’s always him). Sometimes he’ll even play catch with himself by throwing a pine cone or something and running to the place he guesses it’ll land before it even touches the ground. He just does a ton of weird speedster shit whenever he’s bored and he’ll deny it if anyone asks.

Genos: Purposefully putting a little bit too much oil on his joints after each upgrade so he’ll be as slick as a salamander. It’s a really funny feeling to be able to move your limbs with little to no resistance without having to worry about popping or breaking anything. It just makes him feel so agile despite being like, a hunk of actual metal. If he wasn’t so uptight, he would loosen the screws in his fingers to he can bend them almost all the way back (he’s actually thought about it a few times), but both Dr. Kuseno and his 3 remaining braincells attested to that. He just likes to tinker around with his body and see what weird shit he can do. It’s a bad habit because it’s led to a few things being broken on multiple occasions.

Metal Bat: Zenko’s shitty pop music. Whenever he drops her off at school or piano practice, he’ll immediately go home and blast that shit on full volume (because he’s practically deaf from always jumping out of falling buildings and continuously blasting music in his earbuds) while doing chores and the like. He’s one of those people that HAVE to have something going on in the background as they’re getting shit done. He’d rather be caught dead than listening to the OPM equivalent of Taylor Swift because he knows Zenko would never let him live it down.

Tanktop Master: Wearing suits around the house when he’s not even going anywhere. He’s got to wear his tanktop 24/7 whenever he’s in public to keep up The Image (which he has no problem with, he genuinely loves the tanktop ideology) but he also needs to feel fancy every once and a while. So, if he happens to have the time while in between appearances, he’ll prance around in a suit tailored just for him. Because he’s so fucking huge that he had to pay someone a large sum to custom make an outfit that actually fits. He is 7-motherfucking-feet tall. 7.

Puri-Puri Prisoner: Making Valentine’s Day cards all times of the year. Listen, it gets boring as hell in prison. Sometimes the guards will let all of the inmates have a little glitter and glue to keep themselves busy because no harm can come of a little arts and crafts, right? He likes to make cards on the daily just to let all of his lovers know how much he appreciates them. If they express even the slightest amount of disdain for his creations, he’ll spent the next week crying in the darkest corner of his cell block. He also likes origami. Origami is huge in prison because it’s hella time-consuming and guaranteed to calm a busy mind. His favorite things to make are little unicorns.

Amai Mask: Bath bombs. There have been several mishaps in which he’s used a poorly-made bath bomb and came out of the tub looking like Shrek but he’s grown and lot since then, okay? After a long day or a particularly stressful concert, he’ll sink into some hot water and drop a ball of lavender-scented goodness in there. It’s become a bit of an addiction because he’s got multiple cabinets dedicated solely to his collection, but at least he always smells divine.

Iaian: Shakespearean dramas. Kama got him hooked on theater shit and he’s since ripped through all of the most well-known plays. He thinks in iambic pentameter. It wasn’t always noticeable since he’s a quiet, well-reserved guy but his fellow disciples and Kami have recently noticed that he’s developed a bit of a dramatic flair. Even worse, he’s started calling himself a knight whenever he puts on his armor. Everyone prays it’s just a phase but seeing as how stubborn Iaian is, that seeks highly unlikely. Kami is dying inside because he can’t handle another drama nerd.

Okamaitachi: Soap operas, like Tatsumaki. Kama is the most dramatic out of all of the disciples so it’s only natural that she’d like the most dramatic genre of any show out there. She doesn’t exactly watch them religiously though. She’s the type of viewer to drop off the face of the earth for three seasons and come back without knowing what the fuck is going on (because the disciples have limited access to cable due to Kami’s dumbassery and ignorance to anything technology-related), but still cry during the finale anyway because oh no these people are so hot and one of them is deaaaaaad and the other one is that person’s long-lost sister....

Bushidrill: Taking alcohol from Atomic Samurai’s stash every so often. Bushidrill knows what the good shit is and he could buy it himself if he wanted to, but why would he when there’s a perfectly good alcoholic to steal from living right down the hall? He only takes in small doses because, believe it or not—he’s smart, but Kami isn’t gonna notice regardless of whether or not Bushi takes 1 or 5 bottles at a time because the old shit couldn’t spot a purple raccoon if it was 3 feet in front of him. There have been times where Bushi has opened bottles of Kami’s alcohol right in front of him just to play God and he always, without missing a beat, says “Oh, we have the same taste. How neat.”

Fubuki: I’ve said this before in a previous headcanon, but she has a mild obsession with Victorian aesthetic. She’s got a small collection of semi-authentic ballgowns that cost upwards of a-fuckton-of-money each, but anything’s worth it to be able to play dress-up with Lily. Fubuki’s favorite thing is making Lily feel beautiful because everyone has been an insecure teenager at one point and she knows how it feels to not be comfortable in one’s own skin. This isn’t exactly a guilty pleasure because she’s not guilty about it, but it’s almost gotten to a point where an intervention is needed. She’s got so many damn dresses and sooooo much fine china....

Saitama: Retail therapy, lol. Saitama is only good at budgeting because he has no choice given how fucking poor he is, but give this boy even a little bit of leeway and he’ll buy the ugliest clothes (to which he thinks look poppin’) and the best meats without even batting an eye. His entire manga collection is the product of him having little to no self control the moment he realizes he’s got a bit of money to spend on himself. This is also the only time he’ll experiment with cooking because now he can actually afford to fuck up, literally.

Mumen Rider: Sweets! I’ve said this in a previous hc but he has a major sweet tooth. You can substitute salt for sugar in any given recipe and he’ll see it as a major improvement because he just goes absolutely buckwild for anything sweet. His pancreas is suffering, but he believes nothing feels better than curling up under the covers on a rainy day with a heaping helping of milk chocolate. The only thing that makes him feel better after getting beat to shit is a kiss on the cheek and box of his favorite cookies (and some bananas, lol).

Sonic: Like Flash, he also likes racing things. But, in addition to that, his guilty pleasure is doing his own hair in elaborate hairstyles (when it was longer). He’s pretty much homeless so he’s got a lot of time to himself in between murders. This is when you can find him sitting in the woods somewhere braiding flowers into his hair and tying it off with a moss ribbon. He’d never admit he does this because he’s a big macho man and he’d probably cry.

Garou: Spicy chips. I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but he absolutely inhales his food without even tasting it half the time so it’s not even like he gets to enjoy the flavor that much. He just likes the burn because he’s a shithead. He also doesn’t fear death or a torn-up asshole, so he’ll eat an entire family-sized bag of the OPM-universe equivalent to Takis without even batting an eye. He’s been beat to shit so many times that the agony that comes with downing so much spice is lost on him. He doesn’t even need water. It’s insane. Someone stop this madman at once.

[fmlfpl]

Lineup Lamentations - GW35+

Our Transfers, Captains, and Starting 11s for the week!

—

WALSH

TRANSFERS:

OUT: Kane and Calvert-Lewin

IN (for -4 points): Firmino and Benteke

Welp, Kane and Mou hooked me again - nothing new there.

DCL I still love and it is quite upsetting that I didn't own him this season when he was getting all his points and did own him for a strand of just straight blanks and nothingness since the restart. Oh well. I'm sure this is not the last of DCL in my team, and I will look forward to owning him next year. If anything, maybe this barren spell is a blessing in disguise as it may keep his price down a bit and prevent him from having much preseason buzz...

As shouted on the pod, it seems like its a nice time to reunite with old friends. Benteke picks himself, love him so much and maybe he bangs in the revenge game. Just a fun punt.

Bob has been pretty fucking bad for FPL but I love him and haven't owned him all season. I can stomach a few blanks from the lad, but at least I don't have Kane anymore. It's probably not a good sign for my rank that I'm using the tv guide as a significant factor in my decision making process but hey, whatever brooo. I am definitely worried a bit about him starting against Burnley but he did just rest against Villa so maybe he'll be good to go for the duration. Another old friend and someone who I get a lot of xJOY from watching - there is nothing that I've seen from him that leads me to believe he'll get in the points, and I don't think there is some hidden gem here for the run in by any stretch, but I like him so I'm getting him. Basically I figured it's more fun to have him than to start a third Wolves defender..again...and also seems cooler and more fun than any other defender so let's do it :)

GK:

de Gea (SOU)

DDG didn't have to do much so he got a clean. Great job by him and United. It's a good sign that when Ole makes his five subs he's bringing on Fredrick and other shithouses and kind of killing the game dead which doesn't make the last handful of minutes feel so nervy.

Soton are good, though, and I could see them scoring, but with the way United have looked they still feel like a good place to back for cleans. He's not making any saves really to speak of but 3 cleans in 5 from the restart is right about where I thought they'd be.

DEF:

Maguire (SOU)

I am going to roll with the slab over Saiss to keep my shares at 2 for United and 2 for Wolves cleans. Same kinda shit with DDG, he's been individually bad as per but the team is dominating and I see that continuing against Soton.

Dock & Boly (EVE)

Really, really, really, really, really good fixture for a clean.

It's always hard to imagine where an Everton goal could come from and this fixture is no exception. As long as they don't get caught on a counter ping long ball, which they shouldn't do with the extra CB, they should be ok. I expect them to be in cruise control for this game and fully dominate and control it. Whether or not they themselves score, fuck if I know or care, but clean sounds good.

MID:

Sterling, De Bruyne, and Foden (bha)

Besides Raz, no clue if the other two will play 30, 60, or 90 but either way I expect this game to be an absolute fucking.

Rolling with the three City friends till the end seems good, and they are good.

Harry Potter plays some insane stuff and if he rolls out something similar here as he did do against Livp it could get silly. An early goal and the weed hanging their heads could mean many more to follow. That's the hope, anyway.

Bruno (SOU)

Ya, ok bro. Shitting points at the moment. Cool.

Pulisic (shu)

This is suddenly back to being a rough attacking fixture, but with the way Puli has been going recently I'll always back him to return against anyone. Sheffu midfield seems like it could be problematic and they as a team should beginning to feel it in their legs. Chelsea still need to win every game and Sheffu are kinda done for the season so hopefully they are on it and Puli running at Basham et al is too much for them to handle.

FWD:

Benteke (avl)

Back to his old stomping ground with Villa absolutely needing 3 points in this one I could see some goals for us. Just a fun play for me and again gives me something extra to cheer for on Sunday when I wake up to watch the game :)

Firmino (BUR)

He did put them to the sword in the reverse fixture..not that I usually put any stock in such a thing, but hey, it did happen so just reporting the news.

Without Mee I could envision him being difficult for them to contain with his movement so maybe he is going to get in there with some points. It wouldn't stun me to see him on the bench for like Minamino or some shit but hopefully not. Also is nice to have one of Alon's favorites in there to boot. Go get em Bobby.

CAP:

Sterling (bha)

Raz never in doubt.

Didn't start last game...and Jesus has just started a few in a row...so there's a reasonable chance he's playing striker. Love the fixture here and the stars seem to have aligned for the cap shout.

He's been playing really well lately so it makes this a really easy decision for me.

—

ALON

TRANSFERS:

OUT: Alexander-Arnold and Calvert-Lewin

IN: Saiss and Vardy

Off with the hyphenated names they’re banished from my team for rest of season no hyphens fuck it.

Dropping Trent feels akin to dropping Kevin: I’ve probably made a big woopsies here and he’s gonna start 4/4 or 3/4 and haul because he’s the best but... maybe not? Maybe he gets rested/rotated for Burnley as we expect and maybe Liverpool don’t clean rest of season as I personally expect and then I’m doing ok?

Maybe... maybe... 

I’m also just going partially with gut on Vardy vs. Bournemouth more then anything else. Form is some sort of mystical lover and every time she’s in our grasp she slips away and every time we think she’s gone forever she reappears... Hoping the form angel pegs Vardy’s butt-hole this weekend and he hauls.

GK:

Ederson (bha)

Was Eddy worth the funds out the gate? Probably not... But I also know my own weaknesses and I’d’ve probably somehow have talked myself into some shit-can like Foster on no cleans and alas here we are.

I’ll take the points and genuinely expect a clean in all four remaining matches from Citeh.

DEF:

Doherty & Saiss (EVE)

Sheesh this feels yuge. Double Wolves into Everton come on Wolves. Don’t have anything to say I’m just on my hands and knees praying for this clean man...

Maguire (SOU)

Tough one for me to read.

Part of me thinks that the chaotic style of Southampton’s attack will have The Oaf on toast but also part of me thinks ManU will just strangle them to death with their elite possession and passing breaking the press all the time and Soton will be huffing and puffing by 45′... Not sure how this goes but yeah I duno.

Go get’em big guy.

MID:

De Bruyne & Mahrez (bha)

It’s very realistic that neither of my City dudes start and that tilts me off so hard just thinking about watching City do The Seaweed 6-0 or something and not be a part of anything fuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee REEEEEEEEEEE!

Martial & Fernandes (SOU)

I still think that these two are the best two ManU guys to get. Tony looked great despite not scoring and what can we even say about the lad Bruno he can’t not run into points right now.

Pulisic (shu)

Gonna be tough to break down but also the possession and pressure should be relentless from Chelsea here.

Hopefully Pulisic taking 9000 touches in the box leads to some FPL points that tricky little fucker I love him.

FWD:

Vardy (bou)

Come on Vardz.

Not a thing I often say but come on you Vardz. Take the Cherries apart baby.

Jimenez (EVE)

Walsh talked me into this (keeping Jim) on the pod and it made a whole lotta sense to me.

Sometimes in life you just need to talk it out with someone you trust like your pod partner and then you can see more clearly and here we are. I actually feel great about a Wolves bounce-back against an Everton side with no midfielders.

Jim should be getting lots of chances and touches in the box and get the fuck in there. Overdue for a pen too maybe Keane or Mina does some mad shit? I haven’t given up on you yet Jim. Let’s go.

CAP:

Vardy (bou)

Whatever, right?

I mean I think capping either of my City guys is completely unreasonable this week (for the record I would cap Raz over anyone this week) so it’s between basically Bruno, or Vardy for me this week...

Why would I cap Bruno there? What’s to be gained? He’s owned by everyone and will be capped by everyone. It’s not fun and it’s not how I play the game.

I see weeks like this as an opportunity to both have more fun and to go for a maybe under the radar cap shout huge chunk rise if he hauls and Bruno is held relativlely in check... No pressure Jamie no pressure at all... Just... save me... Plz...

[bubblepop-32]

If Bruce was De-aged and the only one who could make him stop screaming is Jason. (Part 3)

Bruce gets de-aged, but his memories aren’t as young (but not as old) as what they’re supposed to be. And he desperately needs Jason.

I wanted to read de-aged Bruce with our man Jay but I literally can’t find any ;A; So I sacrificed sleep and wrote this. 

There’s going to be good ol’ fluff and bonding between Jason and small Bruce, but there’s also going to be angst, suffering and then a little more angst. And swearing (mostly from Jay)

Here’s the previous chap >> Part 2 << And if this is your first time... >> Part 1 <<

Jason ended up being led by an entourage of people – namely Alfred, Dick and Zatanna towards the place where de-aged-potentially-alternate-universe Bruce was kept. With each heavy step he took towards wherever they were going, the more and more he grew unsettled.

Alfred came to a graceful halt as they somewhat neared their destination, which soon turned out to be only Jason’s destination since no one else was going to go with him beyond where Alfred stopped.

“The temporary room where Master Bruce is staying is just the third door down on the right.” Alfred seemed to be directing the words mostly towards Jason. In a more hushed tone, Alfred continued. “Master Jason, it would be a good idea if you go without an entire horde following you.”

Alfred knew Jason was already uncomfortable setting foot here, much less be so close Bruce. Having more people to deal with other than trying to handle Jason himself whilst being in the presence of the bat was a horrifying thought by itself. This was also for the betterment of Bruce, despite Alfred knowing that Jason didn’t want to find himself starting to have to actually care about him.

Hearts and bonds shattered at such a young age would leave such a nasty scar that, perhaps, may never heal even with time.

“Yeah Ok.” Jason fixed his eyes on the door that was three doors to the right through the dimmed hallway. “Alright.” Jason was only just starting to freak out because this is Bruce he’s going to be meeting. Hell, it might not even be the Bruce he knows. What should he say? Would he even need to say anything at all? Wait, so why was he going to see Bruce?

Right, he was going to calm Bruce down. If this was another situation, for example, if Jason was interfering with some weapons trade and started shooting everyone, he’ll be able to calm and angry Bruce down by saying, ‘No, I didn't fucking kill anyone and yes, they’re alive,’ though whoever was left was usually on the verge of dying and sometimes in need of amputations. He would laugh at the idea of trying to calm the cold, stoic bat. It would all be some sick joke since practically everyone else out there that Bruce knew would be more eligible for the job than he would be.

But this, this was apparently different so whatever eligibility hierarchy there was before is now completely overthrown and Jason’s brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Alfred turned to look at Dick with a similar weariness behind his movements. “I think it is time that Master Tim takes his break. He has barricaded himself inside the cave and has taken nothing but coffee. It will do him good if you accompany him for a while.”

The butler quickly heads off to make something for Tim. Jason wonders how Alfred is able to feed so many people who are unable to cook without so much as making a mess of something. Jason had also assumed that Alfred would keep an eye on the situation but realised that Alfred must trust him, enough so that he was allowed to use his fine china and enter a room with a fragile ten-year-old Bruce inside. And the amount of trust that Alfred has given to him made his heart unexpectedly ache.

Then, there was Dick. They never got the chance or time to become better brothers. So the use of an old pet name Dick had for him caught him off guard.

“Jaybird?” Dick held Jason’s gaze for a moment as he thought of what to say. Jason found it both amusing and odd that the most sociably-sound, able-to-strike-up-conversations person out of all the batkids is holding back on his words.

“What?” Jason grunted.

“Thanks…Thanks for doing this.” Dick said.

Jason snorted and rolled his eyes. It really was out of character for Dick to thank him like this. “Don’t thank me yet. I might just make things worse than they already are.”

“No, you won’t.” Dick flashed Jason a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

“My ears sure won’t if he screams like that,” Jason utters, feeling coolly detached from the situation at hand.

“We can always get you fitted with hearing aids if it gets to that point.” Dick reaches out and tenderly brushes a few loose strands of white from Jason’s eyes and Jason tries his best to suppress himself from moving away from the sudden contact. Maybe it was a force of habit with the other two.

“Alright, I’ll ring you up if I ever need one of those.” Like hell he would. There’s still traces of the Lazarus within him and his ears can handle more than just a little screaming.

Dick leaves, his strides long and graceful as he heads towards the Cave. That just leaves him and Zatanna. Jason takes in a deep breath, hoping that it will steal him for what he has to face. He exhales and continues walking-

“Before you go, I think I should tell you something.” Zatanna pulls Jason aside by the wrist into a corridor by the side that leads to a bathroom. “I haven’t been completely open with the real reason we need you to meet with Bruce. Yes, he’s calling for you, but the reason behind it…it would’ve distressed Dick a little if I told you about it in front of him.”

“I thought you two talked it through already.” Jason furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and searched Zatanna’s eyes. “You said that you’ll be able to do your magic if I calm him down. I don’t see anything else to it.”

“Yeah, but do you know why I’ll be able to do that once he’s calm?” Zatanna’s gaze was piercing, daring him to interrupt her. “He’s hanging onto those memories of you. Voluntarily, if you will. He’s even managed to keep a firm hold on them when I tried to lock them up. From the looks of it, they are his freshest memories. They’re the most recent memories younger Bruce has from our Bruce, and they’re also the ones that are affecting younger Bruce the most.”

“Both you and Dick have said that he remembers me dead. Is it serious that it’s just one memory of me that’s stopping you.” Jason says. Zatanna still hasn’t let go of Jason’s wrist and he was starting to feel a little overwhelmed.

“Well, Mr Todd, you do leave quite the impression on people.”

“Yeah, but apparently I don’t leave the nicest ones.” Jason quickly murmured back.

“Uh huh but he ended up taking you in after all,” Zatanna replied. “You’re not as bad as you think you are.”

“I am, Zatanna, I never became the person he thought that I would be.” Jason bit back a laugh. “He should have just left me in that alleyway. Now all he does is gripe at all the things I do for Gotham whilst he sits back and deals with the things Gotham doesn’t need. He tails me wherever I go like he’s trying to chase down the ‘me’ he thought he knew. And now, what, this kid Bruce is hung up about it all over again because he just won’t fucking let go of it!”

Zatanna didn’t flinch nor move from her spot. She knows that Jason is just as hurt about as everyone else in the family is but his perception of those feelings he has are clouded by suffocating plumes of twisted resentment that is associated with Bruce.

“Even if those memories are painful to him, even if they are making him suffer, he’s not letting go of them because they’re important to him. You’re important to him, Jason.” She could practically feel the cold disbelief that radiated off from Jason. “I was surprised that I could lock away memories regarding this world’s Bruce’s parents…because he’s moved on. He has his own family and city to protect now, something that he didn’t have before. You’re part of the family he wants to protect to desperately.”

Jason doesn’t need to know all this. He didn’t need to know that all this wasn’t just Bruce being a stubborn brat and refusing to calm down – but were essentially specific memories, the memories of Jason’s death that was stopping Zatanna reciting her spell and him getting more sleep.

“I stopped being his ‘family’ ages ago! He made the very clear when he gave me this.” He spits out, downright feeling bitter all over again as he used his free hand to pull down his collar, revealing a thin white line that ran horizontally along the side of his neck. The slice of a Batarang. “He’s chosen that fucker over me more than just a few times.”

“Jason, those memories were the only things he had of you before everything went spiralling down. And they’re the only thing he has of you now as well.” Zatanna’s squeezed the grip he had on Jason’s wrist, “But, what Joker did to you…Bruce…he, he was distraught, broken and different afterwards. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let himself because you mattered to him.”

He stops and stares at her, trying to decipher the meaning behind what she’s said about Bruce. Sure yeah, Bruce has changed, but it doesn’t change that fact that he looks perpetually brooding even without the cowl on. To Jason, it seemed like the change in Bruce was trifling. Same old stoic Bruce with his same old moral code.

Zatanna gave an exasperated sigh. “If you open yourself to your family a bit more you would be able to realise things you don’t now. You have to realise that they are your family and have never stopped being your family.”

Jason tries to fight the urge to stare at her red lips as they spoke passionately, or at her dark hair that flows as she shook her head. The teenage Jason within struggles a losing fight as he easily tosses away the urges. He’s over all the silly ways how he would blush a little, or linger a little longer when she comes and visits the manor sometimes. Flowers bloom and wither, and now he feels nothing more than acquaintanceship for the magician. It was oddly a calm feeling. Jason’s steady gaze doesn’t leave Zatanna’s sparkling light blue eyes for even a moment.

“I’m not in the position to ask but, please, pretend that the kid you’ll be seeing is not the Bruce you know, but someone who desperately needs you and your help,” Zatanna said, knowing that Jason does understand but simply hates showing that he cares. This aspect of his proves that he was raised by Bruce more so than not.

The desperate desire to protect those who can’t, especially children, is a shared trait between the two.

Zatanna’s hand slid away from her grip on Jason’s wrist and turned back towards the main hallway. Jason didn't give a definite yes or no, but Zatanna didn’t need to know it since she knew Jason’s answer from the beginning. In fact, when a head-strong person like Jason chooses voluntarily stay when he had a choice to back out, they will see it out until the end.

The two came to a stop at where they were supposed to arrive minutes ago but had a slight detour. Jason faced the closed wooden door. Undefined shadows caused by the dim lighting etched across the door, giving it texture and form, further reconsolidating the fact in Jason’s head that this is real. Not a dream, not a nightmare, not a hallucination.

Zatanna hovered a couple metres behind, understanding that this was something that Jason needed to do by himself.

“With deduction skills like yours,” Jason slightly turned his head, but he wasn’t fully facing Zatanna either, “why don’t you step up and take his mantle as Batman for a while?”

An amused chuckle rolled out from Zatanna’s lips. “We established ages ago that his life as Batman wouldn’t be able to match up with mine…and we left it at that.” If Jason could see Zatanna’s face right now, he would see an amount of sentimentality he wouldn’t usually associate with the lively and energetic magician.

Jason realised that ‘we’ was Bruce and her, and suddenly realised that maybe that they had something more between them, once upon a time.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t suit you.” The smile that graced Jason didn’t last long. He placed his hand on the metal handle, hesitated, took a breath in, then out, then pushed.

--

This chapter, was hard to write. I was writing it in disjointed sections and I’m not confident with my ability to write conversations between two people so I kept on editing it. This chapter is to shed more light on what’s going on (because I tend to just write without realising that other people don’t know what the heck is going on) and to further develop the plot.

I’ve sort of like the idea of Jason having had a thing for Zatanna, but moves on. I wanted it to symbolise that Jason has changed, that he wasn’t the person he was before, but not someone entirely different either, like a bildungsroman in a way.

Here’s the next part >> Part 4 <<

[crisisevil]

A brief tale of dead languages and resilient teachers - a pynch fic

summary: Latin professor and local idiot Ronan Lynch thinks he's being subtle by leaving romantic poetry in a dead language for science teacher and confused soul Adam Parrish to find. He's not.

notes: I am very much italian, so all of this was written the italian school system in mind, where latin classes are more likely than they have any right to be and every group of students stay in the same class at all hours. I literally wrote this in a madwoman rampage at 3 a.m. after a weird saturday night because of the funny and adorable idea Kayla (lynchniall) shared on the infamous and wonderful screeming discord chat. I hope you enjoy it, it's short and silly but I liked writing it a lot.

    The first time Adam saw Ronan Lynch, he hadn’t really struck him as the romantic, strongly passionate type. But he made for an unusual Latin teacher, for sure, with his buzz cut and loud mouth, lean and tall in a way that made him hard to miss and with deep inquisitive eyes even harder to forget. He mostly saw him talking with Gansey, out of all the other teachers, a pair that looked both absurd and impossibly close, like an invisible line made of history and dead emperors magically tied them together. Or maybe they were just college friends and he was still trying to adjust to the new school, to process the weird impression of being the odd one out that had accompanied him during his own high school years.

  So he just tried not to think about them. About Lynch, in particular, with his sharp smile and impossibly handsome face. It got a little harder, though, after the time he noticed the sharp edge of a tattoo peaking from the collar of his button up shirt and felt the strong need to see how far it went down his back.

It was also impossible not to hear him outside class, Adam found out, his voice deep and maybe slightly overexcited as he analysed verses with older students or even explained basic rules for the younger ones. That was the first actual thing he learned about Ronan Lynch: in a crowd of bored and irritable teachers, he was genuinely passionate about his job, in love with what he taught to the point Adam had often caught himself accidentally listening to his lessons from the hall, drawn in by the sheer enthusiasm the other put in every lecture. He liked that detail more than he was ready to admit and it was all downhill from there, with his mind all over the place every time their eyes met. Something that happened every often, with a scheduled appointment every tuesday and friday, when Lynch’s class ended and his began, one after the other, in the same room.

  Sometimes, as he shamefully marinated into his embarrassing adult crush, Adam seemed to notice something different about their brief exchanges, he other man’s gaze lingering on him a bit too much, his expression slightly changing. He immediately dismissed it as his brain playing tricks on him to help him cope with his feelings, since they barely spoke except some obligated courtesies or a brief and funny comment about this or that situation from time to time. Of course, nothing stopped him from actually trying to get to know him or even ask him out, but something about Lynch seemed just too cool and intimidating to leave space for someone like him, no matter how nice he sounded from outside the classroom door. Or maybe it wasn’t.

  It started a month after the beginning of the year. The first time he didn’t even thought about it, when he saw the words written in chalk over the black board.

  ille mi par esse deo videtur,

ille, si fas est, superare divos,

qui sedens adversus identidem te

spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes

eripit sensus mihi*

  Poetry and literature were part of the scheduled program, Catullus was one of the first authors in every literature book, he had studied him too, back in school. It was nothing out of the ordinary, he thought he was probably analysing the poem, as the complicated geometry of circled and underline words easily suggested, so he didn’t try to link anything to the sly smile Lynch had showed him when they exchanged a quick greeting outside the classroom door.

Same was for the week after, or the one that followed: he was a passionate teacher, maybe that was his favourite author, it made sense.

It got weird after the fourth one, when he entered the class and Catullus’ words were there again, in the same elegant writing, no mark or translation. The words were simply there without a reason, barely a decoration.

  soles occidere et redire possunt:

nobis cum semel occidit breuis lux,

nox est perpetua una dormienda.

da mi basia mille, deinde centum,

dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,

deinde usque altera mille, deinde centu.**

  His Latin was a bit rusty, after all those years, but that was another obvious one. He couldn’t help letting out a nervous chuckle, before he went on with his lecture, a bit more distant than usual, distracted by the peculiar idea of Ronan Lynch writing about love and kisses on the same board that was sitting behind his back. It didn’t feel like a coincidence anymore, it never did again.

  Week after week, he kept finding quotes every time the other left. Sometimes there was just one verse, sometimes a whole poem, without any sign of analysis, like they had been written just for him. Lynch always smiled a different smile when they crossed path before he found them, like a mischievous child that had just gotten away with something.

Did he think Adam hadn’t notice? He was a science teacher, but that didn’t make him incapable of putting two and two together. Maybe he just thought he didn’t understand, which was actually comprehensible, since it had been a while since the last time he actually sat trough a Latin class. But Adam had a history as an extremely diligent student, he just couldn’t forget certain things.

  Still, he never said anything to his face, never mentioned it, the brief expression he showed him during those moments the only proof Ronan was even aware of what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t meant to find out, he realized. Maybe the other just liked to dance around the idea of pursuing him, without the proper intention to make a move. But Adam wasn’t one to beg, so he didn’t either: that was a battle he intended to win.

  Then, one day, it was too much. He didn’t always recognized immediately the poem, but that was a different thing. Ronan couldn’t know it was his favourite one.

  huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa

atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo***

  It was just a slap in the face. Too beautiful, too misused. He couldn’t ignore it.

He looked at the students, like the answer to that ridiculous situation had been written into their faces. Of course, they didn’t care, those were barely translation exercises for them.

So he gave up, excused himself for a moment and rushed trough the hall, to catch that mess of a Latin teacher before he could go elsewhere.

  “Lynch.” he called, panting after he’d ran through the entire floor and slightly pissed off.

Ronan didn’t flinch, perfectly sound under what he probably thought to be a linguistic armour.

  “Parrish.” he answered, his demeanor calm in a way that made him want to punch him. What a straight-faced fucker. He wasn’t even nervous anymore, just eager to get one step ahead of him.

Adam caught his breath for a moment, then showed him a cocky smile.

  “ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi, si optima fiās,/ nec dasistere amare, omnia si facias.****” he iterated perfectly. Again, he didn’t know many poems by memory, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. “You know, you could just ask me out for coffee, if what I do destroys you so much.”

  Ronan’s smile dropped, his expression shocked in a way that was pure bliss. He didn’t even try denying it or even undermining it.

It was so satisfying that Adam didn’t even think about the implications, about Ronan Lynch showering him in love poems and actually being interested in him.

Big miscalculation, on his part, because he was caught off guard right back.

Ronan shrugged, letting his lips slightly curl on one corner. One of those charming, mischievous smiles of his.

  “I’ll wait for you after class, then.”

        *He seems to me to be equal to a god,

he, if it is permissible, seems to surpass the gods,

who sitting opposite again and again

watches and hears you

sweetly laughing, which rips out all senses

  **Suns may set and rise again;

for us, when once the brief light has set,

an eternal night must be slept.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,

then another thousand, then a second hundred,

then yet another thousand, then a hundred

  ***At this point [my] mind is so broken down by your doing, my Lesbia,

that it destroys itself by its own devotion

  ****so that it can no longer wish you well, even if you should become the best,

nor can it stop loving you, no matter what you should do.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

BSD, mult. chars, Yosano, Atsushi, Chuuya POVs, fight with Dos.

Title: The Narrow Space Between Breaths

Notes: The majority of this was written before season 3, yet, I was reading the manga at the time, so it weirdly contains spoilers as well as totally disregards it.  I also will be the first one to tell you--I don’t fucking know how Rashomon works.  I just don’t, if someone would explain it to me, that’d be great.  Also, if someone would just like to explain to me the...whole plot of BSD that would be great, kthx.

The take-away is, I took hella liberties, I had hella fun writing it, so the most I can wish for is if someone enjoyed reading it at least a little bit.  Thanks!

Summary: A fight with Dostoevsky, and the aftermath.

“How fortunate that you are all in the same spot, it makes things easier,” Dostoyevsky smirked. “I’m going to rid the world of unsightly Ability users with a godlike power. You can’t stop me yourself, Dazai. Only gods can duel one another, and I don’t plan on being challenged.”

Dazai’s eyes widened.

“Armed Agency members,” Dazai’s voice echoed across the warehouse, gaining everyone’s attention by the urgency in which he spoke, “Protect the chibi!”

“Who?” Kunikida yelled.

Dazai pointed to Chuuya with a dramatic swoosh of his arm.

“What?” Chuuya started as all the eyes of the Agency members turned to him, “I don’t need any of your shitty people protecting me!”

“Don’t worry, Mister Fancy Hat City Guy!” Kenji said, raising his fists over his head, “We’ll protect you!”

“I don’t need your—that is not my name!”

“Port Mafia, do the same. Defend your executive with your lives,” Mori said calmly, leveling an intense glare at Dostoyevsky. “And if there are any of our men left standing should Chuuya-san die, I will kill them myself.”

“Hey, hey,” Chuuya’s eyebrows shot up, deeply confused at the concern Mori was showing as well as the threat against his subordinates, “What the hell is going on?”

“Chuuya-chan is the biggest threat to Dostoyevsky’s plan right now,” Dazai said, more for the benefit of the Agency members, “He just said it, ‘Only gods can duel one another’.”

“But what the hell does that mean?” Kunikida shouted.

“While it’s true that I’m the only one that can match Dostoyevsky intellectually, this isn’t just a battle of wits. And in terms of pure power, even god-like power,” Dazai left off to glance at Chuuya, a dark, assessing glint in his eye that knocked the other man back a couple of years and dozens of missions. “In its raw form, there is no match for Chuuya’s Ability.”

Chuuya grimaced and looked down at his gloves, “You fucker. So, I guess that means...”

“If you would,” Dazai nodded, before forcing a cheesy smile on his face and tilting his head, “Only if you want to, of course.”

“You fucker,” Chuuya repeated harshly, tugging off his gloves and throwing them to the ground. “You better stop me, when it gets too—”

“I will.”

Chuuya’s breathing quickened, ”None of that suicidal bystander bullshit. You void me when you get a chance.”

“Have I ever let you down before?”

“Don’t ask me a question with an answer like that right now!”

“Chuuya,” Dazai said in warning, his teasing smile gone as he watched his Agency members fighting Dostoyevsky’s henchmen.

“I got it.” Chuuya grit his teeth and put the appropriate amount of dramatics into his next words as he stared at his hands waiting for the black and red stains to overcome him, to rewrite who he was and control his body as if Chuuya Nakahara never existed in the first place.

“‘O, grantors of—’”

He was cut off as a bullet bent around him and ricocheted off the floor, it was high caliber enough that a large divot was left in the cement. Chuuya turned around to glare at the sniper laying on the rafters above everyone.

“...That could’ve hit my hat,” Chuuya said darkly, clenching his fists in outrage, “I’m gonna kill that fucker first.”

“Actually, Chuuya would be much more useful if he focused on Dost—”

“‘O, grantors of dark disgrace,’” Chuuya recited again, forgoing dramatics this time for pure fury, “‘Do not wake me again.’”

—

There was a lot of carnage, a lot of blood, a lot of dust, rocks, and the groaning, broken, dying, dead bodies scattered throughout.

Yosano came to after healing herself, blinking blood out of her eyes and coughing up dust. She wiped a line of spit and blood from her lips as she pushed herself up with one hand, looking around for her comrades. Dazai had yelled for everyone to retreat from the building not long after whatever Nakahara had become...the pure hell that had been unleashed. Yosano had seen destructive Abilities before, but never anything as raw and indiscriminate as that, not when being channeled through a person—a person who supposedly was their ally. The last thing she had seen before turning her back to try to make it out was Nakahara sending a massive black hole toward his own men, cackling madly from blood-soaked lips while doing it. The sight and sound had chilled her to the bone. She hadn’t envied Dazai having to wade into that chaos for the chance to get skin on skin contact, though she knew that was the only hope they had to make it stop.

It was quiet now, quieter, at least.

Yosano gave one more hacking cough and stayed kneeling on the floor till she was sure her shaking was under control.  One of her heel tips had snapped off, which was going to make it difficult to balance, but she wasn’t about to walk around without anything covering her feet, not with all the jagged pieces of stone, rebar, and nails littering the floor.  The clothes and shoes Yosano was wearing were beyond salvage, though even she would not have wanted this kind of excuse to go shopping.

Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten pinned down beneath any columns or large stone slabs. It would have been horribly inconvenient to be crushed and just waiting to slowly bleed out before being able to heal herself, over and over as the cycle repeated. Yosano had seen the kind of mental break that kind of stress could induce on someone second hand, she had no desire to experience it—

Her eyes went wide.

“Kuni-Kunikida!” She yelled, getting to her feet quickly, wobbling on her uneven heels, to hurry to her friend’s side.  The man was further away from the door than she was, which meant he hadn’t given up on trying to get Dazai to leave with him, even as load-bearing columns were being destroyed.  He was limp on the floor, the longest strands of his ponytail were quickly being stained from blond to red.  The puddle of blood and hair were stretching away from Kunikida’s head like the corona of the sun.  I might have enjoyed it, Yosano thought in fragments, each step on the cement floor jolting a different thought into her brain, I might have thought it was pretty, maybe I would be laughing…

Yosano tumbled gracelessly to Kunikida’s side, her hands trembling as she reached toward his neck, his skin cold as ice against the pads of her fingers.

“Idiot,” She cursed in relief as she felt a thready pulse almost the same instant her butterflies gently landed on his cheek.

Once he was safe to move, she began dragging him toward the door herself, an exhausting task as she did her best to avoid the worst of the debris as well as keep balanced. Eventually she had to stop and take a break before attempting to continue, barely holding back a frustrated yell.

“I got him,” A voice behind her said, a head of bright blond hair accompanying it. “Is he all healed?”

Yosano gave Kenji a quick once over, but the young boy looked as hearty and hale as he ever did and nodded, “Yes, just get him out of the building for now.  Is Tanizaki with you?”

“Yep!” Kenji smiled, “He had to call Naomi first, and I think she’s yelling at him ‘cause he has a silly expression on his face.”

Yosano brushed the comment aside easily, “Come back in when he’s done, I still don’t see Dazai or Atsushi anywhere and we need all the hands we can get.”

“Okay!” Kenji flashed a thumbs-up before lifting Kunikida up enthusiastically.  Yosano almost laughed at the sight of the two of them walking away, a young boy carrying a man almost two times his body length like he was an overgrown baby, his legs hanging off the side and skimming the ground. Instead, she let out a heavy sigh and looked around again, only a few people were up and moving now, and none of them in an off-white coat or with white hair.

“Yosano-sensei, if you’re done staring into space, your assistance could be used,” Mori called out to her, his voice lilting and recognizable in a strange way.  Yosano felt an irritated twinge go up her spine as she glared at him and that disgusting smirk on his face.  But she was still a doctor, and there were people, mostly Port Mafia members, bleeding all around who needed her help.  Just because Mori was here didn’t mean it was the same as the other time.

Over the next few moments, muscle memory took over and Yosano quickly got to work on the people around her. As expected, Mori was unscathed, almost suspiciously, taking into account where he had been when the major wall had collapsed, but he was tending to the injuries he could as well as performing a kind of reverse triage for Yosano.

“He’s dying,” Mori could be heard saying in a bored voice and Yosano would rush over, regardless if that person was Port Mafia. Working like this with him as a partner brought up bad memories and a sickening feeling of familiarity that she fought hard to ignore. She concentrated on her work, the broken bones, the gashes and gaping wounds.  Most of her own had just been wounded superficially, only Kunikida had, unfortunately and thankfully, been the worst. Kenji had left him leaning against a miraculously still standing wall outside in the sunshine, dazed, covered in his own blood, but not a scratch or bruise on him.  Atsushi made quick work of a rock that had pinned him down toward the back of the building, pushing it off with transformed tiger arms, and then had tried to make a hasty retreat in the wake of Yosano’s generous, yet overzealous, offer to heal him.  Much to Yosano’s delight, he had not been fast enough.  He was now lifting stone slabs along with Kenji as Tanizaki very reluctantly played nurse to Mori. The young boy could be heard making noises of disgust every once and a while followed by Mori chuckling.

Yosano opened her mouth to snap at the doctor to leave him alone—

“Did you hear that?” Tanizaki said, his head perking up, but he didn’t move from his task of keeping the Black Lizard member from bleeding out. “Did anyone hear that?”

Yosano wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, “Hear what?”

“I did,” Mori said with a curious tone. “It sounded like—”

A cough.

Kenji pushed and lifted concrete pieces until the infinite black of Rashomon could be seen under it. As soon as there was no more reason to be activated, Rashomon returned to its owner, unveiling what it had been protecting.

“Hello~” Dazai greeted them all chipperly, looking as if he was perfectly at home underneath a ton of rocks, two Port Mafia members, and covered in blood.

Yosano raised her eyebrow at his tone, “I almost got my hopes up seeing that much blood, but it’s too bad my Ability won’t work on you.”

Dazai grinned at her, “The only thing I’ve been in danger of is being bored to death by my abysmal company. It’s such a disappointment I wasn’t able to be buried alive with two beautiful women instead, I wouldn’t have minded that as much.”

Akutagawa let out a cough. Despite Rashomon having returned to a coat and the danger of being crushed gone, he still hadn’t moved from his shielding position over Chuuya and Dazai, supporting his body on shaking arms.  Chuuya was pinned below Akutagawa and on top of Dazai, bleeding heavily from his mouth and head, soaking Dazai’s shirt and coat.  He appeared to merely be unconscious, but Yosano could see he was breathing shallowly.  She couldn’t even begin to fathom the physical toll an Ability like that took on the body of the one using it, Nakahara had looked like he was being crushed from the inside out just a few moments after activating.  But from how he and Dazai had been talking before, this probably wasn’t the first time, which meant he had survived before and would survive again.  As long as Dazai got to him in time.  Yosano wondered if she would be able to trust Dazai that much with her life, deciding on the answer before she had even finished the thought.

“This one’s been coughing in my face for the past ten minutes,” Dazai said drolly, lifting his chin up at Akutagawa. “Tuberculosis would be such a terrible way to die. Too slow.”

“Give the hat guy here,” Yosano said gruffly.

Dazai held up his hands, “What, do you think I’ve been clutching him to my chest the whole time?  He fell on me, and then this idiot fell on both of us, ruining a perfectly good death by crushing.  It would have been fast and lethal.  Akutagawa, get off.”

Akutagawa finally seemed to come back to himself and rolled off to the side.  In the back of her mind Yosano made a note to check on him as soon as she was done with the Port Mafia executive.  She carefully turned Chuuya on his back, without any help from Dazai, who merely stayed laying down on the ground like it was a comfortable bed.  Or perhaps he was imagining it was a coffin with the way his hands were folded peacefully against his chest.

“Is he dying?” Dazai asked, a smile creeping on to his face.  Yosano gave him an answering grin of her own.

“Not fast enough,” She said gleefully, raising her machete she had pulled out of nowhere, and letting loose a truly terrifying cackle.

--

A few feet away from them, as Yosano worked, Akutagawa was pushing himself to his feet, stumbling away from the wreckage with a determined look on his face, before tripping over some smaller pieces of concrete.  He went to his hands and knees hard, his breathing slowing as sweat rolled from his forehead and down his face.  He squeezed his eyes shut and a few more drops hit the floor.

“Are you okay?” Atsushi bent down next to Akutagawa slowly, laying a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder.

His hand was roughly shrugged off as Akutagawa got to his feet with the same dogged determination as last time.

“Get off me,” He leveled a glare at Atsushi, though the effect was diminished by the paleness of the other’s face and the tremors of fatigue running through his body. Atsushi backed off anyway, holding his hands up with a nervous smile.

“I was just—”

“Shut up,” Akutagawa snapped, “I don’t need your help.”

Atsushi watched Akutagawa take a few more shaky steps before collapsing to the ground again. This time he stayed down, his breathing coming out in ragged gasps even in unconsciousness. Atsushi moved to check on Akutagawa again without the other being able to refuse his help, but another Port Mafia member with long black hair reached him first.  The man in black gently moved Akutagawa’s head to his lap and although Atsushi couldn’t see the other man’s mouth, he could tell he was smiling.

“He reached his limit under there, continually using Rashomon in a defensive position against tons of rock, knowing any slip of control could mean his executive getting smashed,” Dazai explained in a bored tone of voice.

“And his mentor,” Atsushi added with a meaningful look, “You were in there with him too.”

Dazai shrugged.

“You should probably thank him,” Atsushi pushed, not bothering to tear his eyes away from Akutagawa and the Port Mafia member to look at Dazai’s reaction. “I know I will.”

“Thank him?  If he had practiced using Rashomon defensively when I wanted him to, it wouldn’t have taken that much concentration in the first place and he wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Atsushi pursed his lips, “I’m still going to thank him.”

“Atsushi-kun is so thoughtful,” Dazai’s voice lilted in his ear, “Doing unnecessary things.”

The comment made Atsushi frown even more, and he turned around to retort, but Dazai was already walking away.  At first Atsushi thought Dazai was hanging his head because he was somewhat cowed by what Atsushi had said, but that didn’t seem likely.  Atsushi watched him for a few more seconds in confusion, as Dazai slowly walked a random path through the rubble, his eyes focused on the ground, before understanding.  Though he couldn’t think of anything that Dazai had with him that he would have been able to lose.  Maybe it was his book on a thousand ways to commit suicide.

Atsushi turned back toward Akutagawa, intending to attempt to approach the other man again, but something caught his eye several feet away.  It was wedged between two large pieces of cement, bent out of shape and covered in a light layer of dust, but still recognizable.  Atsushi used his tiger arms to push the pieces apart, pulling it out gently once there was enough room. He was pleased when it almost immediately retained its former shape.

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi called out, holding the item up in his hands, turning it, “This?”

Dazai turned around, his eyes going wide in surprise for a half second as he saw what Atsushi was holding up.

“Heh,” He let out a light chuckle as he walked forward, “Like I said, Atsushi-kun is too thoughtful.”

Atsushi beamed and held it out for Dazai to take, “I wasn’t the one looking for it.”

Dazai shrugged nonchalantly, slapping it against his leg to try to get even more of the dust off.  He held the object up and squinted at it, assessing, “But seriously, isn’t this the ugliest hat you’ve ever seen?”

--

Chuuya felt light and bubbly, like his body and insides had been given a power wash.  He also felt strangely naked with his coat, hat, and gloves missing in the wreckage of the building.  Chuuya didn’t want to look around for them though, he didn’t want to see any of the bodies of his subordinates that had been caught in the crossfire, either when part of the building had collapsed or by his own hand. Mori and the Agency’s doctor had been able to heal some, but Chuuya could still remember the looks on the faces of the ones he had aimed at himself, their screams as limbs were blown off or the silence as they were swallowed up into nothing.  Chuuya looked down at the pale skin of his hands, clenching them hard enough that his short nails dug into his palm and they ached from the tension.

“Shame, even Yosano-sensei’s Ability couldn’t fix your ugly face,” Dazai quipped from behind, extremely disappointed when Chuuya did not react.  He could see the other man was still dazed from the aftereffects of Thou Shalt Not Die, a bright, glassy look in his eyes as he stared at his lap.  It was the best shape Dazai had ever seen Chuuya in after using Corruption, he was kinda pissed about being robbed of being able to see the stupid face Chuuya made as he slept.  It had been too dark in their makeshift tomb and Dazai had to perpetually turn his head away every time Akutagawa coughed.  It had been doubly annoying that neither of them had even responded just a little to his genuine, sincere attempts at a meaningful conversation.

“Here,” Dazai shoved a black bundle under his nose, sitting down beside him once Chuuya had taken the clothes with a shocked expression. “Close your mouth, I can smell the wine from here.”

Chuuya blinked slowly as he looked down at the pile.  His coat was folded in a precise square with his pair of gloves laid neatly on top. There wasn’t a speck of dust on either of them.  Chuuya put on the gloves first, feeling more like himself once the leather covered his hands and the cotton-headed feeling of the doctor’s Ability began to fade.

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where—” Chuuya was cut off as Dazai plopped his hat on his head with a put-upon sigh, pressing down till it covered Chuuya’s eyes.

“Yes, though it pained me to even touch such a tacky thing.”

Chuuya righted the hat on his head, “You didn’t wait around as long you usually do before stopping me.”

“Chuuya was bringing down the whole building and Dostoevsky escaped, so there was no more need. Besides, it wasn’t as much fun watching this time.”

“He, what?  Escaped?”

Dazai shook his head, “Don’t worry about it now.  We’ll see him again, you can avenge your subordinates.”

Chuuya absentmindedly shook his head, “I won’t be able to avenge my subordinates unless I kill myself.”

Dazai grinned slyly, leaning back on his arms, “What a strange mood you are in this evening.  You’re not my usual type, but I suppose an exception could be made considering our history.  How about it, does Chuuya want to die with me?  We can spend eternity in the afterlife together.”

“Ugh, I had been taking peace in the fact that I wouldn’t have to deal with you in death, but you’ve just soured that thought.”

“Chuuya started it.”

“I was—” Chuuya started, his voice coming out hoarse and tight, “I was saying that the one who killed my subordinates was me, only my death would avenge theirs.”

“I can follow a basic conversation, you know.  I’m not as dumb as you.”

“Shut up.  I’m obviously not going to do that though, so…I can only offer compensation to their families, if they had any, maybe donate to a charity or something.”

“How altruistic of the Mafia member.”

“Not altruism, business. The Port Mafia donates money to a lot of charities, you should remember that.”

“I do, it is a good strategy.  A great strategy, one might say.  A genius strategy—”

“Shut up.”

“It’s not going to help. Not you, anyway.  Donating an outrageous sum of money to people in need won’t get the screaming out of your head, the terror-stricken faces, and the knowledge that you’ve killed people who were under your command.  Who looked at you like you were a monster in their last moments.”

Chuuya swallowed heavily, missing the numb, tingling feeling he had before this, wishing he could go back to that time a mere few minutes ago when he felt like he was floating above his body, that none of this was real.  He didn’t want to hear what Dazai was saying, it was insensitive, and ill-timed, but nothing that hadn’t already been ringing around in his own head.  Chuuya had killed people before, people he knew, people he didn’t, men and women, young and old, but he had always done it with the knowledge that they were enemies of the Port Mafia.  He had always done it in his right mind, for the past four years at least, and even before then, Dazai had been there to control him. This had all been Dazai’s plan today, a stupid plan, in hindsight.  Unleashing Corruption in such a small space with so many of their allies around, it had been a Hail Mary, and it had failed.  Dostoevsky had escaped, and as usual, the Mafia had suffered many more casualties than the Agency.  Chuuya’s authority might have even been damaged over this with the survivors, and he couldn’t help the small thought eating away in the back of his brain that perhaps Dazai had done this on purpose.

Chuuya slowly brought his gaze to Dazai’s, narrowing his eyes, trying to assess what was going on behind that dead stare.  Maybe Chuuya would be able to see something to prove that Dazai had planned all this in an effort to cripple the Port Mafia and take down Dostoevsky all at once, if that good-goody two shoes persona he showed the Agency was really just a big act like Chuuya had always suspected.  Chuuya had seen Dazai do similar things when they were younger, he wouldn’t put it past him now.  Dazai might have been able to change the color of his clothes overnight, but re-dyeing the soul took a lot more effort.

“So don’t b—” Dazai paused to reconsider what he was going to say, either ignoring or unaware of Chuuya’s suspicious stare, “Speaking from experience, performing a couple of good deeds doesn’t completely erase your past wrongdoings, nor does it lessen the burden on your soul, or magically make you a better person.  But it helps, if you really try, it does help.  It’s all you can really do anyway.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened, that wasn’t flippant or teasing.  It didn’t make light of the deaths that Chuuya had caused or taunt him for caring about them. In fact, it had almost seemed…honest. Chuuya’s heart started beating faster as a thought occurred to him.

“Is that why you left the Mafia?” He asked, pushing himself into Dazai’s space, deciding to quickly take advantage of the rare sight of a serious, candid Dazai.  Dazai looked taken aback by the question, his eyes popped open comically, and Chuuya grinned at having caught Dazai by surprise for once. He spent the next few moments in breathless silence, aware that should Dazai deign to answer, almost four years of doubt and hurt feelings could be resolved.

“Yes, and no,” Dazai finally said.

Chuuya dropped away from his former partner, his former executive, “What does, what does that mean? What kind of shitty, ambivalent answer is that?”

“It means yes and no, Chuuya-chan,” Dazai sing-songed out, his eyes squeezing shut as a large grin spread over his face.

Chuuya’s shoulders fell, and his eyes slowly drifted back to staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching them with the calming feeling of tension from the leather against his knuckles.  These are a new pair, He thought absentmindedly.

Chuuya knew he wouldn’t be getting anything else out of Dazai now, the other man’s mask had already been put on, the walls were fortified, and Chuuya had never been allowed past them. He may have been given glimpses, but never trusted with more than that.  Dazai…Dazai had seen everything of his, whether he had waited for Chuuya’s trust or not.

“Thanks,” Chuuya said after a moment, unable to think of anything else and deeming it innocuous, and true, enough for him to get away with.  No matter what he told himself, it felt like dust coating his tongue. “Asshole.”

Dazai’s smile stayed as big and fake and cheesy as ever, “Of course, partner.”

Chuuya looked away. The conversation still felt unfinished, an inhale that had been stopped before filling the lungs, incomplete and unsatisfying. It hung in the air around them, permeated by dust and rubble and death, by all the words Chuuya wanted to say, and all the words Dazai wouldn’t ever.

The silence stretched on between them, as usual.

How long would this one last?

--

End

[phereinnike]

hey vero since u said u like talking shit why do u hate gan/sey? (I wanted to ask earlier but I didn't want to get u hate but since u said u don't mind here we go) (also love ur blog

Don’t you just love how there are a shit ton of ‘your fave is problematic: gn/sey’ posts that only mention his shit fashion sense and how he puts avocado on pizza and like completely ignore any and all character flaw he might have because the fandom is so busy sucking his three dicks that they either don’t see this flaws or completely condone and forgive them? 

I don’t love it either. 

PSA: This is 1.2k of gansey semi-serious hate open at your own risk.

Dickington Dickface McDikinson the third is kinda like universally loved and forgiven even though he’s done shit like: wonder out loud if poor people are capable of love (bcs ofc poor people are animals for you to study and you can extrapolate the relationship between 2 of them (out of the 3 you know) universally, they’re basically microorganisms??? right???), insinuate he’d pay a girl to talk to his friend (bcs again poor people are trained zoo seals that will dance for money and that proposal isn’t dehumanizing of both the girl and your friend at all bcs like were they even humans to begin with?) and erase someone’s humanity so completely he invalidated their existence. 

The Author explains people being like completely up Gansey’s ass as a consequenceof him as a character being super invested in people liking him and working hard for it. And like I’m not saying it might also be because white american rich boys are allowed to do anything at all in the world and people will always find a reason to excuse it but yk, it could like, have played a small part on it. 

He features some loveable character traits like 1) not understanding poor people -he’s rich what can he do? pay attention? ask? don’t be silly, rich people don’t ask we throw money around until things happen as they should-  2) and trying to solve his friend’s fear of depending on someone forever by -wait for it, wait for it, this is brilliant-getting him indebted to himself -my boy, such a mind such a brain- because ofc being indebted to him is different than being indebted to his dad and Adam being reticent to owe someone something as big as his high school fees or a fucking appartement after the incredibly traumatic relationship he has with his dad and money in general is not understandable at all. How is dickinson supposed to understand that??? by investing time -aside of money- in his friends? RIDICULOUS. 

There’s also that tiny unworthy of mention quote of “the difference between us and kavinsky is that we matter” that no one aside from me seems to have a problem with. And like, yk, maybe IT’S ME. Maybe thinking that the world revolves so completely around you if someone doesn’t matter to you they just don’t matter, maybe it’s totally normal. Maybe erasing a human being’s experiences and fears and hopes just because you don’t like them is acceptable. 

Like, I mean, dehumanizing drug addicts and insinuating anything bad that happens to them it’s their fault and they deserved it is kinda a real thing. So maybe everyone just agrees with that and I’m not disgusting enough for it. Maybe mocking someone with no support network coming from a place of incredible privilege is fun in america? idk dude. Like I seriously don’t get it. Because Ronan and Kavinsky do some pretty gross stuff too but at least peopleacknowledge that they did it????? (even if they excuse it afterwards).

Also he puts avocado on pizza which is totally on the same level, what a moster, what a heathen. 

There’s also that little thing he does where his life lacked sense so hard and he felt so guilty for being alive when other people aren’t “someone is dying when they should not and so you’ll live when you should not” that he shoved all his sense of self-worth into the mission of finding a dead dude and asking for a wish. Like, he could’ve decided to use his incredible privilege and money to help people or at least pulled a batman and became a night vigilante -we all know this wouldn’t work bcs he’s weak as shit- but no. This was more pretentious and went more with his general bitch aesthetic so here we are. And then he chastisises and mocks anyone that doesn’t have a life purpose because how do they dare not feel guilty for being alive????

On the topic of what a pretentious piece of shit he is, let me tell you i go to law school and spend 6 hours a day surrounded by gross rich people in boat shoes and polo shirts and I have never met anyone this pretentious. HE CHEWS MINT PLANTS. Not only is he so sickeningly pretentious that it’s not even cool anymore?? It’s just like those boys that talk you up in a bar but like “oh yeah i’m into welsh kings, specially glendower, bet you don’t know who that is, let me mansplain it” and you’re all please god fulminate him. It’s ridiculous? have you met any american teenage rich boy that spoke like an eightysomething british historian and not automatically wanted to break his nose in???? is that possible???? am i the only one that hate people whose usual voice tone is condescendence?????

And he’s such a special snowflake??? “oh you do drugs?? lozer!1!!1 glendower is my drugz!!!1!! lolz”. Like please dickinson calm down. No one cares. No one fucking asked. No one ever fucking asks. Just shut up. I’m sure if dick had a tumblr he’d be a superwholockian and you fuckers would still be up his ass. 

Along those lines he’s also the most entitled character I’ve ever read about??? He changes Blue’s name to something fancier without fucking asking and everyone finds it super quirky but if I tell a boy my name and he insists on calling me Jane I would break his nose in and I refuse to believe Blue Sargent wouldn’t too?????? (but i also totally hate blue and try not to read anything about her so what the fuck do i know). His holier than thou attitude comes in a nice holiday package that includes policing his friends hobbies as if his wasn’t weird as shit and also potentially lethal, not correcting people when they call his bestfriend a dog and even playing in on the joke, hanging with the literal paid killer that murdered his bestfriend’s father throwing him into a suicidal ptsd induced spiral AND then proceeded to beat up said’s bestfriend brother who dickinson is kinda friends with because can he keep is fucking nose out of someone’s affair??? unlikely! 

I’d say to rush and get this package before it sells out but, like dickinson’s happiness at having met himself, it will never ran out of stock. Rejoice.

[snowdice]

Goblin Brain Study Session Fic 1 [Day 35]

Because I don’t want to just have walls of text for my Goblin Brain Study Session posts, I’m separating them by days. If you want to read the previous chapters, click the links below. Chapter 13 and what I have done of Chapter 14 is under the cut.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

See this post for more details and feel free to send me asks to keep me going! It’s been a lot of fun so far! I will reblog this post with the story as I write them today.

The Gobiln Brain is a problem today. I’d planned to start like 2 hours ago. :/

Remy was slumped down in his seat as Emile continued to lecture him on all the possible consequences of his actions in the past 24 hours. Jeezy creezy was Emile miffed about all of that. Remy had been trying to blow it off, but Emile was fully, painfully aware that he almost had lost his brother today and Remy was going to hear about it until Emile’s lungs aches.

“And another thing…” he said.

“Wait,” Remy said, and Emile did because there was a lace of panic to his tone.

“What?” Emile asked.

“The tracker stopped working,” Remy answered pushing buttons a little bit desperately on his device.

“It went completely offline somehow,” Remy said.

“Did it get turned off?” Emile asked. “Or run out of batteries?”

“It doesn’t turn off and the batteries are designed to last for years,” Remy said. “It can even track through 20 feet of water. The only way it could stop sending a single this abruptly is if the thing was destroyed.”

Emile paused. “You said Virgil knows what the blinking light means.”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible that he knows, or well, ‘knows,’ you’re dead? Barbara did send a man after him, he could have mentioned it.”

Remy stared down at the device in his hands.

He pressed a couple of buttons and studied the screen for a moment. “You little shit,” he groaned. “You threw it out the fucking car window, didn’t you?”

“How do you know?” Emile asked.

“Because if I look at the history, it was going at 65 miles per hour down the interstate, suddenly stopped cold, and then broke when another car inevitably crushed it.”

“Ah.”

“Well, at least the fucker’s probably okay. Dammit Virgil! Where are you going?” Remy pushed a few more buttons almost idly as he thought. “Let me get into Virgil’s head for a minute: emo music, dark clothes, would rather have his toenails ripped out than go to parties, makes split second decisions based on little info. Yep! Got him.”

Emile rolled his eyes, but Remy wouldn’t have noticed as he had his own eyes closed. “Hmm. So, I’m Virgil. My bitch mom killed my dad and sent someone after me. I have no idea what’s going on, but I bolt out of there because fuck mom. I want to get the hell out of dodge so I convince someone to drive me somehow, I guess, but where would I want to go? Someplace safe. Where’s safe? Maybe Emile, but obviously that’s not where he went. Or Janus, but he’s too connected to mom. I don’t really no anyone else, especially not someone who could help with this sort of stuff.”

Remy thought for another long moment. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Emile asked. “What oops?”

He could tell by the expression on Remy’s face that he was not going to like the answer. “I may have let something… slip.”

“What do you mean, Remington?”

“Um, well you see,” Remy said. “A couple of months ago Virgil was being, you know, himself: a little shit. He may have, possibly, found some papers.”

“What kind of papers?” Emile asked.

“They were nothing important!” Remy assured. “There wasn’t any dangerous info in them or anything, but…”

“But?”

“It is somewhat possible that they had the name on them.”

“How possible?” Emile asked, eyes narrowed on him.

“He asked what Green Bellow Foods was and why they needed 50 top of the line computers outfitted at an old factory.”

“And what did you tell him?!”

“Nothing!”

Emile glared at him.

“Okay, well I had to tell him something,” Remy mentioned. “I just kind of said that I knew the owner well and was working with him on some stuff. Then I told him not to worry about it, which was probably a mistake, because he’s Virgil. So, then I found him snooping in my car. At that point I had to sit him down and talk to him. So, I told him a bit about Logan.”

“Remy that’s not nothing!”

“I didn’t use his name or anything. I just told him a couple of really, extremely, tremendously, vague stories, so he didn’t think I owed money to the mafia. Which, yes, he did suggest.”

“That’s worse!”

“What do you want from me Emile?!”

“Some common sense!” Emile answered. “I’ve been comparing you to the rat in Ratatouille for years, but I’m starting to think you’re more of a Pinky from Pinky and the Brain.”

“Hey, ouch,” Remy replied. “Also, I personally subscribe to the theory that Pinky is actually the intelligent one who is foiling Brain’s evil plots from the inside. So, there.”

“Now is not the time,” Emile said.

“Oh, it’s not the time to discuss cartoon theories?” Remy mumbled into his lap. “Must be serious.”

“It is serious! Virgil is missing!”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Remy snapped. “I know, Emile.”

There was quiet. Emile took a breath. “Okay,” he said, calmer. “Do you really think he’s going to Logan?”

“He’s headed somewhere,” Remy answered, “and wherever that somewhere is, it’s inexplicably down the most direct route towards base.”

“Well, Virgil is smart. I don’t think he’d just keep going so quickly without a destination in mind. We should call Logan.”

“Do you honestly believe Barbara doesn’t have your phone tapped when Virgil is missing? If you had one of Logan’s phones, I might agree with you, but as it is, we’d be giving away our position, and possibly clueing her in to Virgil’s plan. If he shows up at base, Logan will take him in no question asked. It’s less dangerous for everyone this way.”

“Fine,” Emile said. “We’ll just keep driving towards Logan and hope you’re right about where he’s going.”

“Of course, I’m right,” Remy said lightly. “I’ve got the paternal instincts going on. Course, they didn’t stop the knife throwing incident of ’09. I blame Janus for that, though.”

Emile shook his head at him.

“It is good for when he tries to steal sweets, or that one time he brought home a baby piglet and tried to hide it from me in his bedroom. Or when he’s feeling anxious about something but won’t tell me because he thinks it’s silly.” Remy’s own fingers tapped out an anxious pattern against his knee. “It also worked with the golf cart incident, but it was too late. Again, I blame Janus. He messes with the paternal instinct meter. He’s far too unpredictable and I make the mistake of thinking he’s responsible, which he is half the time, but the other half of the time I remember that he’s still mostly a kid and one that grew up in an unstable environment. Did I tell you that last month they went and won a bunch of tickets at the arcade and used them to get those 5 ticket rubber ducks and just unloaded them all over my room? Honestly, you’d think a 21-year-old would have a better use for his money or at least have the brains to go buy them at a store. He could have gotten like 500 more ducks for the same amount of money. Of course, it was his mom’s money, so I guess I can get behind wasting it on arcade games and rubber ducks. The prank was apparently based on some comedy sketch Virgil found online.”

“You’re doing the thing again,” Emile pointed out calmly.

“Stop psych evaluating me,” he shot back.

“Fine, fine,” Emile said. “Keep distracting yourself from your emotional responses with silly stories. See if I care.”

“Thank you,” Remy replied. “I will.”

Emile sighed as he started back up again mumbling something about having taken away Virgil’s Gameboy after catching him playing it at 3 o’clock in the morning. He claimed this wasn’t because the boy hadn’t gotten any sleep, but because he insulted Donkey Kong to Remy’s face. After that story had run its course, Remy continued to babble at an increasingly fast pace about all sorts of things. Emile imagined most of the stories he sprouted out were quite embellished.

He’d tried to turn on the radio once, but Remy had slapped his hand away saying, “The next one’s a really good one.” So, he had resigned himself to his fate of tuning out Remy’s coping mechanism to the best of his abilities and just focusing on driving for the next 45 minutes. Which is probably why he noticed that traffic had strangely decreased. He didn’t really pay that much mind until the traffic suddenly increased… in the form of a wall of stopped cars.

“Jenkies, what’s going on?” he asked, as he came to a stop at the end of the line of cars.

“Um…” Remy said looking out of his car window. There, staring into their car with beady black eyes was a cow. As Emile watched, said cow leaned forward to drag its tongue across the passenger side window. “Shit.”

Chapter 14

“You two doing okay back there?” Roman asked, glancing into the rearview window at them as he exited the interstate onto highway 236.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Janus replied evenly.

“Ow ow ow ow ow! You’re crushing me!” Remus complained. Janus was currently sitting on his chest, pinning him to the back seat.

“You should probably put your seatbelt on,” Roman advised.

“You’re probably right,” Janus agreed.

“No! Get off!” Remus said. “Or I’m going to scream!”

“Oh, because you don’t scream randomly when someone isn’t sitting on top of you?” Janus shot back. Roman officially liked Janus; he’d just decided. “Give me that!” Janus said, and a moment later, Remus’s phone was thrown into the passenger seat.

Remus whined and Roman glanced back at them once again, amused. That is when he caught sight of a car behind them. He glanced at his speedometer and then back at the car. Roman was currently going a little over 90mph, having slowed down a bit now that they were off the interstate. Yet, the car was gaining on them.

“Hey,” Roman said. “Wh-,” and that’s when a bullet came through the back window right past Janus’s head. “Holy fuck!” Roman screamed, swerving a bit before getting the car back under control. Remus grabbed Janus by the front of his shirt and pulled him down as more bullets rained on them courtesy of the car Roman had spotted. The glass from his car’s back window shattered over the two of them.

Roman pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and started purposefully swerving to throw off their shots as Remus shoved Janus down onto the floor so he could lunge into the front seat. He grabbed the gun Roman stored in his glove box and loaded it with practiced ease.

“My bag,” Janus requested, and Remus threw the asked for object over his shoulder before rolling down the window.

“Methinks mommy dearest’s people may have found us,” Remus commented.