#I’m fact they’ve been itching to blast someone for weeks

[geonij31]

Yeah…this trend doesn’t really work with my comfort characters

[mental-dilemma]

DATPT part 5

The boys have a conversation with Bruce before all hell breaks loose. 

we're gonna ignore the fact I haven't posted in months, for compensation can I give you an extra-long chapter? BTW yes I did finish editing this during class, I'm also not great with pranking siblings, and since this was the way to tell them bout Marinette/Ladybug I ran with it.

Read from the beginning:

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“Ok, Damian, have fun.” Dick turned to his brothers. “Well, boys it looks like we’ll have the apartment to ourselves Damian’s staying with Marinette tonight.”

“And you're ok with that?!” Jason asked, shocked Dick would let their youngest brother stay over with his girlfriend.

“Oh don’t give me that they’re both eighteen now and something tells me Marinette’s parents will keep more than one eye on them. So what do you guys want to do tonight.” The three brothers had decided that this trip to Paris would also be family time, especially considering how they didn’t really get any of that during the year.

“Movie?” Tim asked.

“Which one.” Jason was not watching another

“How bout this one?” Tim picked up the box that Damian had left sitting out on the coffee table earlier that morning. Jason plucked it from Tim’s hands and began reading the title. “Night of the living statue. Are you sure this doesn’t even seem scary?”

“I mean there’s always the crowbar wielding clown we could watch.”

“Oh yeah, that one got burned a while ago.”

“Fair enough.”

“So Night of the living statue it is,” Dick said, already making the popcorn.

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

“No don’t go into the basement, oh come on!” Jason was yelling at the screen.

“Jason you know they can’t hear you right?” Tim said rolling his eyes, which were illuminated by the laptop screen sitting in front of him.

“I don’t care Replacement the fact they’re doing it goes against every bit of common sense, it just doesn’t make, well--”

“Sense?” Dick supplied walking back into the room with the third popcorn bucket of the evening.

“Exactly I just don’t get it!” Jason held out his hands and made a grabbing motion for the bucket Dick easily sidestepped him and plopped down between the two.

“Ok, Tim popcorns back computers off.” He said as he finished getting settled.

“But I’m almost in, five more minutes and we get authentic Wayne manor security footage, and that’s better than any movie.

“Rules are rules replacement you agreed to the trade so you have to deal with it,” Jason said munching on popcorn.

“He’s right, and anyway if you keep going at it we’re gonna get a call from Al-” Right on cue, the video call screen popped up on Tim’s computer. He groaned before hitting accept.

“Hey, Alf good to see ya ol’ buddy ol’ pal! How’s the good ol’ USofA?” He said in an overly perky voice.

“Master Drake if I might request you stop attempting to hack onto the Batcave system it would be much appreciated.” Alfred’s voice rang over the call.

“Just hacking into security footage, huh?” Dick said glaring at Tim, Paris was a no hero weekend and Tim just broke that.

“I uh… I’m gonna go.” He said ending the call, moving quickly he closed his laptop grabbed a handful of popcorn, bolted over the couch to the room he was staying in, and closed the door.  

“Well, that’s the last we’ll be seeing of him tonight,” Dick said moving to grab his phone. He opened up Alfred’s contact at called him back. “Sorry, Alfred he’s just itching to get a case. He’s gotten really bored seeing Paris like a normal person, well as normal as you can get given we’re Waynes.”

“Don’t worry about it I have one of those as well.” He panned his camera over to where Bruce was sitting cowl down at the computer in the Batcave. Dick and Jason both gave a small laugh.

“How is he doing?” Dick asked.

“Oh same as usual, sulking during the night, acting like a complete buffon during the day.” Jason laughed, Dick heard Bruce mutter through the phone, and Alfred brought the camera over to Bruce.

“Hey, Bruce how ya doing?” Dick asked innocently.

“How am I doing? Let’s see Richard, my sons hijacked the plane to go to Paris on a whim with no planning whatsoever, I got a call from Damian’s school that he was absent today. I'm also dealing with a very angry Italian ambassador, oh and with all the girls out on other missions I’m dealing with the entirety of Gotham and WE by myself for who knows how long. How do you think I feel?” The bags under Bruce’s eyes were more pronounced than usual as he berated his two older sons for a few more minutes, “now do you two have a reasonable explanation, or am I going to be feeding your asses to Harley Quinn for therapy sessions this week.”

“Damian has a girlfriend,” Dick said smoothly, Alfred and Bruce both paused, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

“Please Dick if you’re gonna come up with an excuse at least make it a plausible one,” Bruce said while Alfred was attempting to compose himself in the background.

“I’m telling the truth, her name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She’s in his class and apparently, they’ve been dating for the last few months.”

“I’m going to search her up and if you’re lying to me it’s three therapy sessions with Quinn.” Dick shivered remembering the last time that happened, He had been suspended over a shark tank until he admitted he needed to start putting himself first. Bruce typed a few things on the computer and let out a sharp whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“See I told you,” Dick said smugly.

“That doesn’t change the fact that---” Bruce was cut off as they heard a scream come from Tim’s room.

“Sorry, Bruce gotta go check that out. Call you later.” Dick ended the video

following Jason to Tim’s room where they saw him sitting over his computer furiously banging on the keyboard.

“Woah Woah replacement if you keep that up then there won’t be any computer left to type with.”

“I don’t care! Someone cut the power and I was in the middle of checking Parisian crime records.

“Don’t freak out,” Dick said calmly, “I’ll go check the fuse box, you and Jason can go check the router. Ok?”

“Ok,” Tim said taking a breath. He put his computer aside and walked out of the room with Jason following him. Dick tried to call Damian to find out where the fuse box was, but for some reason couldn’t get a signal inside the apartment. He walked out onto the balcony waving his phone up wildly seeing if a bar would show up. He sighed as he brought his phone down. Nothing. As he turned to go back inside he felt a small pinch on his neck he moved to swat at it and he felt nothing. As he stepped forwards his eyelids began drooping, he stumbled and reached for the railing. He missed and before he slipped into unconsciousness he felt the bite of cold cement against his arms.

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

When Dick woke up the sun was streaming through the living room window. He felt a weight on his stomach and when he stretched his neck up he saw Jason was lying on him, with Tim lying on the top of the pile. He laid there a moment as the night caught up to him, he began formulating who would knock them out, and how he was going to get out of this dogpile when a sharp“Ahem” sounded from the doorway. Standing there was Damian in jeans and a shirt.

“Well, it looks like you guys had a blast last night,” Marinette said poking her head in. It was the first time Dick had seen her without pigtails, instead, she had her blue-black locks tied back in a messy bun and she was suspiciously wearing Damian’s sweatshirt.  

“You want to tell me why Father called me last night wanting to know all about my girlfriend and why I hadn’t told him about her yet.” Jason and Tim gave simultaneous groans of annoyance as Dick hopped up.

“Listen Damian I can explain,” He said stepping forward. He felt something hook his foot.  “What the--” he got out before red paint came crashing down on top of him. Jason and Tim, both awake now, shot up trying in vain to avoid the downpour only to stumble into more strings. Before anyone could blink glitter rained down from the ceiling sticking to the paint coating the boys. A camera flash later saw them giving the death glare to Damian as he and Marinette stood off to the side trying not to laugh.

“What. the. Hell.” Dick said as he wiped paint from his eyes.

“If you want to live Demonspawn you better hope that this paint comes out,” Jason said as he attempted to shake glitter from his hair.

“If Con ever finds that picture Jason isn’t gonna be the one you should be scared of,” Tim said dangerously low. Damian finally cracked and started laughing. Collectively the three batboys stopped and looked up in shock. They hadn’t heard Damian laugh before, sure they’ve heard the evil laugh and the Robin laugh but never his laugh, it was soft light, and infectious. Before long Marinette was laughing too, while Jason Tim and Dick were all smiling.  

“Ok you were right that was better than anything I could think up,” Damian said as he composed himself.

“Hey give some credit to Luka,” Marinette said, “He was the one who suggested glitter.”

Jason’s eyes widened as he realized that not only did Demon spawn pull a nonlethal prank, but Marinette was in on it. Not just Marinette but some kid named Luka too.

“Wait back up, you’re telling me you guys decided that you should knock us out, and then dump red paint and glitter on us?” Tim said blearily.

“Well, we couldn’t just come out and tell you,” Marinette responded.

“Well we could, but this is revenge for your little family trip,” Damian interjected.

“Tell us what? That you hate us with a passion? You’re an evil psychopath?”

“You know for a family of detectives you guys can be rather slow.” Marinette slammed a hand over her mouth realizing what she had said. “I’m sorry I didn’t me--”

“I love you so much right now,” Damian said gawking at her, Marinette blushed.

“Ok, will one of you two please talk to us rather than whatever,” Jason gestured vaguely to the two of them, “that is.”

“What color is the glitter?” Marinette said as she turned her attention from Damian. She sounded almost like a school teacher would when talking to children.

“Black…” The boys responded in unison.

“And what color is the paint?”

“Red.”

“So what’s red and covered in black spots.”

“Lady----- Oh for fucks sake,” Tim said slapping his hand on his forehead.

“There it is,” Marinette said triumphantly, a smile spreading across her lips. A few moments later Jason and Dick both gasped as the information finally sunk in.

“Why can’t anyone in this family be normal.” The second youngest Wayne lamented.

“Well, at least this means you can join my team and me on patrols. I bet that’ll make Paris a little more interesting.” Tim perked up.

“Woah. Woah. Woah. We can talk all that out later but you need to go get cleaned up before the paint stains the carpet.” Damian interrupted, he didn’t like the fact Marinette was talking about patrol with his brothers.

“I would like to remind you that this was your plan, Damian,” Dick said.

“It may be my plan but it’s someone else’s carpet now go.”

The three boys were shepherded to the bathroom while Damian and Marinette cleaned up the mess left in the living room. All three of them were rather impressed with the way the two of them had revealed Marinette’s identity, although it went unspoken how if anyone revealed it there would be serious consequences.

It took them over an hour to even begin making a dent in the glitter-paint combination that covered their bodies. Dick having been directly under the bucket had it the worst, with Jason coming in at a close second. Jason thought he had at least gotten out the stuff in his hair during his shower, only to look in the mirror and let out a quiet fuck. Dick gave him a questioning look, in response, Jason just pointed to his hair. Where his white streak was now stained a deep crimson. “This means war.”

Tag list (closed): 

@ur-average-reader @dast218 @allulily @acoursedprophetwithasmothie @k-laconia-bug1 @smolplantmum @g-arya @loysydark @mewwitch @itsemeanne @hauntedstudent99 @pawsitivelymiraculous @clumsy-owl-4178 @eeveeofstewjon @demonicbusiness @zotinha456 @t1dwarrior-of-earth @chocolateherringtacofan @abrx2002 @toodaloo-kangaroo @wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @notmycupoftea26 @legodetectivemalsblog @fusser90 @ladyrwby @buginetye

[blushing-starker]

don't expect that line I previously mentioned because I'm chaotic and forgot about @starkerfestivals amazing omegaverse week since it goes hand in hand with finals and my brain only fit one of these events in my mental planner

Today's theme is heat/rut and it's slightly nff, has some sexual teasing but nothing too explicit. I'd rate this teen, is all I'm saying. I apologize for any writing mistakes, I'm finishing this at 11pm before collapsing in my bed.

Tagging @vaguekiwi cuz I mentioned this to her today

Needy little alpha

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

Tony wakes up to a purring alpha throwing himself on top of his defenseless body with the force of a freight train driven by a drunk man on drugs. Peter's been told a thousand times before how yes, he may be as heavy as a goddamn feather, but it still aches when that super strength plops down and refuses to let the victim's lungs function adequately. But his boyfriend is a sadist who loves cuddles and making Tony suffer.

"No."

"You love my cuddles," it's true, they bring him pain and purple bruises everywhere but there's nothing quite as soothing as a content alpha kneading like a kitten at his chest, " and you know it. "

"Uh, that's false. Never said I love cuddles. I tolerate your octopus habits, there's a difference." Peter leans back with a pout and teary eyes, wobbles that God forsaken bottom lip like he always does whenever Tony denies the kid something and presents a challenge.

Nimble fingers slide up into, unfortunately, silver hair and nonononono that's unfair. He snarls, tries to infuse the air with as many displeased pheromones as possible so Peter can take a hint when nails scratch right above his nape and Tony's done. Unravels at this hobgoblin's feet and he's half way sure his soul goes out in a huff as little circles are pressed into the exact spot that causes him so much neck pain.

Peter unashamedly preens when Tony melts into their bed and starts pawing at him for more cuddles. "Say you love my cuddles and I won't leave the bed for an hour. Throw in a kiss and I'll rub your back."

He hates(loves) this kid. Hates(loves) how he sing songs as soon as the situation doesn't favour the actually responsible adult in the relationship. Hates(loves) the way Peter never misses the places that leave him sinking into fluffy pillows. Hates how, oh that's nice.

There are tiny kisses littered on a chest glowing blue, small indentations from teasing lips pressed into spread arms and cold hands.

"Ruts gotten you needy, huh, little alpha?" Not that this one was any different from all the other ruts they've shared since dating. Tony secretly adores Peter like this, extra affectionate the minute his shyness and fear of outside criticism is washed away, replaced with the need to shower his omega in love and attention. Yes, Peter has his heart 365 days of the year. Yes, he'd die for his tiny spiderling no matter what.

But this is just really nice, ok? Previous lovers were rarely alphas so this ritual of gluing their bodies together when rut came was an added benefit to being with Peter. That and the hormones he let out while happy soothed Tony to no end.

Peter nips at his finger, still a bit too early on for him to accept the nicknames. He blushes though, a pale pink highlighting a face much more lovely than the cherubs painted on the cathedrals of Rome. Jesus, he's whipped and all they've done is cuddle.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I love your cuddles. Cherish them. Want them every day for the rest of my life. But I love you, my needy little alpha with a fantastic," there's a pillow smashed against his face.

"If you say dick, I'm climbing down to wrestle Bucky and I won't let Karen record it for your spank bank. " Oh, that's a low blow.

He relaxes, let's Peter sink into him with a startled yelp, rolls them over, sits on the kid's lap and clamps his knees around a trim waist. Peter may be Spider-Man, but he's Tony Stark and Tony Stark doesn't lose in bed.

Well. Not unless he wants to.

"You do that and you can say hello to your toy, the one I know is stashed in your old room under the bed in a comic book box, because that'll be the only thing helping you out when the rut really hits." Will Tony suffer immensely if that happens? Yes. He's a sucker for a needy Peter being ridiculously horny and possessive. Thing is, you don't threaten a man's spank bank. No sir. Everything else is fair play. His carefully organized folders of viewing material are not to be messed with.

Peter's blush is on full blast, spreads over a long neck and absolutely delicious, no. Be strong, Tony.

"You know about the toy?" It's a squeak, normal voice rocketing upwards thanks to the position Tony's ass is in and the knowledge that his secret is out. Which wasn't even a secret to begin with anyway because Tony is in love with the only genius not smart enough to erase his browser history in the lab's computer. Which Tony uses. Routinely. Every day.

"Know about it? I've seen it. You left it out once, all used up on your bed while you were showering. You remember that, don't you? We had sex in the bathroom that day. Bruised my back and everything?"

Peter furrows his brow, works a plush lip and no, look away, Tony, look away. The kid is sin and indulgence and heaven and no.

"Oh. Oh." Whenever he thinks his boy can't go any redder, Peter busts out a new shade of pink.

"Yup. So. I'm pretty sure this is what you wanted in the first place. Maybe it wasn't your intention," he stresses when Peter's already launching up and nearly throwing him off in an attempt to reassure Tony that wasn't his purpose with the cuddles, "but you certainly wouldn't have minded this outcome. And by this outcome I mean my incredible ass on top of that fantastic dick."

Peter tries to suffocate with a pillow held over his face.

"You've got two choices, kid. You threatened the spank bank. The teasing is fine, you know I love when my pretty kitty shows his claws," a hand slaps his arm, makes him grin, " But threatening such an integral part of my mental stability? Wrong move, Queens. You aren't getting any until tonight, not even so much as a French kiss will be given. Unless you let me bite a mark on that amazing neck and don't push me away when I nuzzle you in front of the team. "

Well. Now he's definitely being thrown off of Peter's lap.

He lands on the other side of the bed with a groan, is assaulted by a whining Peter intent on receiving something to further postpone the urge for sex that's sure to hit him soon enough.

An alpha, Tony's learned, will usually be very cuddly and affectionate the first few days of a rut week. Then the possessive, protective side will slowly emerge. Nests of pillows, couch cushions, blankets and favorite pieces of clothing appear on the fourth sunrise. The next morning comes with the need for relief, for intimacy and a marathon of sex that'll leave any supersoldier exhausted by the end of it. The resulting days offer comfort, an aftercare of sorts, where the alpha and their partner show a soft affection similar to the beginning. Nests are utilized and bodies soothed. It lasts, at most, a week and the majority of the population only has to take slightly increased portions of food.

That's for people without the metabolism of four grown men.

Peter needs sex, as much as possible, so the itch for urgent intimacy doesn't result in Tony tackled to the floor of the lab in the middle of an experiment every day of the week. It's like giving him nicotine patches instead of a cigarette.

So now he's whimpering, tugging on Tony's clothes just a little too hard if the ripping sound is any indication.

"...sorry, Tony..."

"It's fine, I've got more. I'm not letting this go though. The teams' seen us fuck against a wall, their opinion and respect, your worth, didn't change. So come on. Just one little mark. One. And Bucky nuzzles Steve and Sam all the time. Hell, Pepper sometimes nuzzles me when I'm stressed out. Please, baby? "

There it was; Tony's secret weapon. Peter blushed like a virgin on a wedding night whenever he used pet names, but the genius knows his boyfriend enjoys the familiarity and subtle intimacy. Felt reassured that they were a romantic couple and not a mentor fucking his protege.

The kid nibbles at his neck, wraps gangly limbs around a body that's always been his to take comfort in. "Just one mark? And light, I mean it, Tony, light nuzzling in front of the team. For today. Then I can get what I want?"

He snorts, can't fully comprehend how the universe paired him up with someone so intent on making Tony's joints ache and creak. "Yeah, we can have sex later, Mr Charming. Subtle as brick, that Spider-Man. Let's go get you cleaned up, make sure that rut has a hard time getting my boy under the weather."

He goes to get up. He leans forward. He cannot, in fact, leave the bed.

Peter bites with a bit more pressure, drops his hips down harder and Jesus Christ, they're never seeing the light of the kitchen if his boyfriend can't wait til it's dark.

"Or..."

"I'm an old man, I need protein before you go jumping tired bones that have to spend two hours updating your suit." Ok, so maybe he's slightly bitter and annoyed at not having enough stamina (or refractory period, for that matter) to keep up with a repressed teenage superhuman. It's not his fault Pepper keeps bringing Krispy Kreme donuts to the office meetings.

It'd be rude not to eat with the others anyway.

"You don't have to do anything." Ah, it's one of those ruts.

Tony softens, smoothes a hand down a back that could hold a plank under a five story building with ease, kisses a heated cheek.

"Needy little alpha." It's his turn to whisper and nuzzle against soft skin.

"Kind, not so little omega?" Tony laughs, presses their lips together so Peter can see what's it like to taste a smile radiating with joy and love. Slowly clicks the button on the nearest nightstand; unless someone is dying , it'll just be the two of them in the room.

(There was an incident once. Groot may have been traumatized by a situation involving superstrength, webs and the Ironette costume Tony only adored when it adorned Peter's body.)

"I do so love my needy little alpha needing me, don't I?"

His boyfriend blinks, grins at Tony as if he's just hung the moon and stars for his spiderling and ok, a little sex early in the morning isn't that bad.

"You love my cuddles too."

"Shut up and kiss me, Queens. I'm not getting any-"

They don't talk about anything too important after that.

----------

A little sex early in the morning actually is that bad when you miss a meeting with the U.N and show up smelling like sex, infatuation and, oddly enough, strawberry.

Rocket doesn't stop teasing for months.

[zwritestuff]

Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes (Crygi)

“D’you wanna get married?” Gigi blurts out before she can think it twice. No, scratch that. She’s not thinking at all. 

Crystal doesn’t even flinch or look surprised by the question; she just stares at Gigi for a long second, blowing the smoke in her face again.

“Sure, why not?” She replies, throwing the cigarette on the floor and stomping on it.

a/n: SPARE ME THE DIRTY GLANCE, ‘KAY? the people asked for it (well, it was like three anons and one person.) and i delivered. will someone read this and not think i’m straight up mental? who the fuck knows! but just to clarify - yes, i did write based off gigi’s instagram caption where she said she and crystal got married in vegas. do i think that’s true? that’s for me to know and clown over, thank you very much. it’s not beta-ed at all and poorly looked over, so pls act as if there are no mistakes even though there are. title comes from Waking Up In Vegas by Katy Perry.

“D’you wanna get another round?” Gigi shouts over the music so Crystal can hear. But Crystal barey registers her, being far too much worried in trying to re-apply her lipstick — her phone serving as a mirror and the flashlight making her squint.

They’ve been in drag for hours now, and everything hurts, aches and itches. Crystal’s sparkly red lips are now a shadow of what they were at the beginning of the night, and if Crystal insistes on re-applying some of her lipstick, it’ll end up being more of a mess, for she can’t get her hands to draw a straight line.

Gigi’s lost her hat somewhere, the last she remembers is that Heidi took it to fool around and take pics with it. She doesn’t mind; it was heavy, anyway, and if Heidi lost it she can use that to ask her for a favour later on, once the tour begins and their lives turn into a complete and utter chaos.

“Ta-da!” Crystal exclaims satisfied, turning to see Gigi. Her red lipstick is smudged around the edges, with half of the glitter gone and she’s pretty sure she got some in her teeth too. “What were you sayin’?” She asks, pulling down the neck of her dress and stuffing the lipstick there. Gigi giggles; she swears she’s seen Crystal put from bills to her phone there, and she’s not sure why, if her coat has large pockets, but whenever she does it she can briefly see that stupid One Direction tattoo, so it’s not that she’s complaining. 

“Want another round?” Gigi repeats, coming closer to Crystal can hear her better. Crystal blinks owlishly, tilting her head to the side and furrowing her brows before speaking.

“Wait a second…” She says, standing up from her seat and trying to walk. It takes her about two steps before she almost trips with her own feet, even while she’s grabbing the table for some stability. Crystal sits back down as Gigi laughs loudly. “No,” Crystal replies, with that high pitched tone she always uses when she’s embarrassed.

Gigi complains with a whine, sounding far too childish, and if they were a little sober Crystal would make a joke about this, but Crystal seems one shot away of being drunk out of her mind and therefore she’s unable to form any coherent thought. She just giggles at whatever Gigi says or does, before jamming to the music blasting through the place — a remix of Circus by Britney Spears, currently, and she tries to do the whip movement when the lyric comes on. 

“Careful, Britney, you’re gonna get dizzy,” Gigi advices, a giggle escapes her as Crystal does weird moves to the beat of the song. 

Crystal pulls her tongue out at her, scooting herself closer in the couch of the booth so now she’s in Gigi’s personal space and dancing all over her. Gigi laughs loudly, throwing her head back against the headboard of the couch as Crystal pokes at her ribs as she sings off-tune.

“I make it hooot, when I put on a ssshowwww,” Crystal drunkenly slurs, singing right in Gigi’s ear, pressing her lips ever so slightly. It sends chills down Gigi’s spine, making her stomach twitch, and she doesn’t even mind the fact Crystal has probably left her lipstick smeared in her ear and wig. She’s left her lipstick in far worse places before.

They’ve been fooling around for quite some time now, running from Missouri to California and everywhere in between. The whole ‘dating a drag queen that lives in the opposite side of the country’ it’s hectic in every possible way, not only because the show will air in a few weeks and whatever privacy they have will fly right out the window — not that they have any privacy now, if they were to be honest.

Crystal’s lips linger on her cheek, mumbling the words of the songs, her breath is hot against her skin and if they weren’t in a public event, with lots of cameras everywhere, filming every move they make, Gigi would’ve grabbed her by her wig and pulled her into a kiss long ago.

“Wanna go for a cigarette?” Gigi blurts out at the same time the song transitions from Circus to Womanizer.

“But you don’t— oh!” She catches on when Gigi stares at her lips and bites her own bottom lip, winking. A dumb, toothy smile spreads across her face as Crystal nods.

They lace their hands together and navigate through the crowd, elbowing people to get to outside, running into their season sisters every so often. Nicky is already drunk, giving Jackie a sloppy lap dance and Jackie exudes gay panic, while Jaida just doubles with laughter and Jan —seeming to be the only sober one— films the entire ordeal. Gigi lets a sigh of relief when they don’t notice them leaving together.

There is, however, a tinge of worry at the back of her mind that someone has noticed them, but she doesn’t pay it much attention, since she’s trying to help Crystal walk without falling in the process.

The cold night air hits them and Gigi suddenly feels a bit more woken up. Crystal sighs heavily and fetches for something in her coat, smiling happily when she pulls out a package of cigarettes, and leans against the wall.

Gigi just stares at her as she tries to light up the cigarette, closely watching the tube when it doesn’t light up at the fifth attempt. She grumbles, throwing it away with a childish whine.

“Got a light?” Crystal asks, the cigarette dangles from her lips and Gigi tries to search for Widow’s lighter in her pockets.

(Widow didn’t lend her lighter, she just forgot to ask back for it long ago, and now Gigi is stuck with a lighter she only uses to light up Crystal’s cigarettes.)

There’s a flame and Crystal brings her face closer to it, firmly holding the cigarette between her lips. Gigi would normally scold her for it, but right now the action doesn’t even phase her. 

Crystal takes a drag and blows the smoke right into Gigi’s face. Gigi is embarrassed to say she finds it hot.

“You’re an angel, Geeg, you knew that?” Crystal says, winking at her. “C’mere.” She pats the air next to her and Gigi settles beside her, watching Crystal as she smokes.

There’s something about Crystal that makes her endearing to watch, even if she’s not doing anything. But it’s Gigi who we’re talking about; Gigi, who’s beyond head over heels with Crystal. It’s funny, when she thinks about it, this all started because Crystal was so unapologetically weird during their time on Drag Race, and Gigi felt more and more drawn to her until she was so into Crystal she found it hard to breathe.

And then Crystal reciprocated her feelings, after God knows how many shared fruit snacks, hints thrown her way and subtle flirting, and Gigi forgot how to breathe altogether.

“You think too loud,” Crystal suddenly says, and Gigi blinks repeatedly.

“What you mean?” 

Crystal gives her a shit eating grin before answering.

“You think that I’m so coooool, and awesome and cuuuute, and how you wanna wife me upppp,” Crystal babbles, holding her cigarette in her hand as she leans closer to Gigi again, hitting her with the smell of nicotine and tequila. 

She brushes her lips against Gigi’s, being the tease she is, and then Gigi groans, grabbing her by her wig and closing the distance between them.

Their lips move lazily, tasting every second that the kiss lasts, taking all the time in the world. The kiss is tender and soft, making Gig feel butterflies in her stomach — it doesn’t matter how many times she kisses Crystal, it still makes her melt and feel as if she’s sixteen and kissing a boy for the first time.

Crystal breaks the kiss after some moments and goes back to smoking, placing an arm around Gigi’s waist. Gigi lets her head fall in Crystal’s shoulder, looking at the oddly empty streets when something catches her attention.

There’s one of those chapels in which people get married as if it’s no big deal, and a group of people await in front one of those, with their cameras ready as they snicker between each other. A couple comes out from behind the doors, and there’s screeching and laughter as many flashes point their way and there’s rice thrown.

Gigi imagines for a moment that’s her and Crystal. How funny would it be if they actually got married? Gigi’s always wanted a big wedding, because if she’s leaving the market, she may as well go with a bang. But a small, private wedding doesn’t sound half as bad — she imagines herself in full drag, cinched and painted, anxiously waiting to say “I do.”

She looks at Crystal, trying to imagine how would it be if they got married. She doesn’t think much of the actual cohabiting, that doesn’t even cross her mind; instead, she wonders what would Crystal wear, and if she’d cry once the moment of saying their vows arrives.

An idea crosses her mind, and at that moment it seems innocent enough, but later on she’ll find out it may have not been that good.

“D’you wanna get married?” Gigi blurts out before she can think it twice. No, scratch that. She’s not thinking at all. 

Crystal doesn’t even flinch or look surprised by the question; she just stares at Gigi for a long second, blowing the smoke in her face again.

“Sure, why not?” She replies, throwing the cigarette on the floor and stomping on it.

And that’s all that Gigi needs to grab her hand and make their way to the other side of the street, not really thinking before they’re at the reception of a tiny pink chapel, filling out their information, scrambling to find their IDs —luckily, Gigi always has it on thanks to her baby face, and Crystal always has it on her phone case— and the seventy dollars fee. Gigi says something along the lines of, “That’s what I get in tips after doing three shows in one night.”

What happens next is a blur of a man talking and reciting some boring laws, making them sign some papers and asking if they have rings. Before she notices, Crystal is pulling off one of her own rings and offering it to Gigi, and Gigi whines pathetically because she doesn’t have a ring for her. She pays five extra dollars to buy a cheap ring the chapel offers in emergency cases and tells Crystal she owes her.

They get told “You can kiss, uh, the bride,” in a very doubtful tone, and suddenly nude beige and sparkly red clash against each other. Much to Gigi’s surprise, Crystal doesn’t cry at all through the whole thing.

When they come back to the party, holding hands and with their lipsticks smudged, the other queens get a little suspicious about it. When asked about what were they doing, Crystal just replies nonchalantly:

“We got married.”

A decent amount of the cast don’t believe her, because she’s drunk and there’s no way in hell it’s true, they say. But others like Nicky, Jaida and Jackie fully do, wasting no time in scolding them for doing such a stupid thing, but they barely pay attention.

It hasn’t fully sunk in the reality of what they just did, but that’s a problem for their sober selves. Right now, they just make their way into the bathrooms, lock in a stall and kiss lazily until their lipsticks are beyond any touch ups.

[nancywheelxr]

Hello, I read doors open like arms and I absolutely loved it! It was the first time I read a fanfic where Hela was not just a stereotypical villain, but her reasons were somewhat explained, which was great. Also, the Loki-Thor dynamic is amazing, really realistic (to me) and great to read. There is just one problem, though... Now I got invested in your story and I desperately need continuation, does Hela attack, maybe she joins brothers against Thanos... Pretty please?

Hey there, thank you so much! I loved writing that fic and hearing this is seriously making my whole week, anon! I do plan to write more of it, ideally fixing the whole Infinity War-Endgame mess, so maybe subscribe to that fic on AO3 to keep an eye out for updates, but while I hammer out the details of that, here is a small interlude of what happens next:

*

Odin's funeral comes and goes like the flaming arrow that lights up his boat: swiftly and with a blazing streak across the skies that remains burned into Loki's eyelids long after the after images should have faded.

The hollowness that sits hungrily on his chest follows its lead, clawing behind his ribs and demanding his attention. 

In any case, it's on his nature to be contrary, so Loki firmly ignores it and pointedly does not try to untangle the knot of emotions that weighs him down. Instead, he chooses to focus on another absence at the dinner table.

"Now," he says, staring at the murals they have not yet decided what to do with– painting over them feels wrong, but leaving them in the open feels just as upsetting. Loki has half a mind to demolish the whole thing. "This is just getting ridiculous."

"Maybe she hasn't noticed yet," Thor murmurs beside him, quieter than Loki's ever heard him. "Maybe she thinks he still lives."

“You don’t believe that,” he scoffs.

“You don’t believe that,” replies Thor, sullenly. It’s been five minutes since they’ve last encountered some nobleman or other seeking either pointless answers or having some entirely uninteresting news to report. Loki is beginning to grow suspicious; in his time on the throne, five minutes of solitude had been a rare blessing.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe in,” Loki waves him off, glancing away from these dreadful paintings. His stomach rolls unpleasantly. “This will not fix itself and neither of us has been to see her in days.”

Thor bristles. “Father has–”

The words die on his throat, halted with a crushing grief that Loki wants to be about as far away as possible. Thor’s sentimentality has a way of catching. And yet, he finds himself foolishly rooted to the floor. “I know,” he says, voice unwillingly softer, “I know, I don’t mean it accusingly. But we need to deal with Hela, sooner rather than later.”

With a weary sigh, Thor drags a hand across his face. “Something also needs to be done about these murals, I hate the sight of them,” he shakes his head as if that could dispel all the wrong that seems to have settled over their lives as of late. “No matter! This shall wait while we pay our sister a long overdue visit!”

Long overdue might be a little exaggerated, but at least Thor has seen the wisdom on his suggestion. Allowing Hela to stew on her own, to make her plans with only her half of the story, well– they all saw how that turned out for him in the past. For everyone, in fact, and–

“My king,” a servant bows demurely, looking nervously between the two of them, and Loki has seen enough of this to know the Bifrost will be carrying only one of them today. “Lord Asmund has asked for your counsel over a disagreement among the Council.”

“I– thank you,” Thor says, clearing his throat, “but I’m afraid I’m far too busy at the moment, tell the Council I’ll be with them shortly, as soon as I have returned.”

The itch to smack his brother across the head is great, but somehow, Loki finds it in himself to wait until the servant has scurred away. Too dangerous to do anything undermining to his brother’s rule so soon into his regency. “Don’t be daft,” he rolls his eyes, scowls, “you can’t afford to slight your Council this early, especially considering the current affronts you’ve made against their wishes.”

“What,” it brings him up short and Loki raises one eyebrow, unimpressed, spreads his hands as if to gesture himself.

“Do you truly think they want me here, brother?” He sighs, “they will not be happy about Hela either. In fact, it would be in your best interests to exile the two us before the whole court sees you taking in yet another monster.”

The smack across his head comes as a shocking surprise. “Have you lost your mind? Or perhaps you wish to lose that hand?!”

“I will tolerate no insults to my family,” Thor replies calmly, smugly, “much less coming from my family.”

Loki glowers, far too much happening for him to keep track. That, too, he ignores violently. Instead, he focuses on his irritation. “You’re a fool and I will remind you I warned you now when this inevitably leads to disaster.”

Thor laughs. “Of course you will, brother. Now, let’s go see our sister.”

“No,” he says, haughtily pushing him towards the hallway the servant had disappeared back into, “I will go see Hela alone while you see to your Council.”

Perhaps, had he had the chance, Thor might have protested, but as it is, by the time he realizes an illusion has been telling him that, Loki is nearly too far to hear his enraged cry, the glittering of the rainbow bridge already twinkling in the distance.

*

Helheim is still as dreadful as ever, greying and dark, and Loki hates this place more than on principle. A thousand years here, it’s a miracle Hela has clung to any shreds of sanity– it makes him wonder what did Odin think of the future; he locked her here and then what? Did the old man think he would live forever?

“Why have you come this time, little brother?” Hela’s voice is standoffish and cool, uninterested down to the vowels. Loki firmly does not listen to the faint voice in his head, so much like Frigga’s, pointing out how much alike she sounds to him right now.

They did not grow up together nor even heard stories of each other and yet, a stranger in the streets would certainly mistake them for siblings after listening for five minutes.

“That’s not the right question now, is it?” He hums, turning around to see Hela lounging in a conjured throne with Fenrir at her feet. She looks well, less pale than before, less hungry, less like a lingering ghost. More solid, more real. It should probably be more frightening than he feels it is. 

Hela snorts, rolling her eyes. “I suppose you expect me to ask next what it is, then,” she cards her fingers through grey fur, unsettlingly in good spirits, “very well, I’ll humor you this once– what should I be asking?”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion for a second before deciding to go for a milder approach. “The real question is not why am I here, but why are you?” 

Her good mood vanishes at his words. “Where else would I be?” 

“The Allfather is gone,” he points out needlessly, gestures the barren landscape around them, “you don’t have to stay here anymore.”

“Indeed,” she says, “and I daresay Odin would just love to see me leaving my prison now that he is gone to bring Asgard down. No, I don’t think so. I’m not playing into his games anymore.”

“There are more choices besides staying here or destroying an entire realm, you know.”

Her eyes flash dangerously. “If you think I’ll return to that place in chains, a prisoner where once I ruled, you are terribly wrong. A gilded cage is still a cage and at least here, I don’t have to withstand those ancient fools prattling about.”

Loki studies her for a moment, taking the chance to collect his thoughts; this is the first time he’s on this side of this speech, you see. In hindsight, perhaps he should have let Thor come along, he certainly has more experience handling this.

Oh well, it’s not like he can say she is wrong, he supposes.

“Thor would say Asgard is not a cage,” he says, “and ask you to come home immediately. He’s a bit upset you missed the funeral.”

“That one is a fool,” Hela waves him off, “am I to understand you are here to do the same?”

“No, I like to think I know better,” Loki shrugs, dusting off his armor to prepare himself for the travel back. Nothing more to do here today, better not to rush her. “You’re right in one matter, sister– the court truly is full of decrepit imbeciles.”

Fenrir lifts his head lazily, tail wagging once as Hela laughs, and Loki calls for Heimdall, allowing the blaze of light to sweep him back home.

*

“Where’s Hela?” Thor frowns, breaking off from where he had been talking with the Warriors Three and the distance does nothing to soften Sif’s distrustful glare. Fair enough. 

“In her prison,” he answers calmly, not bothering to stop but slowing his steps, “although she seems to have regained her full power. I think I saw some trees there this time.”

“What?” Thor makes a face, “does she know–”

“Yes, she’s aware.”

“And she wants to stay where she is?”

Loki thinks of the depressing landscape, Fenrir’s tail blowing thin dust into the air each time it hit the ground, the unnatural taste of the forever dim lights. No one wants to stay stuck in an eternal twilight, at the edge of a nightmare. “No, she does not.”

“No, she does n– you are making no sense, brother,” Thor sighs, huffs, and he looks very tired, worn like Loki has never seen him. Even in his worst days as King, Loki can’t remember looking so exhausted, old. Then again, he didn’t care half as much, didn’t want much more than keeping the peace and send those blasted stones about as far as he could trust someone to hide them.

And, well, if he’s being honest, he had never expected to reign for so long. A few months, maybe, but not years. Thor, he expects, has millenniums to look forward to.

Good thing neither of them is a seer, truly.

“Give it time,” he offers, catching sight of some harried lord of other he never bothered to learn the name, and ducks into a different hallway, parting ways to return to his room. Still, he calls behind his shoulder, “and stop avoiding your meetings!”

*

“You again,” Hela purses her lips. Today, Fenrir is off chasing rabbits; if he pays attention, Loki thinks he can hear the anguished cries and the tear of fur and flesh.

“Me again,” he agrees cheerily, taking a seat into the newly made garden. It looks a little like Frigga’s, if less gentle, less idyllic. Wilder, actually, with poison ivies strangling trees and roots upending the earth. “You will not believe what happened today.”

“Do tell, but only if it’s interesting,” she says, watching flies buzz around, a dead bird attracting the lot of them. “How fares our dear brother in the throne?”

“Surprisingly not disastrously,” Loki admits, “do you want to hear it or not?”

“Not particularly. Since I so clearly am not going to be the queen, why should I care for Asgard?” Her tone is cavalier, dismissive, but he hears the undercurrent of hurt there, the spiteful resignation– yes, she wouldn’t be Odin’s blood-thirsty monster, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, wouldn’t wreak the havoc he had expected her to, but at what cost? She’s making a garden out of her prison, but he wonders how much of herself is she losing with these illusions?

How much change until there’s nothing of yourself left?

He shakes his head. “It’s where your power comes from, is it not?”

“In a way,” she nods, “doesn’t mean I have to be embroiled into whatever court nonsense has you into such a tirade.”

Fenrir comes lumbering back, muzzle dripping with blood and tail wagging happily, more dog than feral beast. Loki turns his nose in disgust, huffs. “I feel I am the only one with sense in that place.”

“It would not come as a surprise. You seem to have some intelligence, I could not say the same for the rest of the court.”

“Thank you, sister, for the glowing endorsement,” he drawls, rolling his eyes, then– a thought. “You should come home, help me help them not to run the city to the ground.”

Hela laughs. “I thought you were going to tell me a story, little prince.”

*

“Tonight there is a feast, will you come?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” says Hela, and Fenrir darts past them, a bloodied deer in his maw, still twitching every other second. “Will you attend?”

Loki grins, settling in one of the benches with the pile of books he had brought with him today. “People will certainly see me there.”

Hela rolls her eyes but picks one of the tomes. The poor lighting is terrible for reading, nothing a few witch lights can’t fix.

*

“Thor has a room made for you,” Loki points out, “it was garish at first, of course, but I had it redecorated.”

“Tell me, then, little brother, do these quarters come with how many guards at my door?”

“No guards, no,” he shrugs, “but I expect the Council will try to riddle it with spies. They certainly tried with mine.”

Hela hums. “Of course. I’d turn them inside out and leave their entrails at the door. Or perhaps their heads in a spike?”

“I would think you’d sick Fenrir on them.”

“He deserves better than a traitor’s flesh.”

“Does that mean you are coming?”

“That means I would rather be left alone.”

*

“It’s been a fortnight, will you come home now?”

“No. Be careful with the nightshade, it’s been wilting lately.”

*

“Thor has been asking for you, he’s convinced the Council you will not be a threat to the Realm. No more than I, in any case. Will you come home?”

“I’m offended, I will not.”

*

It takes half a season for Thor to finally grow too impatient with his visits and if he’s being honest, Loki is only surprised it took him this long to corner him outside his room. “You’re off to see Hela again, aren’t you?”

“I did say I would take care of the situation, didn’t I?” He raises one eyebrow, eyeing his displeased scowl.

“Yes, yes, but,” Thor glares, sour to the bone, “you haven’t been to a Council meeting in forever! Maybe we should let her come to us when she is ready, give up on these fruitless visits.”

Loki rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “What do you think I have been doing? You try convincing the Goddess of Death to do anything. She keeps conjuring the most hideous plants for her garden, but I believe I’m close to getting her to lose the corpse flowers.”

“Losing the–”

“You won’t want to know, they smell terrible, really, like rotting flesh. Even the blasted wolf hates it.”

Thor looks like he might want to protest or perhaps inquire further on Hela’s awful gardening plans, or, more likely, to question him again on what they’ve been discussing, but a servant interrupts them again, reminding Thor of a meeting he seems to be almost late to. Good thing, really, that Loki has arranged for the staff to keep these reminders coming. It wouldn’t do for their king to be late, it gives time for gossip and scheming to brew.

And if the distrust, the suspicion Loki might be the one plotting behind Thor’s back with Hela to– what? Destroy Asgard? Kill their brother? – well, it might sting, yes, but it’s not like he can blame him, not in light of the past decade, even the past few months. 

Still, Loki excuses himself cooly, trying not to allow unfair resentments to claw at his throat.

*

“If they are all constantly suspicious of you,” Hela says, a frown so much like Thor’s on her brow, “and it bothers you so, then why stay? You know the pathways between worlds, why not slip away from their petty grievances?”

Loki can’t help snorting; only Hela would call his crimes petty.

And yet, her question, as they often do, gives him pause. Why did he stay? He could have gone anywhere in the universe, thrown the tesseract in the nearest wormhole and run in the other direction. It wouldn’t have hidden him from the Titan, not forever, but neither will Asgard– which reminds him, he will have to warn his brother of this soon: Thanos’ madness will not spare their home, not even if Loki were a thousand miles away, if the Tesseract were a thousand miles away.

Soon isn’t today, though, so instead, he allows himself to faintly prod at the tangled knots of emotions he had been ignoring these past months. If he were someone else, someone more prone to feelings and such, he might say he stayed because pushing everything away had become too tiring on his shoulder, because he had died once, nearly twice, and when you die for somewhere, for someone, that has to count for something, because more often than not it feels like never stopped falling, but in Asgard, it’s easier to pretend there’s solid ground beneath his feet.

Because running away has only ever made things worse, so he chose to stay for once, is choosing to stay, and sometimes, he thinks it might be the same as choosing his family and that could be enough because it’s on purpose.

“Because it’s worth it,” he tells Hela at last and watches her consider his words carefully, hesitant as she absently pets Fenrir, eyes far away to the sky like she’s seeing golden and blue instead of dulling greys. When she says nothing, he adds softly, “will you come home and see it for yourself?”

This time when he calls for Heimdall and the Bifrost strikes from the sky, the Guardian is there, steady and dependable, to welcome him home along with Hela, her ridiculously large wolf, and the stupid cactus in a yellow vase she carries in her hands. 

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 8

Rhodey and Pepper talk :)

Links to chapter 1, chapter 7

Tagging  @jamesrhodey  @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs @matre-dee @le-ephemere @lo-anlurui @savedbyholmes @kimmycup @typicalcampbell @natty-ts70 @damnhiatus @pubzie @giulisetta @goose-danvers  @donttellanyoneitsmebabe @bookwermthings @tonystark5ever @giulisetta @polygamoussquamous

Anyone else wants to be added on the tag?

Chapter 8

 He shifts awkwardly under Pepper’s steely glare, drops his hands from Stark’s arms, moving to stand from his less than comfortable crouch.  

 “Why do I feel like I’m about to be court-martialed here?” he tries, his forced smile turning sour at the unimpressed quirk of the perfectly manicured eyebrow he gets in response.

 Potts straightens her shoulders, cants her head to the side, spearing him with a look of a scientist examining a bug pinned to a microscope slide.

 “The doors of the September Foundation are open to anyone who comes to us seeking a safe place to stay,” she says finally with the tone of someone reading information off an advertisement brochure.  Her lips thin momentarily, blue eyes growing hard. “But I would very much like to know what the President of the United States was doing fishtailing onto our property in a shot-up car with my best friend unconscious in the driver’s seat.”

 There’s an acidic undercurrent of blame in her words, and James bristles at it.  “Look,” he begins, fighting to keep irritation out of his voice, “I’m sorry Stark got hurt, I really am, but–”

 “Tony,” she cuts in, an open challenge in the steel-blue eyes, and he blinks in confusion, the unexpected interruption making him stumble over his next words, losing his stride.

 “Tony,” he nods his acknowledgment after a moment of awkward silence as he tries to gather his thoughts once more.  “I don’t like it when people get hurt on my behalf, Ms. Potts, but Sta-… Tony knew the risks of the job when he signed up for it, and–”

 “The thing is, Mr. President,” Potts interrupts again, and the smile she gives him is just a tad too sharp to be genuine, “Tony quit that particular job ten years ago and, as far as I know, he never had the desire to go back.  There is no love lost between him and Washington.”  

 “Oh, believe me,” James scoffs, remembering their first meeting, “I got that message from him loud and clear.”

 She hums in agreement. “So why the sudden change of heart?”

 James thinks back to the hospital, to the haunted look in Stark’s eyes, to the cold fury seething under the man’s words….  “It became personal,” he murmurs, his hands itching to curl into fists.  Because it isn’t just personal for Stark – it’s personal for him, too.  Happy was… is a friend.  And with the insanity that’s been the last two days, he hasn’t really had time to process the fact that he had nearly lost him.

 He cuts a quick glance to Potts, who watches him with patient expectation.  Closes his eyes briefly, heaves out a heavy sigh.   “I’ve been getting these threats for the past … month or so.  Standard stuff.  Someone taking issue with my attempts to push a gun control bill through.” He shakes his head, letting out a bitter huff of disappointment.  He’s so tired of this, so, so fucking tired.  “My Chief of Staff and my Head of Security became concerned that the threats were escalating, so they suggested I hire a specialist.”

 “Tony.”

 James nods, staring blindly at the floorboards.  “He refused. Quite adamantly, too,” he adds, recalling the way Stark strutted out of his office like a goddamn royalty while his security detail lay writhing on the floor. Smiles, amused, at Potts’s quiet, knowing, “I can imagine.”  

 Then the smile falls. “A couple weeks later someone put a bomb in my limo and my Head of Security got caught in the blast and…”

 “Happy?”

 James looks up at the gasped out name, frowns at the now decidedly pale woman before him, at her wide-eyed stare, dark with undisguised worry. “You know him?”

 Potts blinks her gaze away, her hands twisting the edge of the blanket.  Nods toward the nearby end table.  “You could say that.”

 He turns to look where she’s pointing and his heart sinks as his eyes land on a simple 5x7 picture frame that holds a slightly faded photo of three teens in high school graduation gowns: tousled hair, bright smiles, arms thrown around each other with careless intimacy of close friends.  He recognizes them all, despite the passage of some twenty-odd years: Tony Stark with those big doe eyes and baby cheeks and an unruly mop of brown hair falling messily over his forehead, Happy – skinny and tall and curly-haired, eyes sparkling with amusement he rarely sees in his always serious security chief, and Pepper Potts – the adorable freckle-nosed redhead in the middle with her arms slung playfully around both boys’ shoulders and her head resting against Stark’s.

 Shit.

 “I’m sorry,” he repeats, contrite.  “If… if it’s any consolation, he’s alive.  Was alive last I checked.”

 She huffs, bitter, reaches out to place her hand on top of Stark’s.  “You are a dangerous man to associate with, Mr. President,” she remarks, her voice forcedly even.  “At the rate you’re going, you might cause me to run out of friends.”

 James ducks his head again, runs a weary hand over his face.  “At the rate I’m going, I may not be president for much longer,” he jokes darkly. Because he has to be realistic here, has to understand the odds.  The people that have been sent to kill him are professionals – ruthless and wholly unbothered by collateral damage.  They’ve tracked him down, followed him across state lines and they won’t stop just because that tracker is now disabled.  Not until they finish their job, no matter what it takes.  

 He can feel Potts staring at him again, her questioning gaze burning holes in the side of his face.  “The people that are after you… is there a chance they can track you down here?”

 “Probably,” he hedges, thinking of the smashed Bulgari lying somewhere on i-70.  Shrugs, defeated.  “Yes.” And it isn’t fair, he thinks.  Not to these people, whose lives he had so unceremoniously interrupted.  He can’t have any more collateral on his conscience.  No way.  He’s gonna take the car, drive back to Washington, call Coulson.  Put an end to all this nonsense once and for all.

 “You don’t have to leave, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 The simple pronouncement snaps him out of the frantic spiral of his thoughts and he looks up, startled. Frowns when he finds no more anger, no judgment in the calm, clear gaze that meets his.  

 “Has Tony told you anything about the September Foundation, Mr. President?”

 “James, please,” he waves her off.  “I think we’re way past formalities at this point.  And no, uh, he hasn’t.  He just said to find Pepper… you, that is, and…” He hesitates, adds with a wince, “He was barely conscious at the time.  I still can’t believe he managed to drive that far.”

 She smiles tightly at the awed note that slipped unbidden into his voice.  “Tony’s good at that – exceeding people’s expectations of him,” she says, her expression momentarily turning wistful, fond.  “This place,” she waves her free arm at their surroundings, “it’s Tony’s brainchild.  His atonement, he calls it,” she adds with a rueful twist of her lips. “He wanted to create a safe place for those who couldn’t protect themselves: victims of abuse and violence, people who had nowhere to go, people who needed a second chance.  Every person you’ll meet here – Tony took them out of a bad situation and brought them here, gave them a home.  A safe home.”

 “All the more reason for me to leave,” he nods, determined now.  “I’m putting all of your lives in danger simply by being here.  Tony wouldn’t want–”

 “Tony is the one who brought you here,” she reminds him, unflappable.  “If he chose to take you under his protection, the least I can do is honor that choice.” She shrugs, nonchalant.  “It is his house, after all.”    

 “Miss Potts…”

 “Pepper.”

 “Pepper,” he concedes with a sigh, feeling more and more like he needs to sit down before his legs give out on him completely.  He can’t remember the last time he felt this wrung out – both physically and emotionally. “Two people, two good people already got hurt because of me.  I can’t ask you all to risk your lives like that.”

 “You let us worry about that,” she brushes off his concern.  Then stands, leaning over to place a quick kiss on Stark’s brow.  “I’ll go help set up a room for you.  One of the boys will be by to get you when we’re done.  There’s a bathroom down the hall, if you want to freshen up.  You’ll find towels and supplies in the closet inside.”

 She moves to walk out, her hand already on the door handle, when he stops her – one of the many questions that have been swarming around in his mind spilling forth.

 “Atonement for what?”

 “Excuse me?” She half-turns back toward him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

 “You said earlier that this house, the Foundation, is Tony’s atonement.  What is he atoning for?”

 She hesitates, her eyes narrowed in thought as she assesses him silently, wondering, perhaps, if James deserves the right to hear whatever she has to say next.  “His mother was murdered by her abuser,” she discloses finally, her voice too-too careful, as if she’s still testing him, waiting to see what his reaction would be.  “Tony thinks it’s his fault that he couldn’t save her.” Her eyes glaze over momentarily – a memory that makes her lips twitch into an ugly, bitter grimace of a smile. “He was twelve years old,” she adds dully and walks out, leaving James to blink after her numbly, his legs folding despite himself as he sinks heavily onto the edge of the mattress.

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘The Coming Storm’ (S03E13) Analysis

As we were told, it’s time for a long-mentioned but never yet seen player in the supernatural to take the stage.  And Michael Crewe is a fabulously ordinary person … right up until he isn’t.  Come on in to hear what I think about ‘The Coming Storm’.

What a phenomenal bait-and-switch of a cold open!  I actually found myself smiling at how ordinary Michael Crewe seemed.  He was pleasant, polite, even sort of fun.   After Jude Perry, he must have felt both surprising and relieving to Sims.  Of course, then Sims had to try to go all Archivist on him, asking about the scar in the way he is rapidly learning to ask.  The sort of ‘asking’ that feels like it needs capitalization.

And Michael suddenly wasn’t normal, was he?  The question, ‘Hard, isn’t it, trying to ask prying questions at terminal velocity?’ was a hell of a turn, and the sound effects were subtle but breathtaking (no pun intended).  The image it conjured was equally striking, and made me immediately worry for poor Sims, who proves over and over how in over his head he really is.

We find out from Michael that it’s actually possible to switch your allegiance from one power to another rather than being chosen and then stuck.  It takes a great deal of effort and may necessitate murder, and you defintely have to find another power you mesh well with.  But for Michael, and possibly others (I’m thinking especially of Tim, miserable as he is in the Beholding’s grasp), if you can find something that speaks to your tendencies as much if not more than the thing that originally chose you, you can switch over.  

Originally, the lightning fractal being that pursued Michael was ‘an arcing branch of the Twisting Deceit’.  I have to think that he means the being we know as the Spiral.  The lightning being therefore is another branch of the thing that is Michael and probably quite a lot of others.  The lightning being’s version of the deception is a wooden gate leading into a blasted landscape of spindly trees reaching up and down like lightning strikes, a place that stank of ozone. It’s still a maze, still fractal, but very much different than what Michael is.  The more we learn about the different beings that comprise each greater power, the more interesting they become.

When he tried to find another to give his allegiance to, he found that he had to find something that ‘spoke to his soul’.  He found ‘The Journal of a Plague Year’, but could not bind himself to what he calls ‘Filth’.  At a guess, I would say that at least the Hive and Jon Amhurst are tied to the Filth. I would wonder if the Meat isn’t also tied in with this faction.

It’s also more than a little disturbing to realize that Michael had already been so consumed by the powers around him that the deaths of his parents to the Journal were nothing more than a side note in which he says that he’s rather lucky that it was only them that died.  He seems to have had a similar reaction to learning that he could commit murder from ‘The Boneturner’s Tale’: it was simply another thing to note.  This is a recurring theme amongst those who have truly given themselves over to the power they’ve chosen: the human connections they had before are no longer of any importance.  For Michael, his parents are at best a footnote.  For Jude her former girlfriend was someone she laughed at for having screamed when Jude lit herself on fire.

So Michael’s pursuit of a higher power better than the one he’d found in the Spiral was a bit of a trek, but it gave us some excellent insight into the various beings who have power in this world.  Given the mentions of the Filth and the Spiral, I wasn’t expecting to get a mention of something we hadn’t yet encountered.  And yet, of all the books he found, I found the book in Cyrillic the most interesting.  It was small and gray, and decided it was at home on his bookshelves (I love this, as it feels like an obscure reference to ‘The King in Yellow’, which was claimed to also appear without warning in someone’s library). He says that he couldn’t read it, but that it tried to read him instead, so he buried it on a moor.  That sounds like it could be tied to the Stranger or to the Beholding.  But with the Russian connection, I have to wonder if it might not be tied to the Circus of the Other.  Could there be a book out there tied to the Stranger?  And if there is, could Sims actually manage to do anything with it? Either way, it’s exciting to hear about another Leitner.

‘Ex Altiore’ not only gives us a better insight into a Leitner (it is indeed a cage for an aspect of one of the great beings, in this case the lightning being), but it freed Michael Crewe to embrace what he called the Vast Emptiness.  This is the being that is tied to Simon Fairchild’s pursuits at the bottom of the ocean and in the skydiving.  It’s tied to the lonely stretches of nothing so pursued by the Lukases. And given their business affiliation, it may be tied to the Closed Eye as well.  It would make sense that beings that exist in perfect and never-ending dark would be tied to something like the Vast Emptiness.

But then, of course, this episode took another twist right at the end, when Daisy decided to make a very rude and violent entrance.  This confrontation took me by surprise, because it came A LOT sooner than I was expecting.  Not only is Michael Crewe  now dead thanks to her, but Sims very nearly joined him.  After all the speculation about who would intercede to save Sims from the business end of Daisy’s gun, it was Basira to the rescue.  It turns out that she had always known about Daisy’s preferred spot for killing, but had never minded it because she had thought that Daisy only killed monsters.  But once she learned about the threat to Sims, it seems she staked out the place and waited for Daisy to drag him there.  The confrontation not only revealed how dangerous and unstable Daisy seems to be, but how willing she is to kill anything she sees as something other than human.  And at this point, with his ability to compel statements, that includes Sims.

The question right now is how far Basira is willing to go to either protect Sims or to fight the supernatural.  She’s very much at a crossroads.  Both she and Jon have both been forced to help bury Michael Crewe, so she should have no illusions about what Daisy is capable of.  It’s also very obvious that Daisy is itching to murder Jon too, despite the fact he hasn’t killed anyone.  She may well suspect that Daisy could try to kill anyone who gets between her and making Jon question Elias.  But would she tolerate that?  To get the truth of Elias and the Beholding, would she be willing to see Tim or Martin or Melanie harmed?  What do we know about Basira?  I believe she’s a better person than Daisy, certainly, but we haven’t seen her limits. Would she kill the woman who’s been her partner for years for one odd dude she barely knows and a collection of archival assistants she’s exchanged a few words with?  Would she attempt to protect Elias if she didn’t think he deserved to die?  Why has she been all right with Daisy’s murder spree up until right now?  Is having Jon as a victim what finally made it personal, and made her unable to deny that Daisy was doing the wrong thing?

And if she realizes that Jon likely did coerce her into statements, even though he had no idea it was happening, would she want anything to do with him and the rest of the Institute, even if she does save him?  

Conclusions

I think we’re gearing up for something major, and I would suspect it might drop next week.  We know that the Rusty Quill mentioned recording a large-scale multi-cast recording, and I think this might be it.  My guess is that we’ll keep to the trend, having Martin record the next statement, likely a short one, or to get cut off shortly into recording when he discovers that the Institute is getting invaded by Daisy with a gun to Sims’ back and a demand that he question Elias.  Elias, I think, will be more than willing to play along. Martin and Tim and maybe even Melanie will be stuck as witnesses.  They’ll be brought up to speed regarding the Beholding, and Elias’ part in it.  

And then Daisy is going to die.  I don’t know if Basira is going to do it, or Elias, or Martin, or even Tim.  I somehow don’t think it will be Jon, but I could be wrong.  After all, part of becoming a part of any of the greater powers seems to be tied in with some form of sacrifice.  Is this Jon’s?  Or is seeing one of his friends do so on his behalf somehow even worse?  I think that’s why I’m equally suspicious it won’t be Elias. He would be too unaffected by it.

Right now, I still think Martin and Tim are at the top of my list to do the deed, followed by Basira, then Jon.  Melanie hasn’t been around long enough to make it worth it, and Elias just wouldn’t care. But either way, Daisy is going to die.

I just sincerely hope she doesn’t take anyone else with her.  I don’t want to see any of this ridiculous little band of idiots hurt.

[skywailer]

ahHHh could you do d/hr + "i mispelled an email to be your name & now we're penpals !! & actually hate each other irl" aka a 'you've got mail' type situation

this entire thing is just a really cute situation that turned into a 16 page situation, because i have NO CHILL

One-shot under the tab, but I like… I also put it on a03 to spare your eyes.

01:36 What book has you up so late?  Feels like something I should read.

Hermione is still grinning, ten hours after such a mundane message was received, and a little too promptly opened, on her AOL account.  Her cheeks are flourishing with all kinds of pinks and reds, and it’s absolutely embarrassing how she’s there, ten hours after the fact, after not replying - pretending to be asleep, what a ninny -, staring at this message.  In her office.  Her place of business.

“Oi, these documents aren’t going to sign themselves,” someone calls, and Hermione’s blush deepens the longer Harry stares.  How long had she zoned out?  Had she even seen him come into the room?  He looks like he’s been sitting there, collecting dust for eons.

“Sorry, I was thinking about how to reply to this…” She fumbles, and hastily closes out of the chat window.  “Very important email.”

“Oh, of course,” Harry says a little too certainly, with a little too much of a glint in his eyes.  The spark of mischief is intensified through his glasses.  He shuffles the files on his lap and places the cases of most importance on Hermione’s desk.  Pretends to not notice how Hermione’s noticed that he’s noticed something.  

It’s all very childish.

Her continuing blush, racing down the playground of her neck and chest is the most childish of all.

“Percy is really pushing to close the Stockton class action ASAP,” Harry continues a conversation Hermione had, in a way, been keeping up with despite her distractions.  She rolls her eyes and nearly stabs her pen through the stack of other, paying, clientele dear Percy wants them to focus on.

“My one pro bono,” she mutters, “I wonder why.”

Harry grimaces, eyes wide with sarcastic wonder as he leans back in the chair.  The leather complains enough for the both of them.

“It really is a wonder,” he replies, but his thoughts are already somewhere else, somewhere rather dangerous.  He adjusts his glasses, as though to get a better, clearer look at Hermione.  

“The real wonder, though, is what book kept you up so late?  Do you feel it’s something he should read?”

“Do those glasses give you x-ray vision?” Hermione snaps in return to the husky mockery of her private life.  Harry smirks.  This is, after all, his favorite part of the day: torment Hermione hour- the hour that never actually ends.  

As if it wasn’t his and his wife’s idea for Hermione to socialize more, to ‘put herself out there’.  Ginny was the one who’d made her AOL account while she’d been away in the bathroom.  She’s the only one who could think up the horrendous screenname: booksnob4life.

It’s a miracle anyone talked to her on that blasted thing.

“I wish,” Harry sighs.  “You just have a nasty habit of leaving your computer screen on when you go to the bathroom.”

Like wife, like husband.

“You rotten little-!”

“I was just doing my job,” Harry defends himself, arms raised and pleading innocent until proven guilty.  “Turning in the affidavit you needed, and there it all was.”

Hermione’s head is smack against the desk, affidavit stuck to her forehead, before he’s anywhere near done laughing.

“Who is this dashing i-object-to-idiots?”  Harry’s voice is too bubbly and sweet; this moment is obviously just too rich for him.  “He sounds devastatingly charming.”

She groans into the mountains of paperwork.  Suddenly, they look much less painful than before- when compared to this.

“He’s actually quite charming, intellectual and witty, and someone I’ll never meet - if Percy has his way.”

That grants her a snort.  She glares up from her slouched position; her back is already aching, and her hands itching to sort through the mess.  

“Please, this mound will be gone by three,” Harry completely disregards her moans.  Hones in on the nitty gritty detail: “So, you’re saying you’ve never met this guy?”

She frowns and sits up, corrects her posture and turns her attention to work, even if it’s the farthest thing from her partner’s mind.  “Exactly.”

His ridicule and peaked curiosity is reverberating off the walls.  “Have you made any plans to….?”

Hermione’s face is deadpanned, eyes dull with the blunt knowledge that: “We’re both lawyers.  You figure out that algebraic mess.”

She’s already turning to her computer, opening an endless stream of Word and Excel pages.  Anything to avoid that one beeping notification at the corner of her screen.  

“You haven’t even brought it up, have you?”

“No.”  Hermione doesn’t mean to sigh, but she does.

It’s rare: this feeling of disappointment and nervousness.  It only pays a visit when she thinks about this faceless, nameless person who’s she’s confided in for the last six weeks.  Who she wants to come face-to-face with, to see and hear in front of her, to not have to wait for her computer to connect to the internet before she can say hello to him.  

Who she equally is afraid of ever meeting, of having the ideal cruelly extinguished by reality.

She deals in laws of man and nature, and facts.  And that blinking little light on her computer screen is too artificial to trust.

“Well,” Harry replies, clucking his tongue as he stands up to leave; job done quite a while ago, and snark breaching his allowed, daily quotient.  “You should at least give him a book to read while he waits.”

He’s laughing again at the sour patch look on Hermione’s face, as if her love life - or complete lack thereof, is such a freaking riot.

That blinking notification is winking at her now, insistently begging her to “notice me, notice me!”  As if it isn’t constantly distracting her.

Hermione grimaces, thinking: maybe her love life is a freaking riot.  If she can’t even reply to a simple book recommendation out of fear of “the ideal”.

She opens up the AOL interface and stares at that message again, thanking any and all gods that i-object-to-idiots is not online to witness this ridiculously late, and pathetic response.

Pushing down the equally pathetic anxiety over literary scrutiny, Hermione takes a deep breath and types her reply.

22:15 You in court must be a sight.  Pitiful, really, the fool who goes up against you - this coming from personal experience.  In fact, I’m still licking my wounds from the last duel; is it really so wrong to love Jack Kerouac as I do?

22:15 I wish I could see you in action.

22:19 Actually, I wish I could just see you.

22:21 You know what- screw it.  Cup of coffee.  You and me.  Foreseeable objection completely overruled.  I want to see you.

“Objection!”

Hermione’s voice fills the courtroom twice-fold, but its inhabitants - especially Judge McGonagall - are quite accustomed to the volume.  The only one who seems bothered by it is the man standing opposite her; he is a smirk in a brown suede suit, reeking of wealth and privilege, defending the undefendable companies that seek to manipulate and exploit the disadvantaged populace.

In short: he is everything Hermione abhorrently opposes.  Abhorrently.  Did she mention: abhorrently?

“On what grounds, exactly?” Draco Malfoy drolls, his posture never once shifting away from the jury.  He just barely turns his head in her general direction, silver locks carefully smoothed into place so as not to stir when he does.  However, something about his demeanor has shifted.  There’s a tightness to the usually casual smile on his face - he always tries to work the jury with his disgustingly transparent charm - and something crackles to life in his eyes.  

He’s watching her intently, even if he doesn’t mean to.

She challenges his stare with one of her signature courtroom glares; quick, efficient, deadly as daggers.  It’s gone before a single eye in the jury can detect something amiss about the darling, if a bit passionate, lawyer.

Everyone in the room has lost track of how many times they’ve run this bit.

“Besides the fact that you have blatantly disregarded giving us any notice of this new witness?” Hermione shoots across the court, directly between Draco’s narrowed eyes. “You’re clearly now leading said witness.”

The only response this apparently warrants is the laziest of smiles.  Hermione catches a few jury members, men and women alike, melting at the sight.  She holds in her vomit.

“Your honor, forgive me if I was too much of a gentleman,” Draco responds gracefully, ducking his head down in an adamant, completely false, display of embarrassment.  “My witness is tired after a very long flight just to be here, and I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

Helpful.

Hermione’s nails dig into the case file in her hands.  She can feel Harry’s eyes drinking it all in, unsure whether to be amused or utterly frustrated; this kind of back-and-forth banter and jury-fondling has been going on the entire week at trial, and months before then too.  

Hermione’s feelings on the matter are quite settled: she hates this man with every fiber of her being; her very tolerant, open-minded, loving, I-see-through-your-bullshit-you-cunning-bastard being.  Hatred and these very qualities can co-exist.  Hermione’s determined for it to be so.

So yeah, she hates him.

Judge McGonagall doesn’t seem too easily persuaded either, and almost- almost rolls her eyes at him.  Hermione stills the unprofessional smile that this wrongfully encourages.

“Mr. Malfoy, being a gentleman entails knowing when and how to speak.  Talking a little less, and letting your witness speak more, would be much more helpful- don’t you think?” The judge responds calmly, if a bit exhausted by the ongoing banter.  She adjusts her glasses, but remains lax and leaning in her seat.  “Sustained.  Jury is to strike the last question from the record.”

Now that got the smile out of Hermione.  She’s grinning, a child winning the parent’s favor.  Her gloating becomes very visible when Draco’s carefully placed, fresh-pressed for company smile twitches, unnerved.  He seems to feel the happiness vibrating off Hermione in ridiculous waves because his steel eyes snap onto hers.  Positively glowering.  

She gets a sense that the hatred is mutual.

But either way, Hermione persuades her face to conduct itself professionally, and rolls her lips between her teeth to smooth them out.  To compose herself.  But she just hasn’t gotten this much joy from an opponent’s loss in ages.

Ridiculous as it is: she can’t wait to let her date know he has yet another fool to pity.

Perhaps it’s her giddiness to go, her impatience to meet a man she hardly knows, that makes today’s court appearance even snappier than usual.  She allows Draco no leeway with his roundabout questions, and shows no mercy to those on the stand.  She wants to close today’s testimonies as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

Harry has taken notice of the extra gasoline Hermione’s poured on her own fire.

“When was the last time you exhaled?” Harry mutters when she sits down.

“I told you, I don’t want the jury to siddle too long with his ‘experts’.”

Harry nods, his lips pursed in an odd twist of humor and affirmation.  “Right, the quickfire approach.  Has nothing to do with your rendezvous at 12 o'clock.”

Her eyes dart between the notes she’s scribbling down in a race against herself, and the opposing table.  Draco has yet to stand up and approach the prosecution’s first expert, is still calmly and lazily glancing through the file she’d been forced to give his legal team, his client absolutely at ease- slender form lounging as though he’s got nothing in the world to lose, and she nearly snaps her pen in two.

“Sure, fine, it has something to do with that.  But it also wouldn’t be so wild to want to keep today’s session back on track as much as possible.  So we can have recess at the usual time, but it would seem Draco,” the name comes out in a nasty little whisper fuming with frustration, “once again is playing games.”

She’s glaring daggers again, and he must’ve sensed at some point her increased urgency, because today he’s being exceedingly tedious; more so than per usual.

“To think, I once thought the law school rivalry would die a graceful death.”

That comment bestows upon him quite the incredulous look from Hermione.  She’s still got fireballs for eyes, and he nearly shrivels into dust.

“You know very well that’s not what this is, Harry,” she snaps, trying to keep the whisper low but Judge McGonagall is looking between both parties, and her watch.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you would so kindly hurry up,” the judge calls out, but Draco doesn’t even look up from the papers, and Hermione’s still stabbing into Harry’s psyche.

“We’ve been nurturing this case for years now, and then I find out he’s the one who takes up the defendant’s case?  His family name attached once again to Tom Riddle?  Don’t you dare belittle my issues down to a simple case of rivalry.”  

Her head is practically in flames at this point and it’s a blessing no one is seated in the first few rows behind her.  It’s a miracle Draco himself doesn’t hear.  How Harry hasn’t combusted is impossible to understand.

You’d think she’d be in a cheery mood, what with her date and all.  But it seems the first-time jitters are short-circuiting her patience and overall temperament.

“Your Honor, it would seem I need further time with these documents I’ve just been handed-”

That whips Hermione’s head nearly completely off her neck.

“Just handed?  I personally delivered that to your legal team a week ago.”

“Really?” Draco muses, a damn-near playful lightness to his eyes and voice.  “Strange, I only just got it now.”

It’s ten minutes to twelve, and Hermione is livid, and obviously that’s exactly Draco’s aim- he lives to see her explode in court.  He’s about to get a show.  “Your Honor, may I approach-”

“Your Honor,” he slides in, grinning at the judge.  “I feel now would be a good time for a recess.  If at all possible, could it be extended so I can get a proper look before my cross examination?  Clearly, the prosecution has been rushing to get their expert on the stand today, and now with this-”

“You know what,” Hermione takes a turn at being rude.  She mimics Draco’s smile and stands up.  “Your Honor, a recess would be lovely.”

Judge McGonagall looks like she was praying for the exact same thing.  She waves a hand at the both of them before they can say anymore.

“Alright.  Heaven knows I need one.  We will adjourn until two o’clock.  At that time, I expect both legal councils to conduct themselves with civility.  I don’t care for you two to be friends, but I care deeply about this migraine your squabbling has induced.”

With that, she drops the gavel and Hermione subsequently shoves all the paperwork at Harry.  Who grumbles something predictable and unintelligible.  Something Hermione doesn’t bother to snap back at.  It will take her at least six minutes to get to the coffee shop and fix her disastrous hair (it was fine now, but once it touched the outdoors…).  Not a second to waste.

And now she has two hours, instead of the measly one she’d expected.

Uncharacteristically bubbly and distracted, Hermione darts for the exit, only to slam right into the most dastardly obstacle.  Who smells like the men’s section of Macy’s perfume maze.

With a cosmetically injected smile, Hermione backs away from the tailor-made jerk in front of her, and unfortunately away from the small gate that separates her from freedom.  

“After you, Mr. Malfoy.”  She means to sound polite.  She sounds poisonous.

Draco is all thickly laid-on politeness, since the jury isn’t completely done filing out.  He’s a performer ‘til the end.  So, his smile only wavers just a tad, enough to let Hermione know, and only her, that he loathes her guts.

For everyone else, he takes a leisurely step back and waves a hand towards her one escape route.  

“No, I insist.  After you, Ms. Granger.”  He means to sound polite.  He sounds disgustingly sweet.

Not wanting to prolong the agony any longer, or chance an encounter with his chilling client, Hermione makes a break for it.

When she’s through the court doors, it’s like she’s opened a jar of butterflies in her stomach.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Ron,” Hermione flails, eyes glued in horror to her computer screen.  Ron doesn’t look up from the hellish paper sorting she’s chored him with.  “Ron, Ron, it’s blinking.  What does that mean?”

Finally, Ron decides this might just be a good enough distraction from his task and gets up from his place among the rubble.  He walks behind Hermione’s desk, where her hand is waving at him.  When he peers closer at the computer, thinking she’s having a virus attack - again -, Ron nods slowly.

“Right,” he murmurs,”that blinking little person means someone wants to talk to you.”

Hermione gapes.  “What? Who?”

Despite her outraged cry, Ron leans in and guides the mouse to that little person, and clicks.  “I-object-to-idiots, apparently.  Are you telling me you have an AOL account, but you’ve never used it before?”

He’s laughing at her, on the inside.  He knows better than to actually laugh out loud, this close in proximity to her talons.

Hermione scowls, and shoves his hand off the mouse.  “Your sister set it up as a joke.”

To that, Ron just shrugs.  He doesn’t make to return to his volunteer work.  “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it.”

“I don’t want to have fun.  I have work to do.”

She hears Ron snoring at her mid-sentence, and glares at him.  To think, she’d invited him into her safe workplace, to obediently do her busywork for her.  And now he was revolting.  

“Do you really think I have time to bother with someone called ‘i-object-to-idiots’?”

“Hmm,” he mock-wonders and leans back in to get a better look at the horrible username.  She’s busy watching his thoughtful expression that she doesn’t notice when his fingers sneak around that hazardous mouse.  “I don’t know, do you, booksnob4life?”

There’s a click, and a ding! And Hermione’s stomach drops from beneath her.

Before she can raise her arms to swat Ron away, he’s backing out of her range, laughing hysterically while her computer makes some alien clucking sound.  She glances at the screen, petrified, as the notification comes: i-object-to-idiots is writing.

“Oh god, oh no.  He’s writing something.  What do I do?”

Her last encounter with a social life was… too long ago, she can’t accurately place a date on it, and God help her she’s barely ever interacted with the internet besides for research and school, and her ability to talk anything but law has shriveled dramatically these past few years-

“Respond, I’d hope,” Ron chuckles, and he’s not at all helpful-

There’s a gleeful swoosh!

“Oh, god.”

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 19:43 - A real book snob would never put the number ‘4’ in their username.  Actually, I think the ‘4life’ bit is a dead giveaway that you are not who you say you are.

Without any rational thought behind it, Hermione slaps Ron’s hand where it lies on her desk.  

“That’s exactly what I told Ginny!” She exclaims, oblivious to Ron’s painful yelp as he flinches away from her.  He curls his hand against his chest, regretting all of tonight’s decisions- starting with picking up the phone and not instantly hanging up at the sound of Hermione’s voice.

His mouth opens to encourage a reply from Hermione, but her fingers are already attacking the keyboard.  The grin on her face is the most earnest one he’s seen in weeks; her current caseload has kept her on a downward stress spiral.  

It was one of the reasons why Ginny had hatched this devious internet scheme.  Ron just hadn’t thought it would actually work.  

He scoots away and plops back down in the seventh circle of hell- determined to sort through the files while Hermione, finally, sorts through her personal life.  

Occasionally between rapid-fire typing, Hermione lets out a laugh or scoffs at something she’s read.  She remains this way most of the night, completely forgetting she needed to fax so-and-so this-and-that by ten, sharp.  She hasn’t had this much interest in the internet since she found out how to send mass emails.

She barely waves goodbye to Ron, and has to remind herself that she does have a hearing to attend bright and early the next morning- but before she can even type a goodbye-

i-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:01 - I’m extremely proud that I managed to distract you this badly, and for this long.  You have something to do in the morning, I’m guessing?  I should let you go?

you wrote at 23:02 - Am I to assume you didn’t have anything better to do?

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:02 - Better?  No.  But there is a closing statement I should be writing…

It’s a shame she can’t hear him, for she imagines he’s groaning.  And she wishes he could hear her laughing.  But it’s just a bunch of clicking.

you wrote at 23:04 - I should let you go, then.

He writes: Please don’t.  I’d rather save myself the finger cramps and just wing it.  I’m a pro at that.

Hermione’s hand hovers over the keyboard, biting down on a smile.  She mistakenly takes a peek at the time stamp next to his message, and sighs as she writes back:  I actually do have something to do in the morning…

He replies, “Oh,” and it’s like he’s sitting in her office, glump and unwilling to leave.  She has no idea what he looks like, but yet she tries to picture this stranger all the same.  There’s the outline of proud shoulders and he’s leaning back, leg hitched over the other.  Hermione’s sure he’d be wearing something impeccable but she can’t quite put her finger on the brand.  “Now why on earth did you have to go and plan that something?  Not knowing you’d encounter an intellectual on the internet tonight?”

“An intellectual?” Hermione barks, her swivel chair twists and drifts back in mock confusion.  “Where?”

Imagination is a dangerous business, especially hers, and it runs wild with assuming this stranger’s reaction.  He places a hand upon his chest, wounded severely.  “Ouch,” he sends across an immeasurable distance of intangible web.

It’s boggling to realize this conversation is being held both here, and somewhere completely unknown and unseen to her.  Moreso to feel like they were in their own space, unknown and unseen to anyone else.

The chair she imagines him to sit in creaks, his body shifting unwillingly, preparing to make his leave- even though he wasn’t ever really here.  “I should go, then.  You’ve abused my ego enough for one night.”

For one night.  Hermione’s pressed against her desk, probably too close to the glaring screen to be healthy at all, and it feels like one false scooch is all it’ll take to drop her off her chair.  In one night, a few hours really, she’s become invested in conversation with a complete and utter stranger.

Despite the little, insistent whisper in her head that this is a terrible idea, and she should really focus on work-

She types: Round two, tomorrow night?

And waits.

23:10 Of course.

The jar of butterflies has become a vortex- a portal, if you will, to a butterfly-infested dimension.

She’s sure there is one butterfly for every message she’s ever sent her mystery man, and at least double that for every message he’s ever sent her.  Weeks of confiding in anonymity to a stranger who couldn’t possible relate to her - yet did - swirl around in her chest.  Suddenly, every conversation is replayed in her head: every Sunday banter about each and every overhyped, politically distressing and underrated novel clashed with late night confessions.  The ones she’d never tell her friends: about how maybe her job has in fact consumed her, and how maybe she hadn’t realize how much of herself she’d have to give- how much she was willing to.  He assured her, continues to in her mind, that yeah, it’s selfish but it’s okay to want to take a break from ‘doing good’ and just ‘do you, relax, have a day to yourself, have a way to define yourself outside of your job.  Have a life.’

She wants to, she does, but the more she waits on life, the more she just wants to run back into her office.

Hermione clutches a searing cup of coffee in her hands, using the nagging nerves in her palm as a distraction from her ticking watch, from the crowded, humming room and the thump-thump-thumping of her heels against the stool she’s sitting on.  The barista keeps glancing at the furniture, certain this extremely caffeinated customer has stabbed two holes into the stool pegs.  Unfortunately, Hermione is not at all caffeinated.  She wishes that was her excuse.  It’d be more of the usual, and less of the absolutely absurd.

But no, the insanity continues.

There’s a quiet, almost indignant touch of expensive shoes to linoleum floor, and Hermione knows better than to look over her shoulder.  She knows who it is before he opens his mouth to say something witty-

“Could you please?” She mutters with a quick flutter of the hand, shooing the pest away.  Draco Malfoy is just getting comfortable, sliding into the one free stool the room has to offer.  It’s supposed to be for someone else, but he obviously doesn’t know this, or care, from his complete lack of mobility.

He’s staring down at the book on the counter with a great deal of shock and curiosity, and Hermione is quick to snatch it away and place it on the other side of her.  He still looks baffled, and is not in anyway moving.  So, she clarifies her reason for not wanting him around this time, and stares him down all the while.  Despite the redness nipping at her ears.

“I’m meeting someone.”

His stunned expression lingers, eyes observing her for a moment too long for her comfort, but she refuses to back down.  

Now Draco’s frowning; the kind of face he’d make if he heard one of his clients had passed away before paying his legal fees.  

He opens his mouth, but hesitates; lips twisting this way and that, as though struggling to form coherent words.  Her request is that stupefying.  “This is the one coffee shop with decent roasts, within walking distance,” he finally says, the words coming out slow and dubious, “and you want me to give it up because you are ‘meeting someone’?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is the only seat available, I’ve been standing all day, and I don’t care,” Draco briskly states, and it feels like he’s actually cemented his ass to the stool; posture perfected from years of practice (he used to slouch like a humpback whale in school), hands firmly planted to the counter, eyes determined to look out the window.  He didn’t even have a coffee in hand, and Hermione is pretty sure he’d make the barista deliver it to him herself.

“Figures,” she mutters bitterly, and takes a sip from her cup- just to keep from spouting years’ worth of bitterness.  

At least his arrival has extinguished all the pesky butterflies in her chest.  

“I never took you for someone who’d go on a blind date.”

Hermione nearly spits onto the counter.  Instead, she manages to somewhat gracefully swallow her coffee.  She keeps her eyes out the window, watching strangers brush shoulders and never speak.  Draco does the same.

“Who says I’m on a blind date?”

She hears him chuckle lightly, and she’s always hated the sound; it’s sincere, and reminds her of a time when- No, no.  It didn’t do to think about then.  It only served to disappoint her when she remembered now.

In the midst of her thoughts, Draco’s become animated and he’s pointing at the biography she snatched away from him.  “You always take your coffee to go, but here you are, sitting close to the door, meeting someone but not scouting for that someone’s arrival.  Interesting.  Except, of course you wouldn’t be, because you don’t know what he or she looks like.  To top it all off, you read that book a few weeks ago.  You can’t possibly be rereading it, so you’re using it as a token for the person to identify you by.  A blind date.”

Skin tingling with a good deal of embarrassment and annoyance, Hermione takes another sip of her coffee to soothe her nerves.  But she can feel Draco watching her expectantly, waiting for validation.  She glances over at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge.  “Are you expecting applause?”

His lips go topsy-turvy, and he’s smiling in a way that’s nowhere near the falsities she’s used to.  This isn’t a show Draco’s putting on for a crowd to appease or convince them.  It’s not the one he practices in the mirror before greeting another smoke-clogged, greed-driven client or entering another ghastly and cold meeting at his father’s firm.  It’s the lopsided smile of a young student she used to know, who was amused by her ability to amuse him.  When they weren’t at each other’s throats.

“A ‘bravo’ will suffice,” he replies, and the mood is uncomfortably different than what she’s used to.  The hostility of the courtroom had become second nature to her, almost a second home.  This camaraderie was completely foreign ground.  At least, now it was.  

Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been so strange to see Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger seated next to each other with a cup of joe.  Practicing a mock trial they’d play out later that evening in class, swapping notes on the case their professor had them studying together, or arguing about the ‘favored’ results on one of their exams.

In law school, they hadn’t hated each other as much as they did now.  It was, as Harry had put it, more of a rivalry than anything.  And sometimes, their combative natures were fun to play off of, to bond over when they were mentally and physically wiped.  But then-

“Why the nerves?”  He asks, and for once it isn’t to tease her before a session or in front of a client.  

Hermione sighs into her cup, watches the aromatic steam dance away from her and kiss the windowpane.  

“I’m afraid he might be too ideal,” she confesses, her brain foggy like the glass in front of her.  She shouldn’t be confiding in her opponent, but the coffee beans smell nostalgic of late night study runs and lazy libraries.

Draco’s whole face seems to be shocked by that, and the muscles pull back in confusion.  “And you’d rather he wasn’t?”  

Hermione groans and puts down the coffee, twists in the stool to turn away from, and then towards Draco.  She’s incapable of making up her mind on him, on this subject, and it’s terribly bothersome.

“Yes, and no,” she offers to Draco’s furthered confusion.  She rolls her eyes, mostly at her own incompetence, and runs a frustrated and firm hand through her curls.  Another horrible decision on her part; she can feel the curls multiply and frizz.  So much for fixing it up.

It says much about her worry over the ‘ideal’.

“I have an image in my head of who he is, and if he isn’t… It’s hard to get past what your mind builds up.  But… if he is, if he’s exactly who I pictured him to be, and he’s as close to perfect for me as they come,” Hermione’s blabbering, and she knows it, but she can’t stop it now.  She sighs.  “That just means I get to ruin it.  As I always, inevitably do.”

“You’re that bad at dating?” He’s scoffing, and it’s meant to be playful, but Hermione is quite serious when she eyes him.

“Yes, actually I am,” she replies, deadpanned, “because I’m dedicated to my job.  And not many relationships can withstand it.”

Draco’s teasing smile falters the longer her eyes remain steady and stoic.  She’s no fun like this.   And he knows she can be fun.

“But he’s-” Draco’s mouth lags behind his words and he shakes his head, frustrated.  “What’s his profession?  Do you know?”

“Of course, I know,” Hermione shoots back defensively, simultaneously begging he doesn’t ask for a name.  “He’s a lawyer.”

“Then he’ll understand.”  He says it like it’s case closed, settled business.  It says much about how little he knows of her personal file.  She’s actually laughing at him, stunning him again for the millionth time that day.

“And so what if he does?  I’ve dated within my profession before, and it doesn’t work out either.  Not the way I want it to.  My private and public life are built in two completely different fashions.  It’s impossible to maintain them both, and maybe I don’t want to…” Hermione trails off, something in Draco’s eyes catching her unhealthy interest; she realizes he’s really paying attention to her, not tuning her out as he’s prone to doing in court (though he swears he’d never).  He’s intent to discuss with her the intricacies of her private life, “and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Isn’t it nice to talk about something other than work, for once?”  There’s a sad hint in there of ‘like before?’ that Hermione isn’t lost on.  And that’s the dangerous bit, really, because it almost pulls her in again, almost makes her forget:

Draco Malfoy has done this before.

“No, it’s not nice, actually,” and Hermione’s words are bricks building a wall between them.  A wall she should’ve never brought down in the first place.  Not again.  The last time she’d done it, it had cost her dearly in court.  And as he full-well knew: “My work is my life.  Other people’s lives.  It’s the only thing worth talking about, especially around you.”

The look on his face tells Hermione he takes her comment as he should: personally.  Draco’s smile is scorched from his face, and he’s clearing his throat against ash, his gaze severe.  “I take the cases that are put on my desk, same as you.”

“No, you choose them,” Hermione rejects his excuses; this imagined scenario where he has no choice.  “You always have, Draco.  Your father may own the firm, but you own yourself.  At anytime, you could’ve walked away and done some good.  You know I gave you a chance to.  But instead, you’re defending a company- a sick, sick man who intentionally-” Draco opens his mouth, but Hermione’s hand shoots up to stop the nonsense- “intentionally poisons the water and pretends not to notice when it irreversibly damages, ends lives.  You and your father have been defending Tom Riddle for years now, by choice.  You chose this case, as did I.  And if I can’t see that man behind bars for what he did, I sure as hell am going to get him for all he’s worth.”

Hermione thinks she’s done ranting, turns back to the pedestrians beyond the glass, glaring at an innocent passerby, but she’s still got something angry and bubbling inside her where butterflies once were.  

“I once thought you wanted the same.”

Whatever that something is, it’s still bubbling.  But she decides she’s done and focuses on the now lukewarm coffee in her hands.

The coffee is cold when Draco finally speaks up, ten minutes to two o’clock.

“Seems your date stood you up,” he says blandly after clearing his throat of something that’s been lodged in there for two hours now.  She doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to stay in awkward, hostile silence next to her.  She doesn’t know why she’s disappointed to see him go.  

She does know, however, why her stomach has turned to concrete.

“I’m sure something came up,” she replies, and it’s pathetic because it’s mostly something she says to comfort herself and not him- because why would he care?  If anything, he should be gloating that her personal life has, yet again, been a no-show.

Strangely enough, Draco looks as distraught as she feels.

He takes his leave, but she lingers.  After all, it only takes six minutes to walk back to court.

She ends up two minutes late.  She’s never late.  At least, not before him.  Yet Draco is devoid of any snide remarks, and Harry’s more bothered by the look on Tom Riddle’s face, so Hermione doesn’t think too much of it until she’s home.  Until she’s home and seated at her computer, staring at the little blinking notification at the bottom of her screen.

Someone wants to talk to her.

For a moment, she thinks of ignoring him, of sitting on the couch and taking a moment for herself.  But then she realizes she’s only thinking of relaxing because of his short, fleeting influence on her life.

So.  Hermione gives into the blinking light and reads:

16:34 I’m so sorry.  Something came up at work, and I couldn’t make it in time.

16:40 No, that’s a lie.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I should be honest.  So, I’ll try, even if I’ve gotten very good at the lie.  I stood you up.  There are nicer ways to put it, that put me in a better light, but I want the light to be as plain and real as possible.  I stood you up.  I was the worst kind of coward because I’d made it to the door, I’d made it inside, but I couldn’t reveal myself to you.  

16:41 You see, I’m afraid I’ve painted myself in a very particular pallette of colors that creates an ideal image, rather than a real human. And you deserve something, someone real.  So, I still want to meet you, so badly, but not until I’ve proven myself to be flawed and ridiculous and real, and you’ve decided I still deserve your time.  

16:42 Of course, you might be ignoring these messages completely because I, again, stood you up.  I should probably stop typing that, but it’s the truth and you probably already knew that and are ignoring me.  But I’ll keep messaging you, because I’m stubborn and selfish, two traits you should definitely know about me.  So yeah, I’m really hoping you don’t think I’m completely spineless by the end of this, and will give me a chance to prove that I’m more than a waste of words on a screen.

16:42 I’ll stop typing now.

The glow from her screen is soft and warm, and the now cozy, familiar sound of talking keys fills her small apartment.  There’s a click, and a swoosh! and she’s written:

I can’t wait to meet you.