#I would be sloshed to high heaven after that last shot… probably

[lovesomehate]

Help this crush is now an obsession - 17/??

[maatryoshkaa]

merry christmas, kiss my a** | lee minho [teaser]

✒︎ in which both you and minho get dumped by your partners on christmas eve, run into each other on christmas day, and begin to find yourselves grudgingly confronting all the reasons that made you enemies in the first place.

ryu says: i can explain the title—i wrote out the plot while listening to “merry christmas, kiss my ass” by all time low 🤡

genre: enemies to lovers, college!au, holiday!au, fluff, drama, romcom, all that good stuff--and a pinch of angst if you move your bang to read it again. 

tags/warnings: fratboy!minho is your typical playboy asshole, perfect student!reader is all business and no-nonsense, mild profanity, mentions of drugs/marijuana/alcohol and addiction, unsafe frat parties (never let go of your drinks, guys), slightly (?) suggestive, but more chaotic than anything, some unhealthy relationships, reader and minho have bad blood, a long history paved with misunderstandings, and lots of unpacking to do.

length of excerpt: 1.6k

With the remnants of a ruthless migraine still wrenching your skull, you pried your eyes open. A weak groan left your dry lips, muffled by a mouthful of fabric. As you came to—brain feeling like jelly sloshing around in your head—you realised you were lying nearly face-down on a queen-sized bed, white comforters tangled around your very sore body. Bright sunlight was filtering in from a window somewhere, and you vaguely registered a green velvet couch sitting in the corner. Frowning, you tried to roll onto your side—and came face-to-face with the yellow eyes of a ginger cat.

You didn’t own a cat. Or a green couch, for that matter. Blinking in confused unison with the feline, you looked around the room—just as the bathroom door swung open, and a very naked Minho stepped out from the wisps of steam.

You screamed, scrambling back on the bed, and grabbed for the first solid object your hands could find—a rusted candelabra on the nightstand. Brandishing it at Minho in horror, you stammered, “Did I—did you—did we—”

Minho looked just as bewildered as you, one hand shooting up as if in surrender. With a yowl, the ginger cat leapt onto the green couch, but neither of you spared it a glance. Minho’s other hand, you realised, was gripping the towel wrapped around his waist as if his life depended on it. Okay, so he wasn’t naked—thank heavens—but that did nothing to stop the sour panic steadily rising in your throat. His gesture sent a vague memory rippling through your muddled mind. That’s right. Last night—the Christmas party at Changbin’s fraternity. You had bumped into Minho, just your rotten luck—the boy you’d despised since high school, and under the mistletoe, to boot. Your mind flashed back to how you’d furiously chugged the drink a frat boy had handed you to fill in the awkwardness, and had desperately tried to eject yourself from the conversation.

Then police sirens had sounded throughout the frat house, students scrambling like cockroaches and hurriedly hiding their marijuana—and that was the last thing you remembered before you had blacked out entirely.

You turned back towards Minho, one hand clamped over your eyes and the other around the candelabra. Two more cats had slinked out from under the bed—a tabby, and another ginger—and were joining the first one in watching the commotion. You put two and two together, voice growing shrill. “Did you—drug my drink, Lee Minho?”

He sputtered, and you could almost imagine his eyes bugging out. “Did I—” he raked a hand through his wet hair, composing himself. “I thought you took something—you were out cold the second you finished your drink.”

Fragments of the night before were slowly returning to you, and with increasing dread you recalled the solo cup you had taken without looking twice, the frat boy who had winked at you with a greasy smile.

“I think you got roofied, princess,” came Minho’s voice, surprisingly gentle.

“Don’t call me princess,” you snapped back automatically, but grudgingly lowered the candelabra. Cautious, you peered through your fingers, and immediately regretted it when you were met with Minho’s shit-eating smirk agaain.

“Not gonna lie, it took me by surprise. Since when did you become a party girl, showing up to Changbin’s parties?” He reached back into the bathroom, ruffling his damp hair with a smaller towel. “Here I was, thinking you’ve changed.”

“Yeah, well, you clearly haven’t,” you shot back coldly, counting off your fingers with a biting laugh. “Treating people like your personal toys or stepping stones. Messing around with multiple girls a night. Drinking like there’s no tomorrow.” 

If your words stung Minho, he certainly didn’t show it—only raising his eyebrows in that way that had infuriated you for as long as you’d known. The typical Lee Minho look of nonchalant contempt, spiked with a shot of amusement to give the impression that he didn’t give a single damn. You hadn’t run into him since—well, since that incident back in high school, and the memories his mere expressions could still rouse made your skin crawl.

Minho watched you curiously—sheets still wrapped around you like makeshift battle armour, your hand wielding the candelabra he’d thrifted from a garage sale, Rapunzel-style—and he had to fight the genuine smile tugging at his sneer. His chest felt...funny, fluttery, even, and not in the gut-wrenching, hangover way he had grown so used to. He almost wished it was, because this new feeling made it seem as though the ground had suddenly been ripped out from under his feet, and that terrified him.

The party. Some snitch had called the cops on them, and that had promptly shut the party down. The flood of panicked students evacuating had shoved Minho flush against the wall, and you flush against his chest. When he hadn’t felt you shoving him away immediately, Minho had almost felt his heart swell with a strange, terrifying shred of hope—until, upon closer look, he had noticed that your entire body had gone limp, glass empty and eyes fluttering shut. 

Panicking, Minho had carried you out of the house, clawing out of the sea of elbows and overheated limbs until he had reached the main road. Mind racing, he had fished his phone from his pocket and called the only mutual acquaintance the two of you had—your boyfriend.

But when Minho had explained what had happened—hey, uh, your girlfriend’s out cold at Changbin’s party, so you might want to come pick her up—Taehyun had scoffed, a harsh bark of laughter that had made Minho’s ears hurt. 

“Yeah? The hell’s it to me? That bitch’s your problem now.”

Before Minho could choke out a surprised reply, Taehyun had hung up. 

Trouble in paradise? He had thought to himself amusedly, before remembering his own situation. Then, the fact that he had no idea where you lived, and he couldn’t very well leave you, unconscious, out on the street. In the end, he had brought you to his last resort—his apartment. 

Carefully stepping over the trail of shattered ornaments his ex-girlfriend had left behind during their fight, Minho had lowered you onto the couch—then, with a second thought and a deep sigh, he’d lifted you onto the bed, tucking the white comforter over your slack body. Sipping a hangover concoction, he’d stood over your sleeping figure contemplatively, a mix of bemusement and worry churning in his gut, before deciding he was probably being mildly creepy and collapsing for the night on the velvet couch. 

“Look,” Minho began, shaking his head as though clearing his thoughts and turning his attention back on you, “I know what you’re probably thinking, but I—we—didn’t—do anything. You were out cold last night.”

Hands shaking, you peeled back the covers—and the smallest sigh of relief left your tightened chest when you saw that you were still wearing the same jeans and top as last night—albeit creased, stained, and reeking of marijuana and booze, but completely intact. The next moment, though, a wave of anxiety washed over you and you clutched the sheets closer, fingers trembling. Someone had still slipped something into your drink at that party. And if the party hadn’t come to a screeching halt—no, you realised, with an inward groan of frustration, if your sworn enemy hadn’t been there, there was no telling how much worse things could have gone. 

The thought made you shudder, panicked tears pricking at your sore eyes. Damn it ll. Here you were, sitting in Lee Minho’s bed, of all people—about to cry in front of him while he watched. Your humiliation—a belated Christmas present for him, no doubt. 

But when you glanced at his face, you were startled at the expression on his face. It was unfamiliar—not exactly condescending, or vicious, or even mildly smug. His lips—rosy from the hot shower—were pressed together slightly, eyebrows almost knitting together in a frown. 

Maybe he was holding back laughter?

Minho’s eyes had caught the way your lips had begun to tremble as you curled in on yourself, and had instinctively moved forward before freezing. What could he do? Give you a hug? He was sure he would end up with a candlestick in his eye if he tried. Comfort you? The words seemed to dissolve to sand on his tongue. He cursed himself silently. Words and actions came so easily with all the other girls—endless sweet talk and flirting, until he had them wrapped around his finger. With you—even after all these years—he was left frozen, mind blank, and only that damned feeling in his chest.

“She’s not yours,” came Changbin’s voice from the previous night, ringing in his ears.

“I know,” he had replied. But why did acknowledging it feel like ripping a Band-Aid off of a nearly-healed wound? Like he had reopened the scar, along with all its pain once again? 

Maybe it was because after all these years, Minho still clung onto the hope that you would hear him out, just once.

Gesturing helplessly, he found himself offering the only sort of comfort he seemed to know how to. “Do you want—uh...some wine? The fridge’s empty, and maybe it’ll calm your nerves a bit.” He tilted his head when you didn’t reply, trying to get a glimpse of your face. “Do we need wine?”

Forgetting momentarily that he was nearly naked, you lifted a withering, exasperated gaze at him, getting an eyeful of his bare chest before yelping and burying your face in the covers again. “No. You know what—I need wine—you need to put some damn pants on.”

You could hear his devilish grin return to his voice then, even through the covers. “But life is so freeing without them.”

“Pants. On. Now.”

to be continued

[diaryofabeautyfiend]

Small Time Witch (28)

The TVA or Time Variance Authority is an organization who monitors time lines and the multi-verse. Since you created a minor disturbance, Mobius was sent to set the timeline back on track. Their methods were harsh yet effective ranging from working for them for several hundred years to erasing you completely using the Retroactive Cannon. Mobius was not here to bring you in. In fact, you have now screwed things up so badly that he was charging you to correct your mistakes.

“I would love a drink. Thank you Y/N. May I call you Y/N?”

“You can start by telling me who you are.”

“Of course.” He drained his glass and set it down. You poured him another. “Mobius M. Mobius. I’m here representing the TVA. We monitor the multi-verse. You have made a mess of things and we want you to fix it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He sighed heavily letting his head fall back onto the chair. “Yes, you do. Wife of Loki, witch from Earth here to save her husband from his certain doom. Am I leaving anything out?”

“Nope. Sounds about right. So are you here to arrest me?”

“Arrest you? Heavens no. We want to recruit you. Contract employee. 1099 you at the end of the month for tax purposes. Listen, we love that you’re going after Thanos. You’ll save so many lives except one. Tony Stark. He has to die.”

The floor fell out from under you. The whole purpose of this was to save your friends. You hadn’t even wanted the Avengers to be involved.

“I can’t do that.”

“Here’s the thing, you have to. He has already created civilization destroying weapons. He was supposed to be snapped. Thanos went rogue from the plan.”

“Wait! You sent Thanos?!”

“No. We merely offered him something to kill Stark. Instead, he thought it would be more poetic to let him suffer for five years. And to top it off, he had a child. She’ll continue with his work creating the worst weapon yet. If you take him out now, there will be no Ultron. Sakovia will be safe.”

“But no Vision.”

“Wanda is young. She’ll meet someone else. Good for her though, her brother will still be alive! Good news for everyone. If you succeed, as a thank you, we will restore your husband’s memory. If you refuse, I’ll erase you from existence.”

You couldn’t hurt your friends. You wanted to say no but Mobius M. Mobius was a smooth talker and knew just how to play to your weaknesses. “Tony Stark didn’t have a problem attempting to kill you when he thought you were a threat. Didn’t he poison you? Am I getting that right?”

Your face heated at the memory. You didn’t answer. You both knew he was right. But Tony was also given incomplete and downright false information. “How can I trust what you’re telling me?”

“Have I been wrong about anything else? You don’t have to trust me. In fact, you shouldn’t be so trusting. Thanos already knows what you’re doing. He has spies everywhere. Even on Vanaheim and Asgard. I wouldn’t trust the man who was under Thanos’ thumb just days ago. He’s already betrayed you once. The chamber maid?”

You were heated. Fact was he was right. Loki wasn’t healed from the affects of the stone yet he already knew your plan. Thanos could have still been listening.

“As a sign of good faith, Princess, I present to you the power stone. The Nova Corps is entrusting you with it. You will save Xandar from certain doom. Fun fact, you can expel any of the stones at any time. That should be helpful when you meet with the Ancient One. Be careful with this stone. It bites.”

You cast a protective bubble around you. When you crushed the stone in your palm the pieces crawled under your skin to your core. Once again the light spilled from you holding you in suspension for several minutes then dropping you. You let down the barrier to Mobius clapping. “Three down, three to go. Here’s your plane ticket to Russia. The Maximoff twins already had their brush with the mind stone. You won’t be robbing them of anything. Oh and remember to bring yourself a buddy on Vormir. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

He left a card in the credenza and vanished. You called down to the desk to have more scotch sent up and to extend your stay. You also called up to Heimdall to let him know you do not wish for the princes to disturb you for the next few days.

——————————————————————

Loki awoke the next morning excited to hear of your experience with the reality stone. When he arrived to breakfast you weren’t there. In fact, no one had seen you since you left the previous morning. He didn’t see Thor either. Maybe you had not yet returned.

When Thor came strolling in alone around dinner time Loki was concerned. “Brother, I trust everything went to plan on Midgard.”

“It did! I was able to spend the night with Jane. I should thank your wife for that. Will she be joining us for dinner?”

Now Loki was panicked. “She didn’t return with you?”

“No. She sent Jane and I off. I left her with Erik Selvig and Darcy. She healed him by the way.”

Loki looked away ashamed. His concern for you outweighed his embarrassment. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Perhaps she’s still angry over the chamber maid.”

Loki’s face blanched. How on earth did you know about that? “Nothing happened really. Just a flirtation. Who told her?”

“Brother the young lady answered your bedroom door when Y/N went to say goodbye. She is not an idiot. She was able to figure it out.”

Loki was mortified. Old habits truly died hard. You could not blame him. He had only known you to be his wife for a week. You couldn’t really expect him to give up everything. He felt like a fool. You were risking life and limb on his behalf, on behalf of his people and this is how he treats you. A cad and a scoundrel indeed.

He had to see you to apologize. He would throw himself at your feet and vow never again to stray. Beg for you to forgive him. Plead for mercy. And if none of that worked he would buy you something pretty. Though, if he knew anything at all, he would bring you snacks.

Thor called for Heimdall. Unless you cloaked yourself he would be able to find you.

“I know why you are here. The Princess has demanded that she not be disturbed, and I quote, ‘by those two fools’. You see you are the fools.”

Loki sighed in exasperation. “I believe I’ve cracked it. Thank you, Heimdall. Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, your grace.”

Loki closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “And where is she?”

“London. At a hotel where she wishes for quiet before she flies to Russia to retrieve another stone.”

“Brother, we should be with her. She already absorbed two stones....”

Heimdall cleared his throat, “Three. She took in the power stone last night.” He stopped speaking for a moment and Loki realized he was listening to you. “Please, Princess. I do not wish to repeat...yes, ma’am. The Princess says, again I quote, ‘I’m stronger than both of you. Leave me alone or it’s over for you bitches when I get back. Also leave Heimdall alone.’ Please forgive, your highnesses.” He twisted the sword and sent Thor and Loki back to Vanaheim.

Loki was furious. Fuck groveling. Loki wanted to march right into your hotel room and demand you apologize. How entirely rude of you to just pop off without a single care for him. And over what? A smack on the bottom of a nameless servant? How actually dare you treat him this way? You won’t see him? He is a prince and your husband. You don’t have the right to refuse his company.

Thor, on the other hand, was terrified. Leave it to Loki to pick a fight with the most powerful witch in the known universe. He thought it best not to antagonize the pissed off witch possessing the power of three infinity stones. He came up with a possible solution. He proposed Valkyrie accompany you to Russia just in case something happened. You were powerful enough to level Midgard. Best have someone who can keep you in check.

At first Valkyrie refused. It wasn’t her job to babysit the princess. When Thor promised she could use Midgardian weapons she was in. Heimdall refused to send her at first. Loki promised you probably wouldn’t kill him. Very reluctantly he complied. Little did Loki know, Hilde was just the girl to make you all better.

——————————————————————

Hilde knocked politely so she would not scare you. You were operating on a hair trigger as of late. She really didn’t want to die. To her surprise, when you saw her in the hall, you began to giggle uncontrollably. “They sent you to bring me back? Idiots.”

“Actually, they asked that I accompany you to Russia. Just in case.”

“Fun! First drinks though.”

After several shots of tequila and one failed margarita attempt, the two of you were pretty sloshed. It had been a really long time since she had this much fun. Equally as long since she allowed anyone to call her Hilde. Only her sisters called her that. You made her laugh with your drunken college stories. When you told her about your emo college boyfriend having a chronic twitch she damn near peed herself.

After polishing off some snacks from room service the two of you collapsed into bed together still giggling. You finally worked up the courage to tell her about your affair.

“You know, in the future, you and I are really close. Like super close.”

“How so?”

“Well I know you have that heart shaped birthmark on your left thigh and when I kiss it it makes you stupid. I also know you like being called daddy in bed.”

She belly laughed at the notion that you two were together. “Does Loki know?!”

“Nope.” You both lost it.

“Norns! Can I be the one who tells him?!”

“Future you asked that I take a picture of his face when he finds out. I’m glad you’ll get to see it in person.”

“Oh hi Prince Loki! In the future I bed your wife.” she mocked.

“Hilde. Would it be weird if I asked you to spoon me? It’s been a while since I shared a bed with someone who actually wants to be around me.” Without hesitation she pulled you close to her body and nuzzled your hair.

The next morning you left for Russia. Normally a whole team would be required to infiltrate a Hydra base. You didn’t really need the back up. Hilde watched your six while you dismantled their security system. You could feel the stone pulling you in its direction. No alarms sounded so you got to the stone and slipped it in your pocket. You heard shuffling from some corner of the room and pulled Hilde closer to you. Wanda’s magic illuminated the darkened room.

“Give back the stone and your friend lives.” Pietro had Hilde by the throat. She had her hand on the hilt of her sword but you singled her to wait.

“Wanda, I know you don’t know me but, in the future, we are great friends. Closer to sisters. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m going to free you. I know a place where you can go.”

“That’s funny. You must not really know my sister.”

“I can prove it, Wanda. Please?”

She was behind you now. When she placed her hands on the side of your temples she showed you your worst fears. All of your friends and family were dead at your feet. Your hands glowed with power. Your skin spattered with their blood. The stones had overpowered you. Where they ended and you began was unclear. You felt yourself sinking but not for long. You regained control and maneuvered to grab her.

You held her with little effort and showed her your friendship. She still didn’t trust you completely but she relaxed some and told Pietro to let Hilde go.

“How did you break free of my magic?”

“Because I’ve practiced with you. Studied your magic. We did it together. I can help you. Please.”

“You can take us out of here?”

“Yes. To a safe place in New York. We don’t have much time. I can take you there right now. No planes. I can open up a portal and we’re all there. What do you say?”

“Pietro? What do you think?”

“Anywhere is better than here.”

“Good. Take my hand.”

You jumped to Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. If there was ever a safe space, it was here. The Professor greeted you all.

“Hello, Y/N. But you are not our Y/N. This much I can tell.”

“Do I look old?”

He laughed, “Nonsense. You look powerful. Come in. All of you. We can have some tea and Wanda and Pietro can show me their talents.”

The twins felt immediately at ease there. Ororo showed them around and helped them get settled. You introduced Hilde to the faculty. She insisted on staying by your side when it was time to take in the next stone.

You went to the medical unit with Jean and the professor. They hooked you up to some electrodes and put you in a padded fire proof space. While you did your thing, they waited far behind a glass.

Just as before the pieces of the jewel cut through your body. Light spills from the open wounds and you fall to the floor writhing in pain. “Don’t let it control you, Y/N. You are stronger than the stone!” The Professor calls out to you. Finally you are calm. All of the monitors attached to you are flashing and ringing. Xavier and Jean come in to examine you. They are extremely concerned. You raise your hand to heal yourself but he stops you.

“Y/N, you understand that every time you take in a stone you are irradiating yourself with gamma rays? You are doing irreversible damage to yourself. There is a reason mortals cannot wield all six of the stones. You have taken in four. I’m not sure you can survive two more.”

“I can. I have to, Professor.”

“Or what, Y/N?” Jean asked.

“Or the time police guys are going to erase me and Tony Stark’s kid will make a weapon capable of destroying planets. Please. I have to finish my mission.”

The Professor and Jean order you to rest for a few days while they figure out how to treat you. You sent Hilde back to Vanaheim to let everyone know you were ok and being cared for. You stayed in the medical ward and the Professor put you into a medically induced coma. He monitored your brain activity to ensure you wouldn’t be a danger to anyone in your unconscious state.

You dreamt in vivid colors. What Wanda put in your head, you couldn’t shake. The stones were possessive of you. They fed off of you draining away all that you were. Eventually you would become the power. Everything seemed to be more alive. Even in suspended animation your muscles ached. They were growing and changing just as every other cell in your body mutated. On the outside you remain unchanged save for your hair color. You kept hearing Mobius’ voice reminding you that you could expel the stones at any time. The stones made you feel bound to them. You would be nothing without them. Wandering around your psyche you fought them for control.

When Hank brought you out of your coma you took a breath and your lungs burned. You coughed and sputtered grabbing at the air for anything to hold. To connect with something. Your vision was too blurry to see who was on the other side of the hand who held yours. Wanda’s soft voice filled your ears, “Open your eyes, Y/N. We’re here.” You nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw Hanks sharp toothed grin.

“There she is.” Hank said softly.

You pulled Wanda closer to you and embraced her. You were unsure if you could trust what you were seeing to be real. You fought a battle for control of your mind, your body, your energy, your perception. Four down and you didn’t know if you had the strength to take the last two.

Once everyone was satisfied with your recovery you asked for a meeting. You explained your journey and what Thanos planned to do. They would support you. For the next stone, you had to go back to Manhattan to meet with the Ancient One. You purposely saved the soul stone for last. You couldn’t comprehend whom you would even sacrifice. It had to be a sacrifice though. Someone you loved. Someone you cherished. You set it aside for now and headed to 177 A Bleeker.

[planetsxend]

“Moist”

@sweettifalockhart issued the writing challenge: moist.  I posted a snippet so I’d stay on track, and hell did I stay on track.  Probably OOC in places, but that hasn’t stopped me writing before :P Reno/Tifa below the cut, set very loosely in the tie between OG/Remake & AC

1 year, 4 months, 2 weeks, 3 days after The Plate

“- and then she threw me out the bar!  Literally threw me.  How is that even possible?”

“... It’s Tifa,” Rude says, as if that explains everything from gravity’s pull to the magic show of pigs suddenly sprouting wings and taking to the sky (although that wouldn’t be magic so much as fucking freaky who has the alien head this time?).  “Would’ve paid for a video,” his partner’s quiet addition, the bare bones of a smirk flirting with his mouth and Reno well - he can’t let that one go unchallenged.  The bastard doesn’t even startle when the elastic band pings off his shades.  Hmmph.

He grumbles some more, under his breath, and he’s well-versed in the feeling of eyes on him, knows Rude’s picked up on the fact he’s legitimately out of sorts with this recent development.  Knows that behind those shades, Rude’s staring at him, measuring the weight of each word on his tongue before lending voice to it.

“Either start talking or start writing.  This paperwork isn’t going to finish itself.”

“There’re memories in that bar,” Reno replies, the last he’ll say on the matter simply because it covers the entirety of his discomfiture.

~ ~ ~

7 months, 3 days after The Plate

It’s the first he’s properly laid eyes on her since... since The Plate and he slinks in like a cat on the scavenge, well aware there’s a dispute in his very near future the further in he goes, vividly aware he’s out of his depth.  He’s still got a sharp smart in his ribs to prove just how hard she punches on a bad day.  But here, now, on her turf?  Where every territorial instinct she has will be on red alert the second she clocks him?  Where every protective instinct will kick into high gear the second she recognises a threat?  He’s gonna wind up with his face smashed in and a couple teeth knocked loose and he’ll probably roll over and thank her for it after.

Better than the guilt gnawing him open from the inside out, right?

Sure enough, he’s not even singled out the quietest corner when she spots him, and because he keeps bouncing between where to sit and where’s the danger, he sees it.  The smile for her patrons vanishes so fast he might as well have smacked it off her, face settling into an expression carved from stone.  Empty.  Blank.  Carefully so, but she can’t do shit about her eyes.  They burn, even as her spine snaps straight and her chin lifts just so.

A challenge he doesn’t meet.  A challenge he can’t back down from, either.  His own issued when he approaches her directly, well and truly in the lion’s den.

“What do you want?”  She spits, and if words were acid he’d be stripped to the bone in seconds.  A lesser man would flinch, and a smarter man would leave, but neither man is him and so he slaps on a smirk and replies cool as Shiva’s kiss - he’d like a drink, if you please.  He sure as shit doesn’t imagine the creak of leather around her fists, but she’s a gracious host, and everyone’s welcome in Seventh Heaven, she can’t go around denying customers willy nilly without consequences.

He’s actually surprised when he survives that first drink, never mind the entire goddamn night.

7 months, 2 weeks, 5 days after The Plate

It’s almost a game between them a few weeks later, this animosity.  Every night he intrudes on her space and every night she’ll hiss at him like she’s ready to claw his face off.  Sometimes he’ll get blackout drunk and someone has the decency to phone Rude to cart his ass back home, sometimes he doesn’t and he’ll nurse one drink the entire night, every second under the same roof as her an agony.  When will she do it, he wonders.  When will she snap?  When will that practised calm give out in favour of confronting him?  Just what the fuck is it gonna take?

He’s not drunk tonight, just on the wrong side of tipsy, weaving one way on his stool then jerking centre and weaving the other.  Loose-lipped, too, if anyone thought to talk to him, but the suit keeps most folk at a respectable distance.  She comes at him when most of the regulars clear out and over the blast of the jukebox he thinks fuckin’ finally.

‘Cept she slams a glass of water down in front of him, sloshes some of it over his hand for good measure.  And while he swears and trips over his own tongue and waves his hand around and wipes it down with the stupid fuckin’ square Tseng always insists on cramming into his breast pocket, she parks her ass down opposite him, and jams both elbows down on the table.  There’s no warning creak this time, because her hands are bare of their usual gloves, and the fire in her eyes isn’t quite so bright tonight.

The hell?

“Why do you keep coming here, Reno?”  She asks, and if anything should catch him off guard maybe it should be that she remembers his name.  Instead, it’s her tone, the tired quality to it curling ‘round the words and robbing them of the caustic bite she usually keeps in reserve all for him.  Like she’s as weary to the bone as he is.  Like she’s beaten down and wrung out and barely hanging on by the tips of her fingers.

Like maybe - just maybe - she’s in the same boat as him.

You got snarlin’ little beasties crawling around in your head, too?

But he doesn’t ask that, it’s early days yet, right?  She’s more liable to smash the glass on his head and jab him in the eye with one of the resulting pointy bits, right?  So he looks at her instead, fighter-turned-bartender, damaged soul under all that easy charm, and lets his own trademark smirk fall just a little.  Just enough to clue her in on his little secret - I know the taste of regret, and it sure is bitter.

“To drink.  To forget.”

~ ~ ~

It doesn’t make things right between them, not by a long shot.  But the water’s her white flag, and his truth an apology.  It’s a step in some direction, maybe not the right one.

9 months, 1 week after The Plate

She asks him about it eventually, just like he knew she would.  She’s a blunt woman, Tifa, when it comes down to the nitty gritty details.  Her patience has its limits and beating around the bush as they are, tolerating one another as they are... something has to give somewhere.  So she asks him.  About it.  About The Plate.

Such a simple question, really.  Do you regret it?

Does he have an answer for it?  Oh sure, he has an answer alright.  Yes.  Yes he regrets it, every damn time he thinks about it his stomach curdles and his skin goes clammy.  So many questions circling his head ‘til he’s dizzy: was it necessary?  Was it worth it?  How many died?  How many people suffered - trapped under crushing weight, their last moments ones of terror and darkness and indescribable pain?  How many begged for help on their last breath?  How many stretched out broken hands in the hope someone beyond the rubble would grab on and help them free?  How many people ripped apart?  How many families struck from the census records in one fell swoop?  What were their names?  Their ages?  How many kids died that night?

“Yeah,” he says instead, voice wavering under all that strain locked up inside his skull, queasy and not from the food he’d ordered (still not poisoned, she’s out of her goddamn mind).  He doesn’t know what he looks like in that moment - can’t stand to look in mirrors much these days except to scrape the scruff off his chops in the morning - but she does.  Tifa looks at him then and sees whatever he can’t smother, standard Turk mask of indifference be damned, and a switch flips between them.  Animosity to understanding.

There should be surprise when she closes the bar early, promising discounts for the inconvenience, when she sets a bottle of hard liquor by his plate... and two glasses.  Instead he musters up the ghost of a smile and leans back - almost makes an ass of himself toppling right over, but hey, the reflexes have saved him from worse (like Strife’s sword) - daring to drag his eyes from her face to her waist and back up again.  “Come to confess to the big bad wolf, doll?”

“Eat a dick, Turk,” she snaps back and twists the cap open, sealing their fate.

~ ~ ~

“We, I, killed people, too... when we... blew up the Reactors.  Maybe not... maybe not every life lost was immediate but... the riots, the robberies, the people dying at home because their heating went out and never came back on again.  I don’t know how many deaths can be traced back to my hands.”

“That’s not the same as-”

“Does the how really matter, Reno?  People died.  By our actions.  By our choices.  That is the burden we bear.”

~ ~ ~

He comes awake the following morning to the unforgiving thump of a combat boot in the ribs, and bright sunlight stabbing a thousand daggers into his eyeballs, and a behemoth using his head as a chew toy.  It’s Strife above him, hands on the table he’s shoved aside to get to him, baby blues gone dark and thunderous and hell if that ain’t a safe wake-up call.  From his left somewhere a pitiful moan as Tifa rouses, and Murder Face turns his attention elsewhere, moves in her direction, giving Reno just enough space to try and get his legs under him.  Where are his legs again?  His - where the fuck’s his shoe?

“What did you do this time?”  Rude asks the second the call connects as he trips his way out the bar, and all Reno can manage without upsetting his entire lack of balance is a raspy laugh and cradling his head in his free hand.

“Made a mess, prob’ly.”

11 months, 1 week, 4 days after The Plate

“Are you asking me out?”  Really, she doesn’t need to look so suspicious.  What’s he gonna do, chuck her in a chopper and fly her across the continent?  Avalanche’d kill him deader than dead in two seconds flat.  Still, she’s not exactly wrong, which.  Yeah, okay, this isn’t one of his better ideas by far but.  Hm.

“No?  Figured it’d be a better bonding experience if we had a chat while stone cold sober, is all.  You like coffee?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Tseng.”

Call him crazy, but her laugh sounds less hollow than he’s ever heard it.

~ ~ ~

Marlene nails him in the back of the hand with a fork and Denzel gets melon juice all down his shirt.  Accidental his ass.

At least Strife is upfront with his threats of bodily harm if he breaks Tifa’s heart.

1 year, 2 months, 3 weeks after The Plate

The next time they wind up under what he’s dubbed their table, alcohol has absolutely nothing to do with it...  Well.  Except for the sticky residue he can taste on her fingers.

He has enough common sense to make sure they drag their asses upstairs and to her bedroom before dawn.  Enhanced senses must suck balls, though, because when Strife drops by the following afternoon he doesn’t even bat an eye at Reno’s perch at the bar (munching away at the remnants of a fruit salad the brats didn’t take to school), but he does when he gets closer and breathes.  His nose scrunches up as he sniffs in Reno’s direction like a dog - or that snarling wolf emblem he’s so fond of slapping on anything he can get his hands on - and darts those baby blues between his shit-eating grin and Tifa raised brow.  Try me, that look says, complete with the casual gathering of her hair into a high ponytail, the flex of her fingers after it.  Do they smell of each other, then?  How cute.

“... I don’t even wanna know,” Strife eventually says, and Reno laughs.

1 year, 4 months, 2 weeks, 3 days after The Plate

The punch she lands smack on his left pectoral is a love tap compared to what she’s capable of, and instead of the fire he’s half-expecting there’s... mischief in her gaze.

“Tifa -”

“Never say that word in my bar again, Reno, or I’ll ban you permanently.”

“Yes Ma’am, lesson learned.”

“I might even ban Rufus, too.  Make sure the lesson really sticks.”

“Aw naw, c’mon!  That’s hitting below the belt!”

“Please.  We both know you’d be sobbing on the floor if I did that.”

He pouts (she does have a point).  Tifa laughs.  It’s fast becoming his most favourite sound in the world.

[matthiaswarren]

WHEN: October 12th, 2:39AM WHERE: Matthias’s apartment WHO: Self-para

The storm was in its final stages, though no restless soul in Verona would know that until the next day hit. It poured from the heavens, still, giving its all like a runner in their final stretch, sprinting towards the finish line before they ran out of steam completely, using every last drop of energy, creating every last drop of sweat. Drops of rain slammed against his windows, a beast tapping on the glass begging to be let in, the wooden frame that held the glass in place creaking in resistance. Below, water churned, as if he slept above the ocean, water crashing into one building before it flowed down the street towards the next, waves churning, growing angrier and angrier as they could not find the shore to peacefully fade out upon. The wind echoed the anger of the sparking seas below, whistling a horrific scream as it shot through alleyways, warning Verona: this is your reckoning. Judgment day is here. With the message it delivered the vapors from the water down below, carrying the humidity up and up and up, through the ducts and vents even as Matthias thought his apartment was too high up to succumb to the elements.

There was no mistaking nature demanding she be heard on this night, and Matthias certainly heard her, and no amount of force on the pillow shoved atop his head would drown her out. 

He would sooner drown.

It was impossible to sleep when the world outside sounded like its own nightmare, no matter how heavy Matthias’s eyes drooped with the desire to close and how his mind yearned to shut off even for a few hours. With the elements warring outside his balcony with a fury that could only be housed in ever-dueling Verona, his body refused sleep, ready for war, itself. A frustrated groan vibrated from the back of his throat as he tossed to lay on his other side yet again, unsure of how many times he’d moved to the other side. He figured he was destined to spend the night like this, back and forth, back and forth, a pendulum of restlessness, a rocking horse of absent dreams. Matthias tried almost desperately to close his eyes the second the wind grew quiet for even the briefest of moments, hoping it would put him to sleep before the wind realized he was about to drift off and started up again, its sole desire tonight to keep his eyes open.

He had approximately three seconds of peace before the wind shrieked again and the water’s sloshing in the streets and the rain’s pounding upon his windows rose to meet it. This time, however, they uttered a different warning: Look who’s here. Blue eyes, red with exhaustion, slowly opened again, accompanied by a sigh. The room may have been fuzzy, the minimal amount of light allowed to peek through the cracks in his blinds didn’t help much either, but there was no denying what he saw beside his bed, first in his peripheral vision, then in his direct line of sight as he abruptly sat up to face the figure. What he thought was a cold sweat rapidly forming from jolting upright was really the cold metal of a pistol’s barrel against his skin. His gaze followed the finger resting on the trigger around to the hand around the grip, up Armani draped upon the arm, to stubble, to large, round eyes, to the villain he’d been waiting years to encounter.

Mikael Falco stood before Matthias Warren, holding a gun to his head, a wicked grin matching wild dark eyes.

He imagined this is how his enemy held the gun to his father all those years ago. He imagined this was the grin he wore as he pulled the trigger. He imagined these were the eyes full of blood lust that watched his father’s body crumple to the ground. Matthias felt rage inside of him howling like the winds outside, eagerness to do that which he has been desiring for years pounding within like the rain upon his window, and yet confusion flooding like the streets below. There were a lot of things he could say to Mikael right now, faced with this demon before him. How did you get into my apartment was a good start. Why did you kill my father was fairly direct. You’re a dead man waking, but not for long was extremely direct. He didn’t get to say any of these, not at first, as his attention was diverted to a laugh from Mikael, a deeper sound from the back of his throat than Matthias had probably ever heard of him years ago.

“You’re so pathetic, Matthias,” he stated, head tilting to the side ever so slightly, words slow and deliberate, every syllable meant to be felt, meant to be taken in to rot with the grief that sat in the Montague’s stomach. 

“Fuck off, villain,” Matthias hissed through clenched teeth, though he dared not move with the presence of a bullet mere inches from his head, nestled soundly in the barrel, waiting for instruction to fly free into Matthias’s skull. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re not leaving this room alive.”

“No, it’s my turn to speak.” Mikael was always so good at running his mouth, after all. “As I was saying, you are so fucking pathetic. “All these years, and you still haven’t gotten your way, huh? It should be pretty damn easy to kill me, especially when you spend half your fucking time in Capulet territory – oh, don’t think I don’t notice. You’re built like a brick shithouse, Matty. You couldn’t be subtle if your life depended on it. Now, maybe it does.” He cocked the weapon, the slow click heard as he took his time pulling back the hammer with his thumb. “You have all the answers, and yet, nothing. All those files, all those years of planning, and for what? For me to end it all with a nice little bang? For your neighbors to think it was just the storm making a racket? You’re a sad excuse of a man, Warren. You couldn’t even do the one thing you came back to Verona to do, and why?” Mikael gasped dramatically. “Are you scared?”

Matthias wasn’t scared, but perhaps he was uncertain. Of what came next after Mikael was put in the ground. Of what he was supposed to do once revenge stopped ruling his life and guiding his hand. Truly, who was Matthias Warren without his father? Without the man to follow, he devoted years to revenge for that man, and once the cold dish had been served, when the plate was clean, what was Matthias to do? Shaking away the thoughts, he warned, “Shut up,” a guttural, almost growl-like sound pronouncing the syllables from deep within, smoke from the fiery anger burning within.

“Good one, Warren.” Mikael replied with a chuckle before emitting a quieter sigh. “Warren,” he repeated. “Yeah, you know, come to think of it, you look just how he did – well, the second before he died. Marius Warren, that is. Though, he was more shocked, caught off guard, more like how you were moments ago. Oh, you should have seen your face, Matty. You looked like you saw the fucking ghost of Christmas past! But now, you’re pissed. And for what?”

“You know what,” he spat.

“I do. What, do you need to hear me say it?” Mikael lowered the gun and began to pace in the space in front of Matthias’s bed, gesturing with his hands as if they didn’t contain a loaded weapon. “I killed Marius Warren. I killed that son of a bitch as he walked out of the bar that day, and let me tell you he was too busy looking into the bottom of a bottle to solve his problems to know what was coming. It was pathetic. Just like you, wasting all your damn time chasing down the past. You know, I guess you are just like your father. That’s all you’ve ever wanted to hear, right?”

He was right, that was all Matthias wanted to hear. But sweet words that he once longed to hear hit him with a bitter and acidic taste, instead, coming from the lips of this man. All he’d ever wanted was to be compared to his father. All he’d ever craved was to be even slightly as great as Marius Warren had been, to have stories like his father’s to pass down to his sons, to become someone they could look up to, as well. The Warren name had always been one he wore with pride, and yet tonight, facing the man who took the reason for its prideful connotations away from Matthias, it was coated in a sense of shame, of uncertainty, of fear for its future.

“You’re both sad excuses for space, born to die thinking you are dying for such a noble cause only to end up in hell like the rest of the sinners, forced to face consequences for your actions. You’re just like him, alright, and you’re gonna end up just like him, too. Your body will hit the ground with the same giant-ass thud, and the world will remember you as nothing more than a shadow of–”

Mikael had been pacing for too long, had gotten caught up in his own movie villain-style monologue that held a much darker twist as it stood before a sleep-deprived and drugged-up Matthias with a gun in view. Matthias saw it as his chance, though, to strike, to disarm his opponent, to finally get the revenge he had hungered for, to feed the starving ache in his belly, and perhaps to finally get a word in edgewise. Launching himself from the bed, Matthias ran at Mikael, a shout roaring from his chest as he opened his arms to tackle the other man, as he leaned his body weight full force–

Only for Mikael to disappear out of thin air, a ghost, a man-shaped mist vanishing, a mirage fading from view when he was just close enough to capture it. Unable to stop his momentum or even realize what had happened, Matthias collided with his dresser, the sheer force of his anger sending both himself and the furniture toppling to the floor. Mikael – or whatever that was – was right about a thud, but at least he’d survived when he made this one, though the shooting pain up his shoulder told him it was not without cost. The rain had settled back to the drizzle it produced earlier that day, the wind’s volume reduced to a whisper, but the water in the streets continued to churn, saying, You are a product of your nightmares.

[erroetcresco]

The Bare Minimum is Better

Aleks goes to a party despite his grounding. James and Aleks finally have the talk they probably should have had a couple weeks ago.

[A03 Link]

So here’s the thing: even on lockdown, Aleks still had to keep up his reputation. It wasn’t like he sold drugs for the money of it, even if that was nice. He did it because that was what he did, and he needed to keep that going. So when Saturday rolled around, he helped at the store until it closed, and went home with his dad. Sure, it was exhausting, but he had a couple of friends - bumps off his house key - to help with that. He waited until his dad was absolutely asleep, which was easy, thanks to those “sleeping pills” of his that started this mess, and then snuck right out the front door. He had sales, and more importantly, an appearance to make.

On his way to the party, he smoked a bean, enjoying the cool March air. It was almost April now, warming up, but still a chill on the wind that kept him alert. He’d be showing up late, but that didn’t matter too much. People didn’t care as much about prices once they were already buzzed, just wanting to prolong their high. Aleks could respect that. After a week of being sober, he also wanted to just get a little fucked up, let go of the stresses keeping him awake at night - and the stressers that were waking him up in the middle of the night, sweating and panting and hard in his boxers. The idea of a party promised normalcy, the kind of normalcy that he hadn’t appreciated until he had to sneak out after a hard day’s work to go after. The house belonged to a member of the wrestling team, and he wasn’t exactly invited as much as expected to show up. If there wasn’t a market for his wares, he wouldn’t be much of a drug dealer, would he?

The house was lit up in every window, with beer cans littering the lawn in front already by the time he made it up the sidewalk. Music leaked from the cracks in the house like cool air, and Aleks felt a smile spread across his face without bidding. This was what he was good at. He slid into the house, and was immediately greeted with a solo cup full of some kind of punch that he downed without second thought. Sure, he supposed that if he was a girl he could have cared, but he was safe enough. A couple of people noticed him immediately and crowded into his company. They were artificially nice, and he knew the reason. As soon as he drew premade joints from his fanny pack, the niceties were over. It was business as usual. They paid him, they all lit up, and joints were passed through the house without a care about the stink the host would have to deal with later. Another cup was pressed into his hand, and he drank without care. Whiskey spread across his tongue, and Aleks found himself dancing, pressed up against a pretty girl with pink leggings and puffing from a joint he had supplied in the living room. He slipped into the bathroom with a couple of jocks to take a line, with another couple twenties slipped into his fanny pack, and then he was somehow in the backyard, crossfaded and nearly twitching, as he watched two members of the wrestling team play-fight.

“I thought you were grounded,” a familiar voice said behind him, and Aleks nearly inhaled his tongue along with the sip of spiked punch he was nursing. He coughed a couple times, and turned his head to look up the one inch that separated him and James.

“What Pops doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him,” Aleks said, coolly enough.

“Fair,” James said, and grinned at him like there was nothing wrong in the entire world. There were children starving in Africa, but the way James was looking made Aleks think they were in heaven. Aleks didn’t have much to say in response, so he just looked back towards the wrestling match.

“Want a drink?” James asked, and Aleks had to look back at him like an idiot.

“I’ve got one in my hand,” he pointed out, gesturing his plastic cup.

“You know what I mean,” James said, and looked patient, like Aleks actually did know. He didn’t. Aleks looked back to the match, enjoying the mudslinging.

“Aleksandr,” James said, calling his attention back, and James actually looked hurt that Aleks hadn’t bothered to answer.

“What?” Aleks asked. James was done up in his party gear, and it occurred to Aleks that maybe this was the first party James had ever attended as just James, and not James, the boyfriend of Steve. James’ hair was teased up, his acid jeans were tight, and his shirt was a retro tie-dye that made Aleks’ eyes hurt.

“I’m trying to…” James trailed off, and gestured, like that would finish his sentence. Aleks just gave him a look, and then an exaggerated shrug. James looked like he was struggling for a moment, and then sighed.

“Trying to what, James?” Aleks asked, when he failed to continue.

“Look, nevermind,” James said. “Do you have a bean?”

That was something Aleks could deal with. Whatever shit that was happening in James head would have to stay there until he decided to share it. Aleks was too fucked up to try and guess at whatever emotional shit was happening there. He fumbled through his fanny pack, one handed, and pulled his last joint out. It was a little smushed, but it hadn’t ripped any.

“Thanks,” James said, and took the joint. He held it up in front of Aleks’ lips, and obediently, Aleks let it slide between them.

“Thought you wanted it?” He mumbled around the joint, as he fumbled for his lighter. James grinned at him, silent until it was lit and Aleks had taken a deep inhale.

“Yeah, but I wanted to smoke it with you,” He said, and Aleks felt his intestines twist. It wasn’t his stomach - it felt too visceral for that. This was a metaphorical olive branch between his lips, burning and giving off smoke. James was trying to be friendly. Aleks had started it, maybe, by letting James stay over with the ludes, but this was different. This was both of them - drunk, maybe, but - level heaved.

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” Aleks said, before he could regret it, and held the joint over to James. He spat out the bitter taste the words left in his mouth onto the lawn next to him for good measure.

“Whatcha mean?” James asked, sounding clueless. His face, however, had already drawn back. It wasn’t the open face Aleks had come to know in their times fucking around, it was the face James gave people that talked shit about him and Steve. It stung, sure, but less than the burning in his gut over what James had done to him.

“I mean that maybe we smoke this joint,” Aleks said, and that burning crawled up his spine, “and maybe you get on your knees for me,” He was quoting what James had told Steve, in front of everyone “and maybe I love it.”

“Aleks,” James said, like he didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

“Or maybe we share this joint, and we make out” Aleks continued, drink sloshing from his cup when he gestured. Even drunk, he made sure to keep his voice down, keep this under the crowd watching the mock-fight. Unlike James, he didn’t spread his business around. “And then we hang out, mess around. And hang out again. And maybe I like who I’m hanging out with. But then, I’m just a fucking...a fucking revenge plot out of some kind of shitty soap that even the most desperate housewife wouldn’t watch.”

“It wasn’t supposed to-” James started, but Aleks shook his head.

“Man, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. We had fun, or whatever,” He looked down at his cup. Silence stretched between them, and Aleks finished his drink.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you broke up with Steve. Shit was messed up,” Aleks said, and clapped James on the shoulder. “But whatever is whatever, right?” He wasn’t even sure what that was supposed to mean, and left James to figure it out as he marched back into the kitchen to find another drink.

There were shots with a group in the kitchen, and than a shotgunning race with a jock of an unknown sports team - he lost. Than he was stuck with the mystery punch again as he wandered the house, feeling both too fucking sad to participate in any of the revelry and too fucking drunk to leave. He ended up on the front porch, empty cup by his side, smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t exactly unexpected that only a half hour after he had left James in the backyard that the very same man was sitting next to him, pressing a cup into his hand.

“You done telling me off?” He asked. Aleks looked down into the cup. It was clear. He took a sip, and it was just water. He wrinkled his nose at whatever mothering James was attempting.

“Depends. You said I could be a dick,” Aleks said, setting the cup next to him on the porch.

“I deserve it,” James admitted, and plucked the cigarette from his fingers. Aleks hadn’t known James smoked, and the coughing fit that came from the other after one puff confirmed it.

“You don’t have to try and impress me,” Aleks teased, despite himself.

“Just seeing what all the fuss is about,” James answered, and passed the cigarette back. He leaned back on his hands, and sighed loudly.

“What do you want, now?” Aleks asked, before taking a long drag from the cigarette. The embers glowed against the filter, and he tossed it into the grass without a care.

“Don’t want anything,” James answered, easily, and then, stopped. He stopped leaning back, stopped his nonchalant air, and set his hand in his lap. He just stared at them, silent.

“What?” Aleks asked, a little unnerved.

“Well. I don’t want...nothing” James said, quietly. “But you weren’t wrong. Everything you said was true.”

“Yeah, you’re a dick,” Aleks agreed easily, and he meant it in a different way than James normally reveled in.

“Yeah, I am. Was. Am” James said, haltingly, putting pauses between his words. It sounded like he was arguing with himself.

“So?” Aleks asked.

“So maybe I liked hanging out with you, more than the messing around parts. Maybe you…” James paused, and sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, but being around you was...better.”

“Yeah, hard to believe the bare minimum is better than what you had,” Aleks said, only slightly sarcastic.

“Shut up,” James shouldered him, but still looked abashed. “I’m trying to say something.”

“So say it,” Aleks said. It was hard not to expect something, anything, but he squashed that part of his brain down, reminded himself of the hurt, of the burn, of the grounding he got from helping James at all.

“I’m just saying that I messed up, but I liked who I was hanging out with. If you want to hang out...or whatever again, you know. I’m just. I’m just saying,” James said, slowly, then all at once. Aleks sat quiet at that, digesting what he meant. James rose from his seat on the porch next to him, and clapped him on the shoulder. “But if I was too much of a dick, I get that. But I’d like to.” As if he were embarrassed, and maybe he was, James cleared his throat, then nodded. He let Aleks not respond, and instead went back into the party. The music swelled as he opened the door, and muffled again as he closed it. Aleks took a sip of the water James had left him, and then, frustrated, threw the cup onto the lawn.

Who the fuck was James to offer that to him? Who was he to think he deserved anything? Who was he to echo Aleks’ own words back to him? Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck his stupid hair, fuck his stupid face, fuck the stupid dreams that kept waking Aleks up at 3 am, fuck the situation he had put them in, fuck….

Aleks decided he was done here. He was done with the conversation, he was done with the party. He started the long walk home, only slightly bobbing and weaving across the sidewalk.

[lost-n-stereo]

they’ll call our crimes a work of art

Part 1

There are miles upon miles of sun scorched earth between San Diego and the Texas border.

He downshifts, the engine purring as he speeds down the deserted highway. Desert passes them on both sides, wide open space as far as the eye can see and he knows with almost complete certainty that they are in the free and clear.

For now, at least.

“Woooo!”

Clarke bangs on the headliner next to him, her hair messy and wild from being trapped under a baseball cap all day. A black duffle bag rests at her feet and even though it’s zipped up tight he knows that inside contains the very thing that they need to survive.

Money. Lots and lots of fucking money.

Two point two million, to be exact. He feels a little like Robin Hood, robbing from the rich to give to the poor. Only in their case, they are the poor.

Well, he’s the poor because Clarke is what she calls “rich adjacent” meaning her family is rich so by association so is she. Ivy League, medical school, scholarships. These are all words that mean less than nothing to him, just a poor kid from the wrong side of San Diego, but to Clarke they meant confinement. Restrictions.

Basically the opposite of freedom.

Murphy looks over at her, a wide smile crossing her pretty face as she rests her bare feet on the dashboard of his Trans AM. It’s a piece of shit that his dad left him before he died but it’s fast as hell and got them away from California quicker than the bus.

It only hurts a little when he remembers that he has to ditch it as soon as they hit Arizona.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Clarke says, popping her gum as she stares out at the passing scenery. “We are bad ass, baby!”

Murphy laughs, reaches over and rests his hand between her thighs. “You’re damn right we are.”

Clarke grins and reaches over to turn the radio up, rolls down her window and lets her hand make air waves as The Rolling Stones pump through the speakers.

Nothing is ever going to feel this good he thinks as they speed down the I-10. He hasn’t seen another car in miles and doesn’t expect they will anytime soon but they are going to have to stop for gas if he stays at this pace.

“Getting hungry?”

Clarke nods and turns down the music. “Let’s find a diner. One of those old school ones with the red vinyl seats and a jukebox at every table.”

“Kind of a tall order,” he chuckles. “But your wish is my command, Princess.”

If you would have told him a year ago, hell even six months ago, that he’d be pulling a Bonnie and Clyde with the richest girl from his high school he would have either laughed in your face or punched you in the face.

Probably the latter because he’s always been a bit of a shithead.

When he ran into her at a club downtown four months ago she was downright fucked, knocking back tequila shots with a girl named Raven he remembered from their high school.

“What’s eating you?” He asked when she literally bumped into him at the bar.

“No one,” she’d said with a snicker and her hand immediately went to her mouth. “Oh my god, forget I just said that.”

“Not a fucking chance.” He’d just laughed and wondered if she even remembered him. John Murphy, class asshole. Not much else to remember probably but he remembered her all the same. The way she dated both the jocks and the cheerleaders. The hottest girl in school although she cared more about her studies than clothes and makeup.

“How have you been, Murphy?”

To say he had been surprised would be a fucking understatement. In fact he’s pretty sure he actually choked a little on his Jack and Coke.

“I’ve been fine, Clarke. Yourself?”

“I got dumped,” she had lamented, her eyes rolling as if recalling whatever fucked up thing ended her relationship. “My girlfriend found herself a new girlfriend so here I am. Getting sloshed because apparently I have zero self control.”

“Oh, now I don’t know about that,” he’d laughed. “Remember that night in Finn Collins’ basement? We got matched up for seven minutes in heaven and I’m pretty sure you kneed me in the balls when I suggested you give me a little kiss.”

Clarke snorted so hard her hand shook and tequila came dangerously close to flying out of her shot glass. “If I remember correctly, you tried to stick your tongue down my throat and said ‘Hey baby, you know you want some of this.’”

“Sounds like me.”

If he was shocked as hell that she remembered him he was even more surprised when she reached her hand over, ran her pinkie finger up the inside seam of his jeans at his thigh.

“And what about now?”

He had licked his lips, let his gaze fall to the way her black dress clung tightly to her curves. “Now? Now I’d prefer if you begged me for it.”

Needless to say she blew off her friend and ended up back at his dingy apartment, her moans so loud they got the cops called on them.

Twice.

Thinking back on it now it’s kind of funny that they have been dodging cops since they first started this up.

“What are you thinking about over there?”

He smiles, tightens one hand on her leg and the other on the wheel. “Just thinking about when we first met.”

“When we were ten?”

“No,” he snorts. “I mean when this Murphy met this Clarke. Because face it, sweetheart. You are nothing like you were in high school.”

Her scowl actually turns him on. How fucked up is that? “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Relax,” he laughs, even though his mother once told him you should absolutely for no reason whatsoever tell a woman to relax or calm down. “I just meant high school Clarke wouldn’t be caught dead with high school me.”

“That’s not true,” she says, her voice taking on this raspy tone that goes straight to his dick. His heart beats faster when she leans over to rest her lips on the shell of his ear. “High school Clarke thought about you a lot, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” he croaks out, his throat drying up and he’s so hard for her he wouldn’t be surprised if he pulls over and takes her right here on the highway. “What about when you were with Finn?”

“Mhm.” She bites at his earlobe, sending shock waves through his body so intense he’s afraid they might crash.

“Lexa?”

“Yep.”

“Bellamy?”

She stiffens and he wants to kick his own ass for bringing him up. “We aren’t going to talk about him, remember.”

“Sorry, babe,” he says sincerely because he is. Bringing up the guy she almost married straight out of high school wasn’t his brightest idea but fuck if he can think straight when his dick is hard.  

He remembers their breakup their freshman year of college. Everyone though they’d end up together, married at twenty, first kid by twenty two. Mansion in the hills, two point five kids and a Golden Retriever. They were set in stone.

Until they weren’t.

Murphy didn’t go to college due to the fact that he had zero dollars to his name and did fuck all in high school. Instead he got a job right after graduation, and the fact that he graduated at all was enough to make his entire family proud. Or what little family he has left. He does remember the very public breakup since it happened at the restaurant he moonlighted as a bartender at to make some extra cash.

Bellamy gave Clarke a ring. Clarke said no. Bellamy stormed out.

It was a lot more dramatic than that but you get the gist.

“Can I just ask you one thing?”

He’s treading carefully because this is a subject they haven’t gotten into yet. She might shut him the fuck down but he’s at least going to try.

“You want to know why I said no.”

It’s not a question, just a solemn statement and that’s what he loves about this girl. She fucking knows him without him having to say a word.

“Yeah.”

Clarke sighs, her hand still making waves out the window but now he thinks she probably doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it. “My life has been planned for me since I was a little girl. Go to an Ivy League, become a doctor. Marry someone with my pedigree and have the perfect life that my parents have always wanted for me. But I didn’t want that, Murphy. I didn’t want to be some dumb girl that just lived her life the way everyone else wanted her to.”

He motions to the duffle bag resting on the floorboards. “And that’s going to help, right?”

“Yes,” she says seriously. “I want to be with you and yes, I’m sure there was another way than stealing millions of dollars from the Blake’s but this is how it had to be. Bellamy’s family is loaded, almost as much as mine. They won’t even miss it and you and I can get away. It’s better this way.”

There have been a lot of moments over the last few weeks when he thought that she would either bail or dime him out the first chance she got but damn if she proved him wrong.

The plan was simple, steal some cash from her ex’s family and leave town. The Blake’s are practically San Diego royalty, Bellamy Blake being the eldest son and a future Leader of America. Primed since birth to take over his mother’s real estate empire. Millions of cash sitting in barely locked safes, easy pickings for a criminal like him.

Clarke came up with the plan since she was still close with Bellamy’s younger sister Octavia. The Blake’s are vacationing in Belize, the house empty over the weekend since they require no staff when the family is out of the country. Clarke knew how to get in without setting off alarms, had the code to the safe hiding in the library and knew exactly how much to steal without anyone noticing for awhile.

They broke in wearing black clothes and baseball caps, her long blonde hair wrapped up and tucked in just in case any security footage caught them sneaking in and out of the house. The job took less than ten minutes, no alarms went off and they hauled ass to his car that they had parked a few streets down.

All they have to do is dump the Trans AM, no great loss there, in Arizona just in case any neighbors happened to be looking out the window when they drove away with a cool two mil in their car on the way out. He has a buddy in Texas that said he’d put them up for awhile until they figured out where they wanted to go.

It was fool proof and it worked like a charm.

What could possibly go wrong?

***

“If I eat anymore, you’re going to have to roll me out of here.”

­Murphy chuckles as he wipes his face with his napkin and throws it down on the table. “There might not be a jukebox on the table but at least you got your vinyl seats.”

She blows him a kiss before sucking on her milkshake straw and damn he can’t wait to get her in a hotel room tonight.

“Can you order us some extra food to go? I’m gonna go take a leak.”

Clarke scrunches up her nose in disgust and he smirks, drops a kiss to her temple as he’s passing her on the way to the restroom.

An old plasma television set is bolted in a corner of the kitchen, set to some local news channel, and he doesn’t pay attention to it until he hears a familiar name.

“Breaking news out of San Diego, CA. Aurora Blake, real estate mogul, has just filed a police report stating that over 2 million dollars was taken from a safe in her home today. The Blakes are currently on vacation out of the country but have understandably cut their vacation short in order to help police with their investigation. The only known suspects at this time are two individuals that broke into the Blake residence around 8 pm on Saturday night. The suspects were caught on the Blake’s security cameras but because their faces are not shown, it might prove impossible to use these videos to find them.”

Murphy’s heart drops, his eyes darting across the grainy photograph of him and Clarke sneaking through the Blake mansion, their faces completely hidden by the bills of their baseball caps.

He hurries over to where Clarke is talking to the waitress, drops three twenties on the table before pulling her up by her arm.

“Baby, we gotta go. Now.”

[theeurekaproject]

Orestes et Electra

"She's kinda cute." Ace said. "The girl, I mean."

Lyra stood in the middle of the spaceport, gazing through the skylight. Her black clothes stood out like a sore thumb in the utilitarian gray of the place, and passing Ministratora castes gave her a wide berth, but she didn't seem to care much. She just looked up through the glass with a rapturous expression, like she was staring at heaven itself instead of the thick, polluted clouds that obscured the sun.

"I guess," T shrugged. "Not really my type.” He wasn’t lying—Lyra was not his type—but she seemed to have an intoxicating quality about her anyway, something T didn’t want to share with Ace.

"Her hair is pretty,” Ace said.

"You say that about every girl you meet.”

"Says the guy who like the green chick from the new Ultores movie," Ace countered.

"Because she's a badass," TB-2215 said. "Besides, she's not even from Ultores, she's from Custodes de Galaxia-"

"And the princess from Stella Bella-"

"She's a badass, too. And talk about pretty hair-"

"Talk about out of your league. And you tell me Acidalia is too classy for me."

"See," T said, "the main difference between crushing on fictional characters and crushing on the Imperatrix is that the fictional characters don't exist."

"'Fictional characters don't exist' isn't what you said when you were crying at Infinitum Bellum," Ace said.

"I did not cry." (Admittedly, he had cried. But everyone in the spaceport did not need to be made aware of this, and besides, it didn't really matter.)

"I was there. You can't hide from me," he replied. "I think you're the only person who could shoot down six people, and then start hysterically sobbing because they killed off-"

"Hey, what's Lyra doing?" he asked loudly, interrupting Ace. "Go talk to her if you think she's so cute. Go on, leave me alone."

"I would, but..." he said slowly, "I mean, they're already looking at her enough. Aren't we supposed to be being inconspicuous?"

"Just go." T lightly nudged him. "Don't be obnoxious. She's supposed to be your pregnant girlfriend, isn't she? Go."

"You're all business lately," he said. "What's up with you?"

T eyed him. "You know exactly what's up. I'm not talking about this further. Not here."

"Right, right," Ace sighed. In a quieter tone, he added, "She'll be okay, you know."

"No, I don't," T retorted. "It's not a guarantee."

"I've seen that woman with a blaster. She shot down twelve people in about five seconds while wearing a tiara of flowers. If there's one person on the planet who can stay alive, it's-"

"Keep your voice down. And not even the most skilled marksman could survive a twenty-person ambush with no backup."

"Andromeda will send backup," Ace said.

T sighed. "But how long will it take? Cassandra’s useless.”

"I don't know. I wouldn't stress about it," he replied. "Things like this have happened before. Remember last week?"

"Yeah," T said, "but Cassiopeia is different. She's an idiot. I think her IQ is the same as the kitten we snuck onto the ship when we were, what, 10? Her plans aren't so much 'incoherent' as 'nonexistent.' You saw what she did— just grabbed-"

He bit his tongue suddenly. Talking about this here was a bad idea. He didn't mention his sisters' names. Cassiopeia on its own was common enough that he could have been referring to any girl, but if he brought up the Imperials, they'd all know exactly who he was talking about—and it was never a good idea to clue in everyone else to private matters.

¨My point is,"he said softly, "my mother is a lot smarter, and a lot more powerful, than Cassiopeia ever was."

At that moment, he heard his sister's name, broadcast in a cool, feminine voice, and he jumped six inches.

"Relax," Ace said. "They're talking about Mars."

He was right: they were just announcing the 1815 flights to Acidalia, Utopia, and Arcadia Planitia—the place she was named after, not the Imperatrix. He checked their tickets—1830. They were scheduled to board in fifteen minutes.

"We better get going," he said. He wondered, briefly, what David Seren himself had thought when he left the planet sixteen years ago—except he actually had a baby with him. Had he expected that he wouldn't return to his home for the next decade and a half? Had he been nervous?

T decided not to think about it too much. He had been reluctant about this whole ridiculous thing in the first place, and anxious about what it would mean to leave Eleutheria unsure of when he was coming back. How long would it take for his squadron to notice he was missing? What if they went searching for him? What if they thought something bad had happened to them both?

He had grown up with these men. They were more brothers than anything else. They'd spent their whole childhood play-fighting, having movie nights, and talking about girls in between school and battle. They were the lucky ones—the sons of the elite, the TB strategists and the AX tech specialists, both immunes, neither concerned whatsoever about death. Maybe they should have been.

He remembered staying up late and listening to stories about distant worlds with the older boys who seemed like they knew the whole galaxy; they'd tell tales of planets with temperatures so low liquid tetraoxygen sloshed around in the seas and burned all the living things it touched, places so rich in carbon and so high in pressure it snowed solid diamonds, the gas giant that moved so fast it rained molten glass sideways. His favorite was the tidally locked planet, with one side trapped in eternal night, and the other so blisteringly hot it was an ocean of lava where the clouds were made of rubies and sapphires. He was always so jealous of the men who actually got to see these strange, alien worlds, and the creatures—or the people, even—who lived on them.

More than once, one of the lower ranking men, someone who actually got to experience the rest of the galaxy, would go missing. They might return a few days later, wide-eyed and skittish; other times they'd simply vanish. Those stories were more fables to be told around the faux-campfires of lights the blasters made when they were charging—tales of ancient alien ruins, of beautiful women with green skin, of life beyond the two known sentient species in the galaxy. Life beyond the Mira.

T didn't think he'd ever really laid eyes on the people who called themselves the Mira, but the tales told about them ranged from hideous monsters to almost fae-like creatures. They were sparkly purple people, and then they were hideous, psychotic animals with no humanity left in their strange, gelatinous minds.

It was probably a little of both.

The propaganda portrayed them as savages, but propaganda always did that. The older men recalled tales of nights with beautiful alien women, but TB-2115 couldn't help but doubt that, too (especially since every eyewitness had described them as "cold," "wet," and "icy to the touch" regardless of their perspective.) The Mira were an enigma.

He always thought they were interesting. The researchers—the xenolinguists, the biological weapons research squad, the historians—were always more appealing to him than the fighters he was supposed to idolize. His specialty—his purpose—was always strategy, military logic. If we put those soldiers there, how many people could die? If we launched the pox now, how many would it infect? He played games of war like they played games of chess—the TB units were the grandmasters, the rest of the army the pawns, Eleutheria the king they protected. But T always found chess boring.

One could only talk so often about endless death and destruction before it got to their head. He may have been a lucky one when it came to his chances of death and dismemberment—virtually nonexistent—but the subject matter of his education was depressing. Playing with people's lives, deciding whether it was worth it to save the people you loved, weighing probabilities, taking the other path because one less soldier might die, putting other people through hell for a benefit so small it was hardy noticed—it wasn't worth the reduced chance of a terrible fate. Especially not when the hypothetical king was an unstable, broken mess of a country who couldn't move one square because every shift required intense thought and argument and the tension was building so thick that the piece would shatter into shards of broken porcelain regardless of what the rest of the board did.

Even here, at the spaceport, people were whispering. It was Lyra—a Cantator in the middle of a nice spaceport?—but something else, too. It was odd, venturing out into regular, civilian life—this talk would not have been tolerated in the barracks. Yet here everyone was, muttering. This planet was as tense as it could get. They were on a dangerous precipice, hovering over the edge of the void, about to fall.

"Hey, T," someone said, breaking him out of his reverie. "Time to go."

"Right," he said thickly. "Yeah."

"This is amazing," Lyra sighed. "I mean, stars, look at this!" She pulled a piece of her bubblegum-pink hair out of the neat braid she'd been trying to wrestle it into, seemingly forgetting about tidiness entirely. "Eleutheria's so big. And it's pretty. I guess that sounds stupid—that sounds stupid, doesn't it?—but when you only ever see the very bottom of the heap you don't have the full picture. The only parts I've ever seen of this world are the little tiny alleys in downtown Appalachia, and I never thought once about leaving, but..." Her voice trailed off. She continued to excitedly fidget, ignoring the stares she was receiving.

"At least she's excited," T muttered.

"Maybe it'll be a learning experience?" Ace suggested tentatively.

T glared at him and handed him a ticket. Lyra took her own, holding it so tight it crinkled and cracked slightly. A voice announced the presence of the 1830 Acidalian flight and she practically jumped.

They boarded slowly, cramming into the cheap seats while the foreign dignitaries in creamy off-while stepped delicately to the windowed deck. T already hated this. It smelled like spent fuel and stale sweat, and the outside seemed infinitely better. Mars, the little red dot in the distant sky, was very far away.

His meta vibrated in his pocket. Annoyed, he picked it up and glared at the little glowing name: Diana. His codename for Artemis. He scrambled to answer it, dropping his own visor on the way; two Suffragium giggled at him. Momentarily, he thought, If you knew who I was....

"Hello?" he asked, his voice breaking awkwardly.

"T?" she asked. “What’s up with Acidalia?”

He choked on his own saliva. "What?"

“She’s not picking up her meta.”

A chill ran down T’s spine. Acidalia always answered her metadit.

"I'm in the KC Interplanetary spaceport," he said. "That's close to the palace."

"Have you taken off yet?"

"I think we're about to. I'm getting off."

Ace and Lyra looked at each other, confused. "What?" Lyra asked. "Are you okay? Spacesick already? I mean, I heard that could happen-"

He shook his head. "Ace, get her off-planet. I have to go."

"What's she saying?" Ace asked. Now everyone in the section was staring at them—as if two soldiers and a Cantator weren't suspicious enough already.

"Not here," T muttered. "Talk to you later." He stood abruptly, putting his visor back on and pushing past the people in front of him. A Scientia glared at him for a second before he whipped out his stunner pistol and waved it in front of his face.

"TB sector soldier here. I'm on military business. Get out of the way."

She jumped aside, and suddenly the aisle was clear. The girls who had been laughing at him before looked at each other and shrunk back, smoothing their hair and settling down where he couldn't see them. He jumped over someone's turned-over backpack and raced past the upper decks.

"I know you!" said a girl in silver-white. She was young, maybe twelve or thirteen.

"Really?" he asked, not listening much. He scouted around a corner, drawing his gun. If someone caught on to where he was going—someone with the Nova—it would be less than ideal.

"I saw you at the coronation," she said, like it was obvious. "You were the one who talked with the Imperatrix." Then, in a deep whisper, she added, "do you like her? Aleskynn says you like her."

"Aleskynn doesn't know what she's on about," he replied. "That's not true." He pulled his mask down. One person had already recognized him; there were sure to be more.

"I think it would have been romantic," she sighed. "Forbidden love, and all..."

T cringed, wanting more than anything to mention their genetic relationship. "No thanks. Hey, kid, where's your mother?"

"Don't call me kid," she demanded, standing up to a height of a full 140 centimetrons. "I'm the daughter of a Negotia. You're just a standard soldier."

"You're going to get yourself killed," he snapped. "Get back up on deck and hide, you hear me? Now."

"What?" Her bright pink eyes turned a deep, dark purple. It was the latest trend—color-changing eyes. It looked just as fake and stupid on this girl as it did on Aleskynn when she went through her rebellious phase; TB-2115 had a picture of her with bright orange hair and sea-foam green eyes in his wallet.

"You heard me."

She backed away slightly before scampering up the pretty marble steps—so far apart from the standard gray steel the rest of the planet had to use—and glanced back at him.

"Go," he called. "Get out."

She vanished behind a featureless pillar of stone.

He darted around the corner, sticking close to the wall before bursting out of the ship's doors. Three Raedae in identical uniforms jumped backwards at the sight of him.

"Which one of you is in charge?" he demanded. Two of them glanced at their comrade nervously.

"Me," she said softly. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied, far louder. "Get this ship off the ground immediately. Don't ask questions, just go." He flashed his visor at her, identifying himself as a high-ranking soldier. The Raeda didn't respond, signaling something to her comrades. All together, their steps strangely in line with one another, they surrounded the ship and signaled it for takeoff. He knew better than to stick around.

At least Ace and the Cantator would be safe for now. They couldn't exactly track them down once they were thousands of miles away on Mars, could they? Well, they probably could—it just wouldn't be worth the effort.

T sprinted off the runway and out of the spaceport, to the astonished looks of everyone around him. People fell out of his path once they realized who he was. They'd surely be talking about it later, but that didn't matter now.

The planet outside was a glowing array of dazzling blue-on-black lights. It was a pretty urban area, covered in countless art projects he could all recognize by name; the capitol city of Eleutheria was all beautiful neoclassicism mixed with neon. It seemed like it would never work, but it was stunning—everything from the ultraviolet lights to the bioluminescent flowers. Acidalia's touch was everywhere.

Pictures of his sister ran through his mind at the speed of sound, tripping over one another so quickly they came in flashes and vanished into thin air again. Braiding her dark hair on her balcony at night when they weren't supposed to be there, gossiping about the upper-class idiots she paraded around with, telling extravagant and exaggerated stories of places neither of them had any business being.

What would they do to her?