#Overdone but still amusing to me bear with it

[violent138]

If I was Bruce it would drive me absolutely crazy that I couldn't complain to Alfred about my kids:

Bruce: "Alfred, you won't believe what Dick did. He's in space again! He didn't even give me a heads up or--"

Alfred, drinking tea: "The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree--"

"Alfred--"

"I suppose it'll be twelve long years before we see him, no messages, not even a postcard."

Or

"Alfred, I think Jason's sick. Tell Leslie to tell him to take a night off."

"A night off you say, Master Bruce?"

"Don't start."

Or

"Alfred, why the hell is there a tank in the backyard?"

"I tried telling them not to Master Bruce, but you yourself bragged about the ability to survive Houdini's act."

There is no scenario the kids can wind up in where Alfred is even halfway sympathetic to Bruce.

[ticklenight]

Tickly massage

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow through the large windows of their apartment. Hawks, exhausted from a long day of hero work, sprawled out on the couch, groaning softly as he stretched his legs. His wings sagged lazily over the side, and his eyes fluttered closed as he relished in a brief moment of peace. His feet, however, ached terribly from hours of being on the move, and the soreness was getting harder to ignore.

Dabi strolled into the room, his usual cool, indifferent demeanour still intact, though there was a certain softness in his eyes whenever he looked at Hawks. He noticed the hero’s discomfort and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s with the grumbling, birdie? Rough day?” Dabi asked, leaning against the arm of the couch, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Hawks peeked one eye open, letting out a dramatic sigh. “My feet are killing me. I might’ve overdone it today.”

“Guess you’re not as tough as you think,” Dabi teased, crossing his arms.

Hawks narrowed his eyes playfully. “Oh, I’m plenty tough. Just… not invincible.”

A beat of silence passed between them before Hawks let out a small, tentative chuckle. “Actually, uh… could you give me a massage? Just for my feet,” he added quickly, not wanting to seem too needy.

Dabi’s smirk widened into something a little more mischievous. “A massage, huh? Didn’t peg you for the type to ask for something so… domestic.”

Hawks shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the slight flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, well, even heroes need a break.”

Dabi sat down at the end of the couch, lifting one of Hawks’ legs into his lap. His fingers were cool against Hawks’ warm skin as they wrapped around his ankle, sending an unexpected shiver through the winged hero’s body. “Fine, but don’t expect me to be gentle.”

Hawks smiled, closing his eyes again. “I can handle it.”

Dabi started slow, his thumbs pressing firmly into the arch of Hawks’ foot, and Hawks instantly regretted his overconfidence. A sharp, ticklish sensation shot up his leg, and he bit down on his lower lip, fighting to keep his composure. Dabi’s hands moved methodically, kneading the sore muscles with a precision that was almost too much to bear.

Hawks’ toes curled, his wings fluttering involuntarily. **Oh no.** He hadn’t realized how sensitive his feet were, and now Dabi’s hands were sending jolts of ticklish energy through him with every press and stroke. Hawks fought the urge to yank his foot away, his face twitching as he struggled not to laugh.

“You alright there, birdie?” Dabi asked, his voice low and teasing. “You’re twitching.”

“I’m fine,” Hawks choked out, trying to sound convincing. His fingers gripped the cushion beside him as he focused on keeping his voice steady. “Just… sore. Keep going.”

Dabi’s gaze flicked to Hawks’ face, noticing the slight tremble in his lips. A knowing smirk curled on his own. “Oh, really? You look like you’re trying not to laugh.”

Hawks’ heart raced. He was usually good at keeping his cool, but Dabi’s hands were relentless. “I’m not laughing,” he lied, his voice wavering as Dabi’s fingers moved to his heel, pressing in just the right (or wrong) spot.

Dabi chuckled, clearly enjoying Hawks’ reaction far too much. His fingers slowed their pace, dragging deliberately over the ball of Hawks’ foot, sending another wave of ticklish agony up the hero’s leg. Hawks clenched his jaw, desperately trying to control the bubbling laughter that was dangerously close to spilling out.

“Ticklish, are we?” Dabi asked, his tone playful and smug.

“N-no,” Hawks stammered, his cheeks burning. “It’s just—ah!” His breath hitched as Dabi’s thumb slid across the sensitive arch again.

Dabi’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Liar. You’re fighting it so hard. What’s the matter, Hawks? Too tough to admit you’re ticklish?”

Hawks tried to glare, but it quickly dissolved into a strained, twitchy smile as Dabi’s hands continued their torment. The massage had now become an exercise in restraint. Hawks squirmed on the couch, his wings fluttering in helpless little movements, every nerve in his foot screaming in ticklish delight.

“I-I’m fine,” Hawks lied again, though the quiver in his voice gave him away.

Dabi, ever the sadist, leaned in closer, his breath brushing against Hawks’ ankle as his fingers worked over the sole with torturous precision. “You don’t sound fine. You sound like you’re about to crack.”

Hawks bit his lip harder, trying to stifle the laughter that was clawing at his throat. But when Dabi’s fingers danced over the top of his foot, tracing light, teasing circles, it became too much.

A soft, breathy giggle escaped Hawks’ lips before he could stop it.

Dabi’s eyes lit up with victory. “Oh, there it is. Knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”

“D-Dabi,” Hawks gasped, his laughter starting to spill out more freely now as Dabi’s fingers found every ticklish spot on his foot. “Th-this isn’t—ha—what I meant by a massage!”

Dabi grinned wickedly. “Too bad. You should’ve thought of that before asking me.”

His hands continued their relentless, tickling massage, making Hawks writhe on the couch, his wings flapping helplessly as laughter overtook him. He tried to pull his foot away, but Dabi held him firmly in place, his grip unyielding.

“D-Dabi! Stop!” Hawks’ voice was breathless and shaky, his face flushed with laughter and embarrassment.

But Dabi wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Hawks’ ankle as he whispered, “Not until you admit you’re ticklish.”

Hawks’ laughter broke into a full-on giggle fit as Dabi’s fingers dug into the sensitive spots just below his toes, making his whole body shudder. He could barely form coherent words between his gasps for breath. “O-okay! I-I admit it! I’m ticklish!”

Dabi finally relented, pulling his hands back and releasing Hawks’ foot. Hawks slumped back against the couch, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his face still flushed from the tickling.

Dabi sat back, looking smug and far too pleased with himself. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Hawks glared at him through half-lidded eyes, though there was no real anger behind it. “You’re a menace.”

Dabi shrugged, his smirk never fading. “You asked for it, birdie.”

Hawks let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. He hadn’t expected Dabi to turn a simple massage into a ticklish ordeal, but he supposed that’s what he got for asking. Still, as he stretched out on the couch, his feet no longer aching but buzzing with the memory of Dabi’s touch, he couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth in his chest.

Tickling aside, there was something comforting about knowing Dabi could turn even the most mundane moment into something unforgettable.

[invisiblerambler]

I want to just ramble about this so I'm not tagging it under the bear, but that is what this is going to be about.

The way this show defines and redefines and rips open ambition makes my heart hurt.

Yes this show is about a million and one things, but the portrayal of ambition is so singular.

I love the way that Carmy is past the point of even knowing why he wants what he wants, but he still wants it but almost every day he thinks about giving it up and doing anything else.

the innate pressure of being very good at the thing you want to make your career and not knowing how to handle that pressure. I could and have cried about it.

I think it's easy to write off the idea that there were high expectations for Carmy because he talked about not being good in school whatever, but to me he reads like someone that the second he showed talent in anything people we like wow this is the thing he's a genius.

He feels like a character that is incredibly intelligent that was not set up to succeed in the traditional school system, so anything else he showed interest in everyone jumped on.

There's a weird paradox of being the freaky genius child who no one can figure out why they're failing in school, not that I'm speaking from any level of experience.

I can't even fully explain the way that between Syd and Carmy the manifestations of my ambition feel so fully realized on this show.

I don't think either Carmy or Syd were given room to be anything except exceptional in their own ways. That is so much to put on a child, and their opposite reactions to that stress is amusing if it wasn't so sad.

It feels so overdone to talk about the pressure that puts on a kid, but this show feels like what happens when those kids don't burn out in adulthood. The thing they wanted continues to fuel them sometimes to their own detriment.

I have the most complicated relationship with ambition. Some days I want my dreams to come true so badly it already feels fully formed in front of me and other days I feel resentment for my own ambition so deep inside me I feel sick.

I came from a place where you weren't taught to want big things. I was encouraged just as much I was discouraged, and so much of the hopes and dreams of every adult around me rested on my tiny shoulders.

I felt it nearly every second of every day and I am still climbing out from that hole, trying to decide what I want and if I want it and negotiating with myself and losing nearly every second of every single day.

My dreams expanded when my world expanded, the possibilities grew as I realized that those who had encouraged me were right, their faith wasn't misplaced and I had something. Something I had to nurture, since letting it die felt like squandering something from the divine.

I'm still constantly uncomfortable with that gift. I fight screaming in my head as I attempt to nurture and squash out my gifts at the exact same time.

My intuition tells me that the discomfort I feel is because of the unknown. I am embarking on a path never set before. My trauma screams that this was all a waste, I dreamed too big, I set myself up for failure and the only way to remedy that is to return to my hometown in shame. A place I have no current ties to, but returning back to where I came from, in the year I have been away, feels like it would heal me, fix me, complete me.

Deep down I know it would actually just obscure the things I don't want to deal with. My trauma may have followed me across the country, but the perspective and clarity I have here is something that I have never possessed before.

There's a nakedness to being in a place where no one knows where you came from. You are an entirely new person here, and yet all of my trauma and shame and what feels like an inability to cope are louder here.

There is no geographical cure. I know moving back to the Midwest to self-sabotage over allowing for possible failure isn't a solution, it's a band-aid. Yet I want to welcome back the familiarity, I want to stand on the shores of a lake instead of an ocean, drive on two-lane highways instead of freeways.

I miss all the things I took for granted, I am happier here now, but the part of me I resented. The parts of me shaped by growing up there feel so present. I wonder sometimes if it's anything like withdrawal. I never understood homesickness growing up because I always resented the place I was supposed to call home, it was a slow poison. Now it feels like I would give anything for that poison.

Chappell Roan said once that she wrote The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess for all the people who knew they had to leave, but never wanted anything more than to be loved by the place they came from.

I haven't stopped thinking about it since I heard her say that because I had spent my whole life convinced I hated where I came from. That hating it was the only way I could ever live. Now I realize all I ever wanted was to be loved as much I loved it.

[geekynichelle]

So, I saw this tweet, and it started a conversation about the appeal of Harley Quinn, and I wrote this because I was possessed. It’s long so I put it below the cut. All opinions are my own.

Is Harleen Quinzel overrated? Honestly, I don’t know. Nor do I really care. Plenty of people love characters that others find overdone, and that shouldn’t have any bearing on whether or not they are liked on a personal level. You could equally say that Loki or Deadpool are overrated, and while I do believe race plays a role in why all three of these chaos agents are popular, gender is obviously why more people are vocal about finding Harley played out. 

Getting that out of the way, let’s dive into the nitty gritty. What the hell is appealing about this clown to a Black, queer and neurodivergent woman? To start I want to bring into play the idea that what Black women do and don’t enjoy is often put in a narrow box. Growing up I knew my mother liked action movies (even more so than my step-dad- huzzah for breaking gender stereotypes), and in her own words the reason for that is that she likes to see “people who deserve it get their ass kicked”. In our real life, society rarely dishes out justice for Black people the way we deserve, and while the action genre is made up of mostly white dudes, who is good and who is bad are clear cut, and we can always root for someone who punches out racists and misogynists. As a result I should have been less surprised that my mother would like Deadpool, but it still amuses me to this day. 

Deadpool, in his sequel film, has a moment when he with no hesitation shoots a man who he knows to be a child abuser, because unlike a traditional heroic figure there’s no question in his mind that that was the right thing to do. Whether this would be good in the real world or not is irrelevant because the catharsis comes from the fact that to Deadpool the child harmed mattered way more than anything other factors in that scenario. 

This is the appeal of those types of characters in general. Translating this to Harley Quinn in that way is easy. Evil deeds aside, her initial/general backstory is that she was a doctor (of psychology) that fresh out of grad school was sent to talk to the Joker, who in turn manipulated her compassion and convinced her to free him/join him. In the 90s animated series, which is where she first appears, the episode Mad Love shows us that not only was Harley taken advantage of, but also that she is extremely capable on her own. Batman point blank tells the Joker (after he’s hit her/tossed her out a window) that Harley is the only person that’s come that close to killing him. The Joker (who was initially going to leave her for good) realizes that he’s unleashed someone arguably better than him into the world, and like any abuser decides to get back on her good side to maintain control over her chaos rather than let her realize her worth. 

The new animated series dedicated just to Quinn, explores that notion further, and at some point during the second season sees Harley realize that she isn’t a hero or a villain, but rather a reactionary. She seems to have a soft spot for other abuse victims and in the series draws the line at over excessive killing, especially of innocent people. Ivy even states that while Harley is a criminal she is (at least in Ivy’s eyes) a good person. She has after all genuinely helped Ivy, and on occasion has helped save the day of her own free will. 

Obviously, like with any comic book character, how she is characterized depends on the writer, but it’s fair to say based on the media I’ve personally consumed putting Harley in a morality box is a wasted effort. What makes her special is that she resides in those grey areas. As I mentioned earlier her ability to reside there and remain popular of course relates to her whiteness, however I do think it’s important to remember that Harley Quinn is also Jewish and is therefore not a complete stranger to concepts of oppression. She is also in recent years officially considered Bisexual, and while all Batman villains are vaguely mental ill, she does fill up that category as well. 

I came across a tweet earlier today that suggested her whiteness is why many of her fans have turned her into a girlboss and downplayed her violence. I can certainly see where that person was coming from, but on a personal note, based on the above information that is certainly not the case for me. I know that I would enjoy Harley just as much (if not more) if she was a non-white woman, and that her violence and moral ambiguity are apart of what makes her a fun character. I’d never downplay her evil deeds. Granted, what I consider canon has a lot to do with the stories I’ve consumed (i.e I’ve never read anything about her involvement in the Jason Todd storyline therefore to me it doesn’t really exist), but ultimately Harley is no girlboss. She is a mess, and to quote Marie Kondo, “I love mess.” 

To put this further in perspective, when I was a kid I didn’t even know Bisexuality was a thing, but I did know that I liked when Harley and Ivy were together, and now as an adult who is out, seeing them officially canon affected me a bit more than I thought it would. They might not be good people, but I don’t think representation needs to always be about being squeaky clean. And ultimately that’s the rub isn’t it? Harley isn’t exactly like me and I’m not exactly like her, but she represents a level of chaos that yeah, as a marginalized person I’m not allowed to express. She can be a good person, but she can also be extremely outrageous. She shows that being the victim of abuse isn’t about how smart you are and that it can happen to anyone. She also shows that you can leave that behind and get stronger mentally and physically. In the case of the new animated series she does this without motherhood/babies thrust upon her, but through good friends who love her. 

Why Harley Quinn? Well, for me my current answer is because she’s complex. If you asked me as a child though, I’d probably say it’s because she was goofy and fun, and I wanted better for her than the Joker. Either way she’s currently being written by a Black, Disabled, Queer writer and as a long time fan, I absolutely look forward to the nuisances that’ll be added to the character as a result.

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter 3)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Does fluff warrant a warning? Well, before we get into the gritty mission, here be some fluffy fluff. Oh, and language. Because I speak that shit.

Thursday came sooner than anticipated, and with it came that awful rush of dread that enveloped you each and every time you set foot in an airport. You’d think you’d be over this by now, your job shuttling you off to the far corners of the Earth, making it so that the only way you could ever get to where you needed to be – Bogota, Juarez, Islamabad, home – was by plane. But… no. The fear of plummeting to an inevitably fiery death inside a giant can filled with the recycled breath of dozens – even hundreds – of strangers was one you were simply never going to get over.

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Benny barks out amid a thunderous laugh as he watches you down another pill and chase it with a tiny bottle of vodka. “Is it even safe to take Xanax with alcohol?” he asks, his face screwing up in confusion, a hint of concern breaking through the amusement. “Are you so scared of flying that you’re willing to risk an OD?”

“Seems strange, given your profession,” Tom mutters as he sidesteps Ben to slide into the row of seats behind you.

You offer no reply, instead blinking your eyes shut in an attempt to block out the awful activity of preparing for takeoff. The doors haven’t even closed yet, people still steadily boarding the plane, your new teammates still stowing bags and chatting merrily around you, and yet you’ve already buckled in, pulled the lap belt as tight as it will go, and downed your second Xanax in an hour.

“She’ll be alright,” you hear from above. You crack open a single eye and look up to see Santiago looming over the back of your seat. “Fish,” he calls out, tossing a quick glance at the man still struggling with fitting everything into the overhead compartment. “You sit with her. Tell her about all the times you’ve flown. Keep her calm.”

“I’m calm,” you mumble under your breath.

He looks down at you and raises a brow, gaze holding yours even as he tells his friend, “And don’t let her pop any more pills.”

“No shit,” Ben chuckles as he steps out into the aisle, relinquishing his seat just as Frankie finally slams shut the door on the overhead bin. “We’ll have to scrape her off the floor otherwise.”

Frankie slides in next to you, the tiny armrest barely allowing for any space between you and the scorching heat radiating off of him. Normally you might be okay with that, it certainly felt good in the chilly parking lot the other night. But right now you’re feeling flush and hot and on the verge of possible combustion, the odd suck and click sound of the plane’s door shutting and sealing you in causing a bead of sweat to begin sliding down your temple.

“Truth be told, I’m not too wild about being on flights where I’m not the pilot,” he says, his soft voice pitched perfectly to sound just over the hum of the plane, the new buzzing in your ears, and the sudden woosh of air from the vent that he reaches over to switch on above you.

“Comforting,” you mutter, shutting your eyes against the harsh, dry air blowing down on you, but inclining your head back into the steady, cooling stream just the same.

“Just don’t tell her about how many times you’ve crashed, Fish,” Ben laughs from across the aisle. You bolt upright and crane your neck around the man beside you so as to stare the giggly child down, wide eyes gleaming with a very real threat that actually causes his smirk to break and a subtle, “sorry,” to slip past his lips.

Frankie takes your hand, pries it away from the armrest that you’d been holding in a death grip, and he gives you a little nudge with his elbow, encouraging you to lean back in your seat. “I’ve never crashed,” he corrects, shooting Benny a swift, reprimanding glare before turning back to you. “I’ve just… had a couple of rough landings. But each time everyone walked away fine.”

“Yeah?” you question, critical brow cranking high. “And how often do people walk away from rough landings on a commercial airplane?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Not often,” he admits. “But they also don’t go down often, so there’s that.”

Your eyes blow wide, slight gasp catching in your throat as you eke out, “Are you trying to jinx us?”

He twists in his seat to look at you, his fingers wrapping just a little bit tighter around your hand as you inadvertently shake in his grasp. “Trust me, princesa, this is the least dangerous thing we’re gonna do this week.”

The heady bolt of fear subsides a bit, quickly replaced by a tinge of confusion – princesa? – and a hint of irritation. Your face twists into an overdone pout – “Don’t call me that.” – but you can’t deny that his words do, somehow, put you at ease. Or perhaps the Xanax is just kicking in. Either way, you find yourself settling back into the seat, body and mind both suddenly sluggish and heavy. You twist towards him, away from the window and the blinding glare of the early morning sun as it reflects off the stark white wing of the plane, and you let out a small disgruntled grunt as the too-tight lap belt digs into your hip.

Frankie easily contorts himself in his seat so that he’s able to face you bodily, smiling – perhaps teasing – eyes never disconnecting from yours as he too settles in and reclines his head to the headrest. “Gotta have some kind of callsign over the radio,” he states, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a coy, crooked smile. “You don’t like princesa… how about loquita?”

“Fuck you,” you bark out amid a snort of a laugh, the offended pitch to your voice and wide-eyed stare setting him to very nearly vibrate with stifled giggles.

He takes a moment to swallow down his obvious amusement, holding your gaze all the while. Then he clears his throat and pulls his features into a stern set. “Don’t take it personally. I’d call anyone who hates to fly crazy.”

You issue out a short, incredulous scoff. “Maybe if I were the pilot, I’d like it. If I were in control.”

“Yeah,” he admits with a nod and a sigh. “That helps.”

But the truth is, you don’t actually think it would help that much. Because, well… “What person in their right mind thinks, you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to ignore the fact that God gave me legs instead of wings and I’d like to leave the ground. I mean… the ground is the safe place, man. What are you thinking?”

He smiles over at you, a soft, tender expression that sets off a flutter deep in your core. “What kind of person wants to stay on the ground with everybody else when they can climb into the heavens and move through the clouds?”

You bite back the grin that begs to break out and instead flatten your face in the most deadpan expression you can muster. “Are you fucking with me right now?” He merely shoots a wink in response, the light from outside your window reflecting in his deep brown eyes as they pierce into you. You roll your own eyes, but can just barely hold back the quirk to your lips as you say simply, “You’re the crazy one.”

He lets loose with a soft chuckle and shifts further in his seat so that he’s entirely facing you. “You never wanted to play in the clouds?” he asks, grin pulling wider. You feel a new heat – a welcome and comforting one, not the panicky, dizzying burn from before – blossom inside of you as you notice a single dimple cave in on the side of his stubble-dusted face.

A long sigh escapes you. “I mean, I did watch a lot of Care Bears growing up,” you offer, working to keep your expression still and set. But his smile simply grows and it’s just a breath of a moment before you break and let loose with a beam of your own. “God,” you nearly whine as an airy chuckle spills out of you. “Play in the clouds? You’re so cheesy.”

“Hey, I happen to really like cheese.” He raises a rather serious brow as he asks, tone low and sincere, “Can you imagine what the world would be like without cheese?”

You force a stoic glare, bite back a smile. “It’d be terrible. No nachos or pizza…”

He shakes his head slowly, sadly. “All the macaroni would be naked.”

You release a soft sigh. “One third of those popcorn tins would be empty.”

“Or filled with, I dunno, kale-dusted popcorn or something.”

You snort out a laugh, nose wrinkling in disgust. “What would we eat with tomato soup? Grilled eggplant?”

He shrugs. “What would Green Bay fans wear to the game?”

And again, you laugh, this one full and buoyant. “Poor Wisconsin, their entire economy would collapse.”

“What about the French?” he asks.

And it’s your turn to offer up a shrug. “They’ve still got wine.”

He stares at you for a lingering moment before his eyes flicker just past and out the window. “Maybe it sounds a little cheesy,” he begins, ticking his chin towards you, towards the tiny airplane window behind you. “But look out there and tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to climb out there right now and bounce through those fluffy little bastards.”

Your brows pull tightly together, a quick flicker of pure shock shooting through you and causing you to whip around so fast that a crack sounds from your spine. Outside the window are, in fact, hordes of white puffy clouds peppering the bright blue sky. “What…?” you choke out, utter confusion lacing the word.

When had you taken off? When had you reached altitude? How had he managed to distract you so effectively as you climbed thousands of miles into the sky in this deathtrap tube?

You stare out the window for a long moment, giving yourself time to breathe, to comprehend. Allowing your fingers – which had just clamped painfully down on Frankie’s hand yet again – to slowly relax and loosen their terrified hold. No, there’s no part of you that wants to go out there and bounce around in the damn clouds. No. Way. In. Hell. But there is a part of you that begins to get lost in the soft, subtle beauty stretching out all around you. It’s still scary as hell. But it’s also… amazing.

Frankie watches as you continue to gaze out at the sprawling sky, bright blue on this beautiful day, a day he’d like nothing more in this world than to be out in, flying through the wide-open sky. Your hand remains wrapped around his, even if the intense grip has slackened. And your shoulders are still nearly pressed to you ears, so tense and taut. But there’s a sort of wonder wrapping about you now too, a look of, if not joy, at least appreciation.

“Los cielos,” he mutters from behind, seemingly to himself, his tone dreamy and airy and full of something like… wonder. You toss a glance over your shoulder and catch the way the sun lights his face as he stares just past you, his eyes fixated on the world beyond. You stare for perhaps a beat too long, not realizing until his gaze slowly shifts from the window to you, catching you in the act. The dimple caves again, wide smile pulling once more as he locks onto your eyes, light laughter bubbling out of him as your gaze pings away in a swift moment of embarrassment. He squeezes your hand, tightening his grip on your fingers for a single, quick, perfect millisecond before he utters, honeyed voice once again carrying more than a hint of teasing, “Cielo.”

Confused, you look back up at him, your brow twisting. But you let out a groan the moment he tenders another wink, the moment you realize that he’s just offered up another ridiculous callsign suggestion. You roll you eyes again, but make no move to pull out of his hold nor turn from his heated gaze. “So much cheese…”

He laughs again, his grin pulling tight as he watches you settle back into your seat with an exhausted sigh. You raise a brow in question, in challenge. And the smirk fades to a stony façade as he gives a single, definitive nod and declares, as though all has been settled, “Cielo.”

000

The flight knocks you for a loop. Less than an hour in, you’re passed out, snoring away on Frankie’s shoulder. You wake at one point to discover a pool of drool leaking from your gaping mouth and soaking through the shoulder of his button down, but you don’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed, nor the grace to apologize. Instead, you lazily swipe at the mess and turn with an incoherent mumble before dropping your heavy head against the cool glass of the window. You’re pretty sure you hear the tinkling of laughter coming from across the aisle – pretty sure that’s the sound that woke you from your drug-induced slumber to begin with – and you can definitely discern the throaty whispers of shut the hell up and you’re an asshole, Ben coming from the man by your side. But you’re too laden with sleep to really process or care.

For the next however many hours, you dream. Dream of bouncing through clouds in a bright blue sky. Dream of slinking through the jungle with strange men by your side. Dream of falling and floating and somehow rising to fly. You sleep and dream – and snore and drool – until an all-too familiar laugh sounds from above, a barking command of, “Hey, get your ass up, agent,” echoing in Santi’s exasperated – yet amused – tone. You blink open your eyes, tilt back your head, and see both him and Tom glaring down at you as they stand – bent awkwardly from the low ceiling of the plane – in the row behind. “Everybody else is already lone gone, bonita. Get your ass off the plane.”

Your brow furrows and your middle finger rises steadily upward, but somehow the rest of your body feels too heavy to move and it takes a kindhearted gentleman in a tattered old ballcap to ease you to your feet and out into the aisle.

“The second one was a mistake,” you mutter wearily as you nearly faceplant into Frankie’s chest.

“Yeah,” comes from behind in an annoyed scoff as Santiago reaches over to collect your bag from beneath the seat. “I’m confiscating your Xanax.”

The ride to the run-down inn and resort – far from the city and cheap as all hell – passes in a blur. But by the time you arrive and check into your little bungalow, you’re feeling, if not refreshed, at least awake.

Everyone agrees to meet up at the tiny restaurant at the edge of the grounds in about twenty minutes, just long enough for a quick rinse and wardrobe change. And somehow you manage to be the first one there, allowing you the opportunity to have a quick chat with the bartender – which results in a free, giant fruity concoction – before settling into a table in the corner. You let out a relaxed sigh and breathe back in the humid jungle air, realizing only in this very moment that a part of you actually missed this place. That a part of you might just think of the Amazon as home. You glance around, take note of your surroundings – as you always do, always have done, even before your law enforcement training – and begin to watch the rather handsy young couple at the bar as they giggle and swoon.

It isn’t long before Benny jogs up behind you and drops into the seat on your right. He sets down a fruity drink that looks suspiciously like yours, making you wonder if the bartender treats all tourists to a free, sugar-fueled beverage and perhaps your flirting earned you nothing at all. But as the others meander in and join you, all with mere sweating bottles of beer in their hands, you decide instead that you and Ben must just be the most special of the bunch.

Of course, that notion begins to chafe once Benny turns to you with a wicked look in his eye and pulls his phone from his pocket, nonchalantly swiping though a parade of terrible photos with an all-too delighted smile. The first few show you passed out on Frankie on the plane, mouth gaping wide as you spill drool into his shirt. “Oh, God!” you gasp, only just now recalling the brief moment of near lucidity from earlier in the day. “You took pictures?!”

You give him a quick slap and try to grab the cell from his hand only to have him rear back and laugh out, “Wait, wait, these are my favorites,” before scrolling through the next dozen or so, each picture showing a steady progression of your drowsy head falling from Will’s shoulder down to his lap as the two of you sat in the back on the drive in from the airport.

“You talk in your sleep,” Will states plainly from across the table, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

You cock your head suspiciously at him, gaze narrowing. “Liar,” you accuse despite knowing full well that it’s true.

The corner of his mouth quirks into a crooked grin. “Something about… sliding down rainbows?”

“Ooooh,” you drawl out, nodding your head. “Yeah, that makes sense. Frankie kept talking to me about Care Bears on the flight in.”

The man to your left takes a steady gulp from his beer, a swallow so huge it makes you think he’d been navigating the desert all day, desperate for a drink. “You were barely conscious for more than five minutes on that flight. You don’t have a clue what I talked to you about.”

“Better not have been anything dirty,” Santiago interjects pointedly.

You turn and pin Frankie down with an intent yet amused stare. “I definitely remember something about playing in the clouds.”

“Naked?” Ben asks as he jostles your other side with his elbow.

“Ahora, eso seria realmente el cielo,” Frankie mutters softly, ducking further beneath the bill of his hat and trying desperately not to laugh as you level him with an astounded glare.

By the time the food comes, your table has managed to outdo the small group of college students in the corner in terms of noise, filling the only partially walled-in establishment with a relaxed sort of banter and the occasional booming laughter. Benny continues his jokes and playful ribbing, eagerly pulling you in to blend with his tightknit group. Will and Frankie both remain mostly quiet, despite their comfortable-looking grins and occasional bursts of laughter.

Tom’s demeanor is similar, perhaps a bit less relaxed, a bit more guarded. Even after claiming to be cool with your presence on this little escapade, he’s anything but warm and welcoming to you. It doesn’t escape your notice that he continues to pull Santi aside to whisper what you can only assume are either covert sweet nothings or – far more likely – mission-related thoughts and plans that he still doesn’t quite trust you with. You shrug it off… it’s fine, really. You’ve had to slip into other cliques and clusters before, wedge yourself into a special operations task force or try to integrate in with local police to gain access to intel. This wasn’t your first rodeo. And frankly, compared to the Federales in Juarez, all of these guys had welcomed you into the fold with wide-open arms.

It isn’t long – or it doesn’t feel like long, anyway – before Santi rises and tells everyone that he’s heading to bed. A shit-eating grin passes over his face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, familiar looking pill bottle. He shakes the remaining Xanax around and states simply, “For once, I’m actually gonna sleep great.”

Tom follows hot on his heels after issuing out – in a tone equal parts dad and captain – “We’re up at 0500 and I don’t want any of you to be dragging ass.” Everyone nods their assent, but the moment he and Santi are out the door, Ben promptly buys another round and the four of you who remain settle into a new rhythm that lasts until the tiny restaurant and bar finally shoos you out so they can close for the night.

The lot of you wander the grounds of the inn for a bit after that, indulging in the cool breeze after hours of sweltering heat, and continuing to laugh and talk. But as you make it back to the bungalows, the brothers break away, Ben disappearing into his room without so much as a grunt of goodbye, and Will raising a pointed finger high and telling you and Frankie both to, “Get the hell away from these mosquitos and go get some sleep. Otherwise, Redfly’ll be raining down shit on everyone in the morning.”

But you’re now more awake than you’ve been all day, sated from a too-large dinner and positively sloshing with alcohol, well-rested after your many-hours-long nap during your travels, and you just can’t seem to make yourself shut up, not even once you arrive at your door.

And Frankie seems to welcome it, listening intently as you babble on, filling the gaps with assertions of his own. Now that Ben’s no longer around to monopolize the conversation, you and Frankie develop an easy back and forth, the dialog taking on a soft, steady, even cadence. You talk about everything, the two of you. About Mexico, because you spent nearly four years in different parts of the country, and he still has family in a few of those areas. And you talk about all the places you’ve been, you with your sprawling career and general lust for travel – Road trips are more my thing though… and camping, hiking… Have you ever been through Bryce Cannon? God’s country. – and Frankie with his time in the military and more recent contract work – Yeah, nature’s great and all, but have you walked through the bazars in Marrakesh? Unbelievable. Though I wouldn’t say no to a day of fishing off the Gulf.

You talk about Santiago, each sharing stories of the man who had only just become a trusted colleague and friend for you over these last few years, but had been one of Frankie’s most beloved people for well over a decade. And that leads you into asking about the other guys too, each of whom you find yourself getting to know better and better from even just the few stories he shares as you two recline back into the railing of the bungalow’s small porch. He even manages to get you comfortable enough to share some stories about your own comrades over the years, the good, the bad, and the ugly… and the long-time partner who bled out in your arms following a bust outside of Albuquerque. Though you don’t spend much time on that, eager to move on almost the moment that your partner’s name passes through your lips.

The look on his face, though – as you share those sparse details from that most awful day – tells you immediately that Frankie understands exactly what it’s like to lose a partner, a brother in arms. And while that isn’t a surprise in the least – he had just gotten through telling you that he spent fifteen years in the special forces after all – that knowledge does cause you to feel a whole new pull. It makes you scoot a bit closer, makes you drop your hand easily atop his, your sweaty palm gliding along his warm skin before he reciprocates by slowly turning in your grasp and twining his fingers with yours.

“So,” he breathes out after a moment. “You’ve been out here for… three years?”

You nod, a soft smile blooming as you think about this bizarre and stunning corner of the world. “About that.”

His gaze travels out into the lush jungle located just beyond the row of bungalows, small porchlights illuminating just enough of the canopy to remind you both of where you are. “What’s the city like?” he asks after a beat.

“It’s nice,” you rush out. “Small, relaxed…” Your lips purse together as you think on what to say, how to describe this place that has been your home for three years now. “Lot more tourists than you might think. It’s funny, even the people who live here – in the city at least – a lot of them are transplants from Bogota.” You give a nonchalant shrug – “The streets flood a lot. That’s not always fun.” – and relish the deep chuckle emanating from the man by your side. “There’s a legend about how it got its name,” you say suddenly. “I’ve never really gotten any details about it, but supposedly a Colombian soldier fell in love with an Amerindian woman…”

“Leticia,” he supplies, the name slipping from his tongue in a perfectly accented drawl, falling out into the dark night in a soft, low rumble.

You nod. “And he named the city after her.”

Frankie huffs out a small laugh, a light and airy rumble. His gaze continues to wander, dark eyes shifting along the barely perceivable horizon. “Must’ve been a hell of a lady,” he mutters absently, giving your fingers a squeeze.

You watch him closely, his features soft and relaxed in the low light, the slightest hint of a smile still riding his lips. “Yeah. Must’ve been.”

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44 @mrscrain-x7 @kyjoraven@elephants-are-a-thing @nakhudanyx

[melon-wing]

Unrequited Love [Ren/Grian/Impulse]

[Fanfiction Masterlist] Grian smoothed down the fabric of the costume he was wearing and smiled at his reflection. Mumbo had teased him earlier when he’d seen Grian’s costume hanging inside the base, but Grian loved it. Sure, the guy who had sold it to him off-world might have thought Grian was buying it for his girlfriend, but that hadn’t stopped his excitement.

He was dressed in all black, a top held up by an array of leather belts, with translucent fabric attached to it’s back and sides, when Grian moved around it flew nicely behind him and the little pieces of glitter sparkled like the night sky. Below it he just wore some simple black pants… Well, simple apart from the fact they were so tight it had taken him a good minute to get inside.

Grian picked up the gloves from his bed, and pulled one after the other over his hand and arm, the soft satin gently caressing his skin. They stopped a bit above his elbow. He turned to look at himself in the mirror again and smiled. There was a loud knock on his door and a loud string of curses escaped his mouth. Damn, was it already so late? He really should have taken less time doing his makeup, but he had just felt the need to put some on to complete the look. 

Grian hurriedly stepped into his boots, pulling them up all the way to his knees. There was another knock. He grabbed the rest of his outfit and strode to the door of his mansion hurriedly, pulling it open just after a third knock, to look at Mumbo, hand still raised from knocking.

“Took you long e- Grian! Oh my word!”

Mumbo looked him up and down and Grian knew that look he had on his face, the way his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“That is a rather... interesting look you got there. How in the world can you even walk in these?” Mumbo was staring at the boots and Grian smiled as he looked down at the heel as well, shrugging slightly. “Lots of practice. It’s not that hard once you get used to it”, he said and then let his eyes travel over Mumbo. “You look adorable.”

Mumbo was still wearing his suit and from afar, Grian probably wouldn’t have even noticed a change. Mumbo had two cat ears clipped into his hair and when Grian leaned a bit to the side he could see a black tail attached to the suit pants.

“I wanted to go as a secret agent again, but I was warned that I would not be let inside then, because wearing sunglasses is apparently not a real costume.”

Grian giggled and finally put a little black hat atop his head. He had considered also taking a broom with him, but it would have been annoying to carry that thing around for the whole party. Mumbo offered an arm and Grian took it, letting himself be led down the stairs by his friend.

“You really should have dressed up as an angel. Then you could have gone an evening without the need to hide your wings. I bet the others would have been impressed by that costume”, Mumbo said thoughtfully.

Grian only shrugged. “Not spooky enough”, he mumbled, though that wasn’t the real reason. He didn’t want the other Hermits to see his wings. He didn’t want them to know. Mumbo only knew because he had found out by accident. Not even Ren knew he was a Watcher and they had been getting closer and closer lately.

Mumbo chuckled a bit, luckily not picking up on Grian’s unconfident thoughts.

“Or could it maybe just be the fact that Ren told you he had a thing for ‘sexy lil witches’? Though I think you might have overdone the sexy part a bit.”

Grian could feel the heat rising to his cheeks immediately, as his mind wandered to Ren. Mumbo had hit the nail right on the head. While he hadn’t dressed up as an angel because of personal reasons he probably wouldn’t have dressed up like this if it hadn’t been for Ren. His best friend just knew him too well.

“I just liked the costume. And I bet he was talking to Impulse when he said that. You know? His boyfriend? His very serious and long term partner? Even some stupid sexy costume won’t change that”, Grian replied, going from flustered to saddened. “Just this once. I just want him to look at me and think I’m attractive once. I want him to look at me even a tiny bit the way he looks at Impulse.”

“Grian, you know they love-”

“Do you think Xisuma will have a new suit again?” Grian interrupted Mumbo suddenly, raising his voice slightly. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to think about it. And while Mumbo gave him a knowing look he still indulged him in changing the topic.

It didn’t take them long to reach the area where Xisuma had set up the party, an open field just next to a forest. Everything was decorated for the occasion, lit up pumpkins surrounding the area. There were chairs and tables, crates of drinks and foods set up. Loud music came from some redstone contraption that Mumbo had built a few days ago. Xisuma greeted them with a smile, still wearing his armour, but at least he had changed its look once more, now resembling some spooky creature instead of the little friendly striders.

Grian’s eyes drifted to the people already there and then his eyes landed on Ren and Impulse, standing in one corner and he could feel his heart pulling him forward. He left Mumbo’s side, who only gave him a little sigh, probably knowing of Grian’s hopes. What if they’d look at him differently today? Maybe today they’d finally notice him in a different way.

Ren turned around first. He was dressed up in the robes he had worn back at the demise games, a hood covering his hair. The scythe he used to carry around was lying abandoned on a wall off to the side, along with some scary looking mask that he had probably added on to the costume, more fitting the style of his space themed area he was living in now.

And sure, the costume was probably not meant to be sexy, but the spooky and powerful vibes Ren gave of in this were such a turn on to Grian and he swallowed, almost tripping over in his heels. He raised his gaze from Ren’s costume to his face. Ren was looking at him open mouthed, eyes wide and Grian was pretty sure he saw a blush. He smirked. Well things were going as planned after all. Grian’s eyes drifted to Impulse and he froze for a second. Impulse was dressed up like he had been in Demise as well, fake blood staining his clothes that were partly ripped. A partner’s costume… Now wasn’t that nice?

Grian forced a smile onto his face and kept walking while knowing that those two pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

“Grian, dude! You look good! Only you would be crazy enough to pull off a look like that. It suits you!”, Ren said, pulling him into a half hug and patting his back a few times. Grian could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, looking up at Ren, right into his eyes. In his mind he was just throwing his arms around Ren and pulling him into a kiss, but that was just a fantasy.

“Thanks. You guys look good as well. That brings back some very nice memories of last season.”

“Like when you killed me, lil guy?”

Grian burst into giggles. 

“Your greed killed you, not me. Well your greed and your cute overexcitement when you jumped off that tank.”

Ren laughed as well and suddenly there was a hand on the side of Grian’s face, gently tugging a strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Well right now I’d say you’re the cute one between us, Grian.”

Grian’s heart was racing. He leaned into the touch, his breathing getting faster. Was it just imagination or was Ren leaning forward? Was this just another one of his daydreams or was this-

“Ren”, Impulse’s voice pulled them from the trance and Ren let his hand drop immediately, stepping back with a sheepish smile, before turning to Impulse and caressing his cheek the same way he had just done to Grian.

“No worries, my sweet little zombie boyfriend, I haven’t forgotten about you. I never would.”

Grian felt his heart aching as he forced the smile to stay on his face. Impulse looked at him weirdly, making Grian wonder if he knew how much Grian wanted to get in between them. Or maybe he thought Grian only wanted to steal Ren away… God, he couldn’t bear it if Impulse started hating him. He quickly raised his hands defensively and smiled.

“Yeah! I won’t use my charm to bewitch him, no worries. I have my eyes on someone else anyways. There was a reason I dressed up like this after all”, he just lied. He needed them to get off his trail and a crush on someone else would certainly remove all the doubt cast on him.

Ren looked confused and wanted to say something, probably to ask who that person was, but Grian didn’t give him a chance, making up some excuse about having to go over to Doc to annoy him a little next and he darted off to the table filled with drinks where Doc stood.

He had an easy time, falling into his bantering with Doc while getting a drink, both of them poking fun at the other’s costume. And seriously… A half creeper dressing up as a cat - “because seriously Grian, those things are scary as hell.” - was the funniest thing. At least Doc had put some more thought into his costume than Mumbo and actually looked good in the get up.

They were a few drinks in, both laughing at Grian telling another story of a prank he had pulled, when Doc was called away by Ren. An amused snort left his lips.

“Gotta go, G. Someone is not happy about us talking.”

Grian sighed, shaking his head. He didn’t really know what Doc was hinting at, but he’d probably know sooner or later if it involved some shenanigans on the server. Maybe something about the war in the shopping district. But he was still the tiniest bit annoyed at Doc for hurrying off. Just when he had started to have fun and forgotten about everything else. He took another full bottle and then went off to the side, sitting down on a small stone wall, letting his eyes travel over the party now going in full swing.

He smiled fondly, when he saw Mumbo. A very drunk Stress was sitting on his lap, painting whiskers on his face and by how flushed Mumbo was, she was definitely moving around more in his lap than absolutely needed and Grian bet she knew what she was doing. Despite the very obvious flustered state Mumbo was in, he didn’t seem too uncomfortable, so Grian wouldn’t need to pull one of his best friend saving moves. 

Doc had moved on from Ren and was now in a heated discussion with Iskall. Going from the way their hands were moving and their scrunched up faces, it had something to do with redstone. And well… Those two discussing redstone? That could take at least an hour. So much for Grian’s plan to go back to their little banter. 

That meant he had to find something else to distract himself. Or someone else… He knew for a fact that Bdubs wouldn’t say no if Grian came on to him. Maybe he could just have some fun and- 

He looked at Impulse and Ren again, Ren throwing his head back and laughing, Impulse smiling softly, and Grian’s heart jumped in joy.

Maybe he’d just get another drink after all.

~*~

The party had been going for a while now. And honestly, Grian wanted to have fun, he really tried to. He had downed a few drinks, hoping to loosen up, but the way Impulse and Ren stuck together, showing way too much PDA, was really putting his mood down.

Impulse leaned over to Ren, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, making the other giggle in amusement. Grian felt something tighten in his stomach. He wished he could make all his feelings just disappear, go and take the pain away. He wished he could turn back time to stop himself from ever starting the Hippies. If he had just let things go, maybe joined Area77 instead of fighting them, he could have just developed a crush on someone like Doc who probably would have been much more open to any advances Grian made. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel this overwhelmed and helpless right now.

Xisuma walked up to Ren and Impulse, talking to them and Ren stood up, waving to Impulse before leaving with their admin.

Grian felt relief flooding him, followed by guilt. He shouldn’t be feeling like that. He should be happy for his friends. It should be enough for him that the people he loved were happy, even if he wasn’t the one to give them their Happy Ever After.

This guilt burdened him every day, overwhelming him, combining with the sadness and jealousy, making him fall deeper and deeper into what felt like an endless hole of his own creation. He had tried to get out, tried to move on. It seemed impossible. It was as if his crush was a giant mountain he had to dig through, but all he had was a wooden pickaxe. 

Every time he looked at them, every time they showed any signs of affection for one another, everytime they were nice to him, everytime they kissed, the mountain just seemed to grow, becoming even more impossible to overcome. And he hadn’t even started digging yet, just standing in front of the mountain, frozen, unable to do anything.

Grian looked into his glass at his own reflection. He had really tried his best for this party. He had really thought he could sway them if he just looked attractive enough. It hadn’t worked.

“What’s got you looking so sad?”

Grian looked up at Zedaph and Tango, who both looked at him and then sat down on the wall next to him, both taking one side. Tango was dressed up in a white robe, little wings and a halo attached to his body to finish the look, wearing golden glitter all over his body. Zedaph on the other hand was wearing a red suit, with little bat wings and two red horns on his head.

“Nothing. I was just lost in thought. The question is what’re the two of you up to again? Playing a little angel and devil on my shoulder?”

They both giggled and it was Zedaph who spoke up first.

“Really no need for that if we both tell you the same thing. Although, if it helps, I can phrase it more crudely and Tango can make it sound more sweet.”

Grian looked between them in confusion as his eyes finally settled on Tango.

“What?”

“See, told you he would like to hear it said more sweetly, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Grian just raised his eyebrows in confusion and Tango smirked. A smirk that didn’t really fit the way he was dressed up.

“Well we noticed the way you were looking at our dear buddy Impulse as if he was a godly being walking among mortals.” “Also the way you devour Ren’s sexy ass.”

“Yeah, that as well. You’re pretty obvious.”

Grian felt a blush rising to his cheeks, against all effort to suppress it. He knew where this was going. This is why he had tried to hide his crush from the other Hermits as well. They would disapprove and tell him not to get in between those two. He didn’t want to hear how hopeless it was from somebody else. His mind was already doing a good enough job of screaming that.

“You guys really don’t have to worry! I won’t do anything.”

“Well now that is the problem and why we came here”, Zedaph said and Tango made a sound of agreement.

“Yes. I think Impulse really wouldn’t mind banging you.”

“TANGO! Language! Remember you’re the angel. I’m the one doing the dirty talk.”

Tango giggled and batted his eyelashes a bit, trying to look innocent. “Sorry. I meant Impulse and Ren really want to spend some quality time with you.”

Grian wanted to laugh at that. He did believe that Tango was telling the truth. What would he gain from lying? But what he was saying… This wasn’t what Grian had wanted.

He simply nodded and Zedaph went on.

“What Tango was trying to say is that the two of them have been talking about you. They’ve been doing that for a while but they won’t get their asses up and ask. And we noticed how sad you are. It really shouldn’t be our place to tell you, but since they’re too dumb to realise… They really would like you to join their-”

“It’s alright”, Grian interrupted Zedaph and stood up, gently smoothing down the fabric of his costume with one hand and then turning around to look at his fellow hermits. “I know you want to help, but I’m really not interested. You must have misunderstood.”

It was weird. All they were saying made his heart race and hurt at the same time. He wanted to be with Impulse and Ren. He really did. He would give anything to be with them. But to hear from someone so close to them that all they were interested in was Grian’s body and to have a little adventure with him? It hurt so bad.

“If you’ll excuse me now, I need another drink. Maybe try your angel and devil spiel on someone more interested. I think Mumbo’s pining hard for Stress and too scared to make a move. I’m just fine.”

Without letting Tango and Zedaph protest he went over to the drinks again, putting his empty bottle into one of the crates and looking over the selection of drinks. He heard a noise and raised his head, looking to the forest. Ren stood there between the trees, staring at him through the holes of his mask, beckoning him with one hand. Grian blinked in confusion, turning his head to look behind him. Surely Ren meant Impulse and not him. But Impulse was still sitting off to the side and no other Hermit was close by. Noone was even looking in Ren’s direction and Xisuma still had not returned. Grian turned back. Ren was still waving him over. So Ren really did mean him. Grian felt his heart skip a beat when he walked around the table and up to Ren. But just when he reached him, Ren turned around and started walking into the forest.

“Ren? What’s up? You already done with whatever help Xisuma needed?”

Ren just nodded and kept walking and Grian stumbled a bit trying to follow him. This forest ground was really not made for high heels.

“Do you want to show me something?”

Ren nodded again and Grian smiled a bit uncertain. Well Ren surely was full of surprises and this might be one of them.

“Well let’s go then. Just… Maybe a bit slower. I really don’t wanna fall down.”

Ren turned his head a bit, looking at him, but Grian really couldn’t make out any expression with his mask back on his face again, covering everything but his eyes, the hood so low that it cast a shadow, making even his eyes disappear.

Ren made a hum of agreement. It seemed to echo and Grian looked around in confusion. Well that was a strange effect. The trees weren’t even close enough to produce an echo…

“Where are we even going in such a hurry? What do you have planned? Any prankage happening?”

“Hungry… So hungry.”

Grian looked at him a bit confused, but then smiled again. “Oh well that explains the hurry. You really should have gotten something from the snack bar before taking me here. Just… A little slower then.”

They started walking again. Slower this time, giving Grian the opportunity to walk up next to Ren. He kept looking down at Ren’s hand, right next to his and his heart was racing as he decided to be brave. He let his hand brush past Ren’s a few times and when he didn’t pull away, Grian just grabbed it gently. He expected Ren to pull away or make a joke, but he just closed his fingers around Grian’s hand, holding it tight.

Grian smiled.

He’d have this at least.

~*~

Impulse smiled as he watched Ren and Grian retreat into the forest. Everything was going according to plan. He had been a bit worried when he had seen Zedaph and Tango approaching Grian. They had kept threatening to tell Grian everything if he and Ren didn’t finally pull their heads out of their asses and confess.

But they were ready now. They had planned everything. They had waited so long for this evening. Ren would talk to Grian now. Alone without Impulse, so they wouldn’t overwhelm him and so the others wouldn’t notice. Grian could let Ren down gently without feeling pressured in a two against one situation. And since Ren and Grian had been closer before Impulse had entered the picture, Impulse had let Ren have the honour of confessing for both of them.

Impulse would get his own opportunity to shower Grian in love later, if everything went according to plan. It had been kind of cute, seeing Ren so overeager the whole evening. He had almost spilled their secret the moment his eyes had landed on Grian in his sexy costume. And Impulse could understand that sentiment. One comment from Ren and Grian had dressed up like that. It really had to mean something. Both of them were so confident… He just wished Ren would have told him he’d go for it now after he had been done helping out Xisuma with setting up the fireworks. It had just been a lucky coincidence that Impulse had glanced up when Grian had followed Ren. 

Impulse kept glancing at the forest, heart racing as he fiddled with the scythe lying next to him nervously. He knew a talk light that might need a while. Ren surely would have some explaining to do. Impulse just wished he was still able to see them between the trees. They couldn’t have gone more than a couple of metres after all.

A few minutes passed. Impulse’s fingers kept twitching, his leg bouncing up and down. He rolled the scythe back and forth on the little wall. A loud clattering sound yanked him out of his thoughts and he looked down in confusion, bending down to pick up the object that had fallen. He looked at it in confusion. It was the metal mask that was part of Ren’s costume. He had abandoned it earlier in the evening, because he had said it was weird to have his face covered all the time. 

Hadn’t he just worn that when he had walked into the forest? Impulse was pretty sure he had seen it on Ren’s face… 

“I’m back!”

Impulse raised his eyes from the mask to Ren who was walking up to the little wall, Xisuma only a few steps behind him. He wasn’t wearing a mask… He had come out of the opposite direction of the forest.

“Ren…? How… How did it go? What did he say?” Surely Ren must have just rounded the party, maybe he had taken a walk while talking to Grian. Surely there was a logical explanation.

Ren stepped up to him, tilting his head, scrunching up his forehead in confusion. “Xisuma?”

“No. Grian. What did he say?”

“I… What?”

“Didn’t you just go into the forest with him?”, Impulse asked, a weird feeling rising in his stomach. “Oh god, did he take it that bad and ran off?”

“Impulse what are you talking about? I was just helping Xisuma out. It took a bit longer because he’s crazy and went completely overboard with the fireworks again.”

Impulse suddenly felt panic rising. He had seen Ren walk into the forest with Grian. He was so sure of that. But had he really seen Ren. With the robe and the mask covering the whole body.

“Ren… I just saw someone dressed in your costume take Grian into the forest. I thought you were going with him for a talk.”

Ren froze up a bit as well, his smile faltering a bit. 

“You think someone is playing a prank on him? You don’t think Tango or Zedaph would pretend to be me to get this done with?”

They both looked to the party and as Impulse’s eyes drifted over the people his heart began sinking further and further until Ren uttered the words that made his heart almost stop, voice filled with dread.

“Everyone else is here.”

Impulse sprang into action at once, running over to Xisuma and grabbing the admin who dropped a crate of fireworks.

“Impulse? What the…?” “X! You need to teleport Grian over here right now!” Xisuma looked at him in a mixture of confusion and worry.

“Impulse. Calm down. What’s going on?”

“Grian went into the forest with a person and everyone whitelisted is here. X! He could be in danger!”

Xisuma seemed alerted at once, the helmet lighting up with what Impulse knew was the admin console. He let go and Xisuma typed something apparently into thin air. Impulse waited with bated breath. A teleport wouldn’t take long. It was a simple command. A very simple command. Seconds passed. Xisuma was typing again. And again. And again, his movements getting more frantic.

“I can’t teleport him. Something is interfering with my powers.”

Impulse felt like someone had dumped an ice cold bucket over him, desperate eyes looking to the forest.

“No… Grian.”

~*~

Grian felt his heart racing as they kept walking, the forest growing more and more dense. They were lucky though, no mobs were spawning and Grian wondered if Xisuma had tweaked the world’s settings a bit for their little party after the phantom fiasco of last year when all the redstoners had forgotten to get some sleep in a bed before the big event.

“Is it much further? I don’t think I can go back if we walk any longer. I might look confident in these heels, but they’re not made for long distances.” Grian gave a small chuckle, but Ren didn’t say anything. It was weird, just how quiet he was. Usually Ren would chatter all the way to some destination. It was hard to get him to stop talking.

“Ren is everything alright?”

“Hungry…”

Grian made a confused sound and looked around again. Something felt off. Something wasn’t right. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. This was not natural.

Grian cast a look at Ren, but he seemed really focused ahead on whatever way he had planned out for him. He wouldn’t notice… Grian concentrated and he knew his eyes were glowing slightly. Ren’s fingers twitched, tightening on his hand and Grian wondered if he somehow felt the Watcher magic. But there was no way he could. He would only notice if he turned and noticed the glow in Grian’s eyes.

Grian let his magically enhanced senses spread out. There was nothing. Nothing at all. And that was a huge red flag. There was always something. He always felt something. There was no sign of any living being, alive or dead close by. Not even a tiny insect. Not even...

Grian suddenly stopped, pulling his hand from Ren’s grasp.

Not even Ren.

He took a few hurried steps back.

“Ren. What is going on? Why… Why do you have no life force?”

There was a weird echoing sound and it took Grian a few seconds to realise that it was laughter. Deep, distorted laughter. And it was coming from Ren.

Ren raised a hand to the mask, taking it off as the hood of the robe fell back as well. 

Grian was staring straight into Ren’s face. It looked like Ren, but the expression seemed so twisted. A grin he had never seen on Ren’s face, revealing sharp teeth when he opened his mouth.

“I’m hungry.”

Grian took a few steps back again. Ren’s mouth stretched open so much further than a human mouth could, revealing so many sharp teeth.

“You look tasty. You smell good”

Grian raised his hand up as fast as he could, but Ren - no, not Ren, something - was faster as he was pushed against a wide tree with a force that was not human, his head hitting the wood hard, making him dizzy.

He summoned his magic up, a purple glow surrounding his whole body. He’d just push the creature off, summon his wings and run off. He just needed another second to collect his energy and-

The creature moved forward. Grian expected an attack, but suddenly lips were pressed against his. It felt weird, it felt wrong. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t pull away. The glow around him started to flicker. He tried to summon his magic, but it kept slipping from his grasp. And then the glow disappeared completely. The creature pulled back from him. His face morphing into that of Impulse and Grian looked at it out of breath, feeling so weak all of the sudden, his legs beginning to shake.

“W-what…?”

“You really are tasty… Unrequited love. The amount of sadness. Loneliness. Desperation. It all called out to me so loud. So tasty.” The creature licked its lips, a long tongue darting from the wide mouth. “I’ve never had a taste this good. Being in love with two people… Must be painful.” Another laugh, echoing all around Grian’s head, Impulse’s voice being distorted as if another voice was speaking at the same time. ”And you have magic as well. This meal will last me for centuries. I will enjoy every last drop of your energy until you’re nothing but a hollow shell… and then I’ll devour you.”

Grian made a tiny sound, raising his hands, weakly trying to push the creature away, but he couldn’t stop it from moving forward again.

“Goodbye, little witch.”

There were lips on his again and Grian’s legs buckled when he grew even weaker. An arm snaked around his waist, holding him upright, as the lips pressed harder against his. 

So this would be his end.

He really should have confessed to Impulse and Ren.

For someone two centuries old he really was a coward.

The creature pushed harder against him. Grian felt sharp teeth. 

His vision swam, black dots dancing in front of his eyes. He searched for his magic. What was usually a roaring wildfire inside of him was now nothing more than a flickering candle flame and he directed it all to pull deeper inside, pulling it down to protect his magic core. He already felt a crack forming at what was essentially his soul, pain spreading through his whole body.

He’d die.

He’d die here and his friends would never even find his dead body, not knowing about his fate, searching for him and maybe one day thinking he abandoned this world.

Grian felt a tear run down his face. His hands fell from the fabric of the robe, his arms dangling uselessly at his side now. It was over.

A loud scream. Grian was falling. There were loud noises. A taunting voice. The creature. Screams. He needed to open his eyes again, to see what was going on. He was on the ground. Would he be devoured now? Something pressed against Grian’s lips and for a second he thought even his last bit of energy would be sucked out now, but it didn’t feel like lips. It was more hard and cold. It pushed unrelenting until Grian opened his mouth the tiniest bit. Liquid started to flood his mouth and through the fog he realised that he knew the all too familiar taste of Stress’ brewing. He swallowed the potion greedily, feeling at least some of his energy return.

Slowly he opened his eyes to see Impulse and Ren’s worried faces right above him, Ren being the one to hold the potion up to his face. Xisuma stood behind them, helmet abandoned, a sword still in his hands. All of them were covered in something that looked like black blood. The bottle of potion disappeared and Grian opened his mouth, but his voice was still weak and barely above a whisper.

“What happened…?”

“A succubus”, Xisuma replied, voice cold as he looked at something on the ground. Grian followed his gaze. On the ground was a body, but it was no longer wearing Impulse’s or Ren’s face, but a weird distorted monstrous grimace, hollow eyes staring emptily at the sky. “I don’t know how it managed to sneak inside this world. I’m glad we made it to you in time. From the way it was glowing I’d say another minute and you would have been dead…” Xisuma stopped and looked at Grian searching for something. “We’ll talk later about why a succubus was also sucking magic from you and not just energy.” 

Grian smiled weakly and nodded.

“I also think the three of you need to talk. I don’t really want a repeat of this. We’re not taking chances… Message me when you’re done. Teleport works again.”

Grian stared after Xisuma in confusion as he walked over to the body, touching it, which caused it to disappear in the green light of his admin magic. Xisuma took one last look at them and then walked away as well. Grian turned to Impulse and Ren, about to ask what this was about, when two pairs of arms pulled him up and he was crushed in a hug.

“Guys…?”

“I’m so sorry, Grian. So sorry. This is all our fault”, Ren whispered, his voice heavy with sadness. Grian didn’t understand why he sounded so sad, but before he could ask, Impulse continued, voice sounding just as depressed.

“It told us. You were just targeted because of us. Because you love us.”

Grian felt his heart sink, his eyes widening. Right. The creature had talked about feeding on his unrequited love. Oh god. It had told them. The taunting voice he had heard in his dazed state. That must have been it.

“I- It’s- I’m…” Grian took a shaking breath. “It’s not your fault. You can’t change the way you guys feel. It’s not your fault you love each other and not me.”

They both pulled back, but only slightly, arms still on Grian as they all sat on the forest floor.

“But Grian…” Ren looked at him, eyes shining as he gently caressed Grian’s back. “We do. We really do love you. We were just cowards. If we had just told you earlier that we loved you”

“You… What?”

“We love you”, Impulse answered, smiling softly. 

Grian sobbed loudly and he felt the stinging of tears in his eyes, trying real hard to hold them back. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He couldn’t.

“You really don’t have to say that. I don’t need you to pretend The possibilities of another succubus coming by is really low and I bet Xisuma will raise the defenses after today and-”

There was a finger on his lips. Ren’s. Both of them smiled. Both of them looked at him with nothing but love.

“Grian, we really do love you”, Ren said and Grian couldn’t hold the tears back any longer, letting them flow freely, raising his arms to put them around the other two now again, all of them pressed together tightly.

“God, I love you two so much.”

“We know”, Ren said and chuckled softly. “Almost dying to a love sucking monster is a really crazy way of confessing though, G-man, just so you know.”

Grian laughed through the tears as well and when he pulled back he smiled at them softly. He might have almost died and he still felt far too weak to even walk back, but the way those two looked at him, as if he was the most precious being in this world right now made him think that this might be the best Halloween he’s ever had after all.

[lailyn]

The Way We Were

The knock on the door came late evening, so faint and hesitant Loki almost brushed it off as a product of his overactive imagination. On days like this, when the sun was low and the birds had settled to roost, Loki’s melancholy often paid him a visit. Hearing things was not unheard of. 

There was the knock again. It sounded more resolute this time. 

The banging and clanging from the kitchen ceased momentarily and Tony’s head bobbed up from behind the island counter. “Do you mind getting the door, babe? I kinda have my hands full at the moment.”

Loki rolled his eyes. He waved away their daughter’s toys and righted the cushions on the couch before trudging grudgingly to greet whoever was at the door. For some reason, the journey from the living room to the front door felt long and never-ending, his feet heavy and his heart heavier. 

His wards were holding, but he felt far from safe. He held onto the small frame tighter and closer to him. 

“Stephen.” 

“Loki.” 

“I...wasn’t expecting you.” Loki's grip around his daughter tightened. 

"Mama, is he a bad man?" He heard her whisper in his ear, and just like that, the tension drained out of Loki like water.

"No." Loki loosened his grip around her. "No, baby, he's not."

“Stephen, my man! You made it!” Out of nowhere, Tony appeared, and the trance broke instantly; Loki took an abrupt step back as his husband reached over to give their guest a hug. 

“Tony.” Stephen’s smile was warm and genuine, as was the affectionate squeeze he gave Tony’s shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, we’ve really moved out of your jurisdiction,” Tony said with a roll of his eyes. “Wellness checks probably aren't warranted as much.”

“Not when you’ve moved upstate, no, not so much,” Stephen said serenely. 

Upon realising that none of them had moved in the last thirty seconds since Loki answered the door, Tony balked, “Are we just going to stand here like a bunch of idiots? Get your ass inside!” 

“Husband,” Loki admonished him, doing his best to cover both their daughter’s ears with one hand.

“Oops.” Tony shooed them all in. He could no more bear the awkwardness than Loki could pretend that they were nothing but old friends. 

He closed the heavy mahogany doors behind them. “I’d offer to take your coat, but…” 

Much to everyone's amusement, the Cloak of Levitation had flown across the threshold to make itself at home, pretending to socialise with the other outer garments on the rack behind the door. 

The toddler in Loki's arms squealed in delight.

Stephen admired the cabin, casting an appreciative eye at the high, lofty ceiling with its great timber beams, and the great roaring fireplace. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I didn’t think the neoclassic, minimalist luxe look was going to work but you know our dearest Loki. He always knows what he wants.” The look of pure adoration on Tony's face was something to behold. 

A soft blush coloured Loki’s cheeks, his “Stop it,” half-hearted and weak. 

Stephen's fingers hovered over the lone Japanese ceramic tea bowl on a display table. "Edo period?"

Loki’s eyes were unreadable. "I imagine so."

Stephen would recognise the rough, rustic finish anywhere; the crack that went down all the way from its rim to its bottom was unmistakable. He remembered the hours Loki had spent studying the gold lacquer with which the crack was filled, and he remembered keeping him company. 

"Wabi-sabi." Stephen nodded in approval. "The art of seeking beauty in imperfection."

Loki's stoic face gave an imperceptible spasm.

“Espérance, darling, be a dear and go upstairs for a short nap, okay?” Loki pressed a kiss to the little girl's cheek. "Daddy and I are going to talk to Uncle Stephen for a while. We'll call you once dinner's ready."

"I'll take her," Tony offered. "Why don't you take Stephen outside, babe? I've put out some hors d'oeuvre on the patio."

"She's grown so big." Stephen marvelled at the sight of his friends' eldest daughter as she climbed up the stairs one step at a time, clutching the rail in one hand, her father's hand in the other.

"That's one way of telling time." Loki said coolly. "Watching children grow."

Without another word, Loki turned and led Stephen onto the patio, where several chairs had been laid out on the deck overlooking the picturesque lake below. 

Loki had no sooner sat on the chair that offered the best view of the mountains on the other side of the house than the first hum of a familiar tune began to play from the various speakers hidden in the trees around the property. 

Tony must have tinkered with the controls inside the house, and Loki heaved a sigh, forlorn and pensive. 

He did not blame his husband for the poor choice. It had nothing to do with Barbra Streisand’s metier as a singer, as legendary as it was. 

"I could listen to this song over and over if not for the memories."

Stephen took a seat on the other side of the coffee table. It was a comfortable, yet companionable distance. "It's always been your favourite."

"The song or the film?"

Now that Stephen really thought about it, he had no idea. "You never told me."

Loki allowed himself a wistful smile. "You hated it. The ending."

"I don't understand why they couldn't be together."

"They were too different."

"They were their own person, sure. But they loved each other. They should have been able to make it work."

"Are we still talking about Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford?" Loki eyed the man sitting next to him. "Or are you talking about us?"

Stephen felt like kicking himself. This was not why he came. He was not going to ruin what was left of this fragile friendship lamenting lost loves and what-ifs. He did not have many friends left, in this world or off it. 

"We were too similar," he managed. 

Loki snorted. "Polarity has nothing to do with compatibility. What repels does not always repel. What attracts does not always last."

"That is true," Stephen agreed reluctantly.

"You Midgardians look to the stars for guidance, do you not? The alignment and such, to see if one is right for another?”

“Certain cultures do, yeah.”

“I was not born under these stars, Doctor." Loki raised his head to the heavens. "So your theory is flawed."

Stephen knew better than to challenge an idea when there was no point in winning. He had lost so much already. A wiser man would argue that losing was not the same as sacrificing; if done for the greater good, it was noble and worthwhile and who cared if he was alone? If his bed was cold every night?

As long as Loki was safe, warm and loved, Stephen cared not one damn bit. 

"It's pretty cold tonight, huh. How about a drink?"

Two steaming cups suddenly appeared on the coffee table.

Loki raised an eyebrow. "Pumpkin spice latte? You hate this stuff."

Stephen flashed him a smile, boyish and familiar. He offered no explanation for why it looked so sad. Perhaps he did not realise he was wearing it. "Not anymore."

A sudden splashing sound and a whiff of bourbon had Loki shooting out a hand to cover the rim of his cup before Stephen could offer to do the same to his drink. "I'm alright, thank you."

In his shock, Stephen nearly dropped the bottle with a fumbling gasp, and his host turned to give him a sharp look.

In profile, Loki’s looks had appeared untouched by age. But now, Stephen could see the passage of time in the seaglass eyes, how their piercing brilliance cast a sallow hue over a complexion so pale he could see the veins in Loki’s temples. 

"Does Tony know?"

Loki's forehead furrowed as though the question puzzled him, but it smoothened as he looked down at the hand he did not realise he was holding to his stomach. 

"I was planning to tell him the good news tonight."

Stephen closed his eyes. Finally he knew why he had come, and why he must now leave.

He recapped the bottle of liquor slowly. He banished it to his secret pocket dimension in exchange for another object, one he had coveted for his own but now only knew was only given to him for safekeeping. 

Slowly he stood. As if answering his silent call, the Cloak of Levitation flew through one of the open windows upstairs to settle around his shoulders. 

Loki tore his eyes away. He could not look at Stephen's majestic silhouette for too long.

"Must you leave so soon?" He asked lightly. "You'll break Tony's heart."

The foliage of red and gold here was as beautiful as the one Stephen and Loki once shared a long, long time ago. 

He pressed in Loki's hand a memento of that time, a souvenir from one of the many Shinto shrines Loki had dragged him to up and down the ancient town of Kyoto. 

"Fall has seen its share of broken hearts." 

With the return of the sad smile and a small shrug, Stephen then asked the cruelest yet kindest question of all. "What is one more?"

_____________

Loki watched the last of the autumn leaves fall one by one onto the cold, hard ground. He had never told anyone but his eyesight had become better with age, especially in the dark. Be it his Jotunn blood or his ever-growing proficiency in the practice of magic, he found it both a blessing and a curse.

Winter was coming. 

And something was burning. 

The smoke detector blared but the alarm sounded distant, unimportant. A white noise of modern living. 

There was a time when Loki would have let the world around him burn, just for one moment of peace...until he learned that solace was not a place. Tony taught him that.

The patio door slid open behind him and before his husband could speak,

"Do you need a hand, darling?" Loki said without turning his head.

"I think I burnt the turkey!" Tony said, sounding awfully stressed over an overdone poultry no one was going to eat anyway. "I need some time-turning magic! Stephen, you need to timey-wimey the turkey back to edib - "

He frowned. "Where did Strange go?"

"He had to leave."

"What? Why?"

"He didn't say."

"It's not Thanksgiving without turkey."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Loki said mildly. 

He waved a hand and the smell of smoke disappeared, the smoke detector alarm dwindling into the first chimes of the cicadas' night song.

"Think it was some kind of Sorcerer Supreme business? He left without saying goodbye."

"Must be."

Tony sank slowly into the chair Stephen had so hastily vacated. "Well, I guess protecting our reality comes first.” 

“Yeah,” Loki said softly. “I guess.”

"Are you alright?" Tony asked carefully.

“You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“I didn’t know he was. He has never RVSP-ed before, no matter how many times we invited him over.”

“Why now? Why this year?”

“Maybe he just misses you.”

“Anthony…”

"How long has it been? Seven, eight years since you last saw each other?"

Loki had meant to leave Tony's rhetorical question unanswered but nostalgia had other ideas. "Ten."

Tony whistled. A decade, huh. "That must be why."

“Tony, don’t.”

“Look, Lokes,” Tony said haltingly as he ran a rakish hand through his hair. "Everybody has a history. You know mine. I'm lucky if I could learn half of yours before I die but what I do know of it, I'm cool with it. You're with me now and that's all that matters."

Loki said nothing.

"Am I wrong?" Tony pleaded when the silence went on for far too long. 

Loki rolled his eyes. "There's a little girl upstairs who has your face and your name, what do you think?"

"Seeing as she is our daughter, she's mine, sure." Tony's eyes were asking a different question altogether, Are you? 

Loki sighed, feeling sick to his stomach. The one sip of the sickly sweet drink he took sat heavy and sour, heralding the onset of nausea that would take hours to calm.

His hand slipped inside his pocket and grasped the palm-sized object, not knowing what to expect - 

The tiniest gust of wind blew against his cheek, and Loki let out a startled cry. He had not felt Stephen's magic in a long, long time.

"Loki?" he heard Tony call out, the abject concern in his husband's voice.

He picked up the pouch that had fallen out of his pocket and fisted it tightly, noticing how his nausea had completely vanished.  

"It's an Omamori charm," he said faintly. "The Japanese would gift these to expectant mothers as a good luck charm for safety in pregnancy and childbirth."

"Why would he - " Tony's eyes bulged as he gaped, "You're pregnant?"

"Yes," Loki said, painfully aware of how feathery and weak his voice sounded.

"And you told him?" Tony asked, his voice rising in pitch. "Before me?"

Loki ignored the jealousy in Tony's voice and the hurt in his husband's eyes. Not only was it unfounded, Loki was barely holding it together himself. 

He shook his head more forcefully than he intended and a few tears landed on the weather-beaten deck, darkening it in places. 

"Stephen just knew." Loki wiped his face surreptitiously. "He knows these things."

"I bet he does," Tony muttered darkly. 

Loki turned to look at his husband furiously. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Baby, I didn't mean it like that." Tony hurriedly tried to gather Loki in his arms but his unyielding husband refused to budge so Tony slid onto the floor and surrendered himself to the mercy of Loki's lap. "I say the stupidest shit sometimes, stuff I don't even mean." 

But Loki was nothing if not persistent. "Then what did you mean?"

Tony was quiet for a time. "Bambi, I'm the coolest guy I know. I look good for my age. Did I tell you my skin age dropped from fifty to thirty after I went on that cleansing diet Bruce recommended on his podcast?"

If Loki waited long enough, Tony almost always got to the point. Eventually. 

"Hey, Fury told me that the last Sorcerer Supreme lived for hundreds of years. How crazy is that?"

“Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere,” Tony said all too quickly. 

"You are talking to the God of Lies, Tony, or did you forget?" Loki's eyes glinted dangerously. "Try again."

“Someday...one day when I’m no longer around and if you decide that - ” Tony hesitated. His gaze shifted to the floor. “I just want you to know that I’m okay with it. I’m okay with the idea of...you. And him.”

“You would say that to me when I have given up everything to be with you. To take you as my husband." Loki's eyes welled. "To bear our children.”

His breath hitched, his chest felt tight. "After all these years, you still - "

"No, Loki. Please, don't." 

Tony could never stand to see him cry, but Loki could not help the tears streaming down his face of their own volition.

"Please don't cry…" 

Rough, calloused hands pawed at the hollow of his cheeks. 

"I just wish I could make you happy."

But Loki was not having it. "The man can see into the future, Stark. Do you honestly believe he would have let you have me if you couldn't?" 

Tony was stunned into silence.

"What ever gave you the impression that I was not happy with you?" Loki asked bitterly, his entire frame trembling under the weight of anger and some other emotion he dared not name. "You are not some charity case I picked up because you had the shorter life to live."

The silence stretched into long minutes of heartache and morose reflection.

“Are you mad at me?” Tony asked quietly.

"No." Loki shook his head. “I am thankful for you. You gave me a chance. No one else did.”

“Hey, hey. It wasn’t all me. It was mostly you. It was all you.” 

Tony grabbed Loki's hand and pressed an exceptionally fierce kiss on the bone-cold knuckles. “You gave us a chance. I just wanted someone I couldn’t have.”

“Someone you thought you couldn’t have," Loki corrected. 

Tony gazed into the icy depth of Loki's eyes, looking for an affirmation only Loki could give.

“Stephen may have come first but you are not second, Tony." 

Loki touched his fingertips to the sides of his husband's dear, sweet face. "You were never second.”

"I love you, Games."

"And I, you," Loki reassured him, stilling the quiver of Tony's lips with a brush of a thumb. "Even if you don't always believe me."

"I do." In a throwback to his overexcitement on their wedding day, Tony showered Loki's face all over with kisses, each more desperate than the one before. "I do, I do, I do!" 

"I never doubted you, Loki. I was just being an idiot. An insecure, self-centered idiot." Tony reached out a hand to touch Loki's stomach. "Are you okay?" 

"I am more than okay." Loki laced his fingers through Tony's. "Are you?"

"Are you kidding? Do you see this?" Tony gestured at the giant grin he was wearing. It was so huge he felt as if his cheeks would snap. "This is my happy face. I am super happy." Then his face contorted. "When did we -?"

"Make her?" Loki bit down on his lip. "By my calculation, probably last month on our trip to Italy."

Tony's already big eyes widened. Her? He mouthed. 

Loki thought of the pouch charm with its exquisite pink brocade and gold silk lining. 

The Sorcerer Supreme was never wrong.

"Yes, we are having another girl," Loki  said giddily. Tears of happiness did not sting as much so this time he did not bother blinking them away.

Tony's eyes danced. "Can I tweet this yet?"

"No."

"But my followers come up with the most amazing baby names!"

"No!"

Tony pouted. "Fine. But we're giving her an Italian name."

"Tony, we don't really have to name every kid we have after the place where they were conceived, you know."

"Espérance grew into hers," Tony argued. After a few seconds of heavy thinking, "I quite like Isabella."

Loki wrinkled his nose beatifically. "Too common."

"Ludovica? You thought the sculpture was beautiful."

"I am not naming our daughter after a tomb effigy!" Loki said indignantly. "Although I did meet Bernini once. Give him a slab of marble and he could breathe it to life." 

The reminiscent smile on Loki's face took on a life of its own. "You would have liked him. He was quite flashy, like you."

"God you're sexy when you name-drop famous dead people," Tony sighed.

Loki began to laugh; it started off slow, before escalating into a full, heartfelt laughter that had him grabbing Tony's face in both hands. 

Stephen chose to serve the world. Maybe in another life, he would choose Loki. 

But for now, and forever…

There was no other man for him. 

He bent down to kiss Tony on the lips, gently, deeply and fully. 

"Anthony Stark, you have my heart." For Loki too remembered his wedding vows. "Whole, healed and eternal."

And eternal indeed was their love, the former Iron Man and his Ice Prince, and healed were their hearts, conjoined as one, for as long as they both shall live.

[amostimprobabledream]

The Witching Hour (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

(Also available on ArchiveOfOurOwn: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369792) There’s something special about that certain hour of the night, between midnight and three. It’s a feeling that comes to you every now and then, an overwhelming sensation of possibilities. Like anything can happen.

Maybe that’s why you feel strangely calm, knowing just who’s coming to see you. Actually, ‘calm’ isn’t quite right, it doesn’t match that singing in your veins, the magnetic tug of attraction that grows stronger and stronger with each passing minute, like your body can feel him approaching. No, calm isn’t exactly it, but there’s a degree of assurance that makes this feel fun instead of tense.

You know that he isn’t going to forget about you.

Thing is, this should be tense. Your husband ain’t there (and where he is, you don’t know, nor do you care) but he’d go fucking ballistic if he knew what was happening – what was about to happen.

Well, fuck him. You know he’s been screwing around behind your back for months. Maybe even longer. Well, two can play at that game, you’ll do far better than any two-bit whore or overeager showgirl.

No. Your catch is considerably more impressive.

The door swings open, silent as a ghost and you find yourself sitting up straighter, like a naughty kid in class.

Tommy Shelby walks into the room like he owns it, shutting the door with a firm click behind him. He’s already removed his coat at the door, but the signature cap is still firmly on, shadowing his face just so. But he’s staring right at you, twin rings of blue growing thinner as they skate up and down your body. He blinks once, slowly, those lashes dipping like a wing. You’ve admitted before to being terribly jealous of those eyelashes – you’re the one in showbusiness but those eyes of his put any movie star’s to shame.

You made sure to dress nicely for him, but now you wonder if you’ve overdone it. Your favourite (and most expensive) nightgown, the stockings you know he loves and a fucking string of pearls glistening around your throat. You thought it was a good idea at the time, but maybe you look ridiculous, like a kid playing dress up, playing at being an adult.

“Look at you,” Tommy rasps, startling you, both with the suddenness and how he always seems to know just what’s going through your head. “Very nice.”

He’s never effusive with compliments – he’s not much of a talker in general – but two words from him in that low, approving purr means more to you than a thousand gushing compliments from suck-ups and boot lickers you get in your line of work. You feel warmth bloom in your stomach and bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

“Thanks,” you say and Tommy steps further into the room, his tread slow and careful as a cat’s.

His hand reaches out and gently his fingers wrap around the pearls, tugging you gently to your feet. His mouth is warm as it meets yours, one hand tangling in your hair, angling your head while the other clicks the pearls between his fingers.

It’s a cliché, but kissing Tommy isn’t quite like kissing anyone else. For a man who is so hard to read as he is, like talking to a statue, he knows how to kiss with feeling. His teeth gently scrape your bottom lip, lips slightly chapped but firm and hungry against yours. He loves your mouth, but he likes to kiss your throat too. Letting a man like Tommy that close to your neck is nothing short of thrilling to you – it’s like baring it to a wolf.

But the best part of it is, you know how much he wants to do more.

If Tommy had his way, he’d lace your skin with love bites, so everyone would see them and know exactly who was fucking you. There would be no sneaking around, snatching these fleeting moments together, under the cover of darkness. And he wouldn’t be gone every morning after, he’d be there when you woke up.

If he had it his way, you’d be his.

But in a perverse way, you wonder if it’s exactly because you aren’t that he makes sure to treat you right. It’s not that you think that Tommy would ignore or mistreat you the moment he got a ring on your finger, but once that happened, he’d have won. Eventually, new things become familiar and the excitement disappears. What comes after isn’t bad – comfort, easiness – but you know Tommy. He craves excitement and danger more than any drug known to man. That your dear, darling bastard of a husband would kill (or try to) the both of you if you found out is like his birthday and Christmas come at once.

So Tommy lavishes you with ‘anonymous’ gifts, sneaks into your room whenever possible and fucks you until you see stars, because he know that it’s all he can do at present. And if he’s going to do those things, he’s fucking well going to do them properly.

The inconvenient problem that is your marriage, and having a husband who is too well-connected to quietly get rid of, is one you and Tommy have talked about before, but Tommy’s never given you anything definite to pin your hopes on. That’s not his way. All he keeps saying over and over is, “When he’s gone.”

The words always send a little thrill down your back. It’s like he’s casting a spell by saying it, weaving it together to once again bend the world to his will. It’s well-known that Tommy Shelby tends to get what he wants, eventually.

“Oi,” Tommy says quietly, giving your earlobe a little nip. "Look at me."

You obey – mostly because it’s not as if looking at him is some great chore. You only do as he says when you fancy it, something you know he finds both amusing and infuriating. A potent mix. He smirks and lets go of you, taking a step back.

Carefully, like he’s putting on a performance for you, he begins to remove his clothing. First the hat, placed on the table. Then he takes off his jacket, and you see his pocket watch and chain, winking in the dim lights, a slash of gold in a sea of coal black. You find yourself watching him hungrily, tracing a fingertip over your lip where he bit you. Even the sight of his forearms, revealed beneath rolled-up sleeves, is enough to fan the flames of urgency you feel when you look at him and the distance between you feels increasingly unacceptable.

“Tommy-“

“Mm-mm. Stay there,” he says, pointing a finger at you as he takes his time undressing, his smirk more pronounced now. As serious as he is, he’s a dreadful tease.

You scoff but know he’ll just make you wait longer if you don’t comply, so you shift impatiently on stockinged feet, feeling far colder than you did lounging on the bed waiting for him. You absently rub your arms, feeling goosebumps stippling your skin as you watch him, white shirt sliding apart to reveal the scarred, pale skin beneath, tattoos standing out starkly against his flesh. You have a sudden, powerful urge to bite him.

Finally he’s done, down to his trousers. There’s a beat, expectation hovering in the air between you. Then, he turns and marches towards you so suddenly and with a glint in his eye that makes you take a step back without realising, until your hip nudges your dressing table behind you.

With a smile that can only be described as wolfish, Tommy’s hands slide down to your waist and gives it a playful squeeze before he lifts you up, sitting you on your vanity. The clatter of makeup falling to the floor beings you back to the real world and you frown, flicking your gaze to his.

“Those had better not be broken now, Tommy,” you say, annoyed. “It’s an expensive brand.”

He snickers throatily and responds with a lazy kiss, though his porcelain face is unrepentant.

“I’ll buy you more,” he says with a shrug.

He’s not interest in your makeup, even with traces of your lipstick smudging his jaw. Instead he kisses you until you’re panting, standing in between your legs and sucking, nibbling on your bottom lip, like it’s a thing to be devoured. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, which you’d expect from him, but there’s another taste in there too that you can’t quite put your finger on – it reminds you of the woods in winter, of the outside.

His hands rest on your thighs, toying with the hem of your stockings, flirting with the lace, but then he pulls back a little, examining your face. You’re sure you already look a mess, pupils blown, lips red from his attentions and hair falling down out of its usual style. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and it hits you right between the legs when he does that.

“Your ‘usband,” Tommy says, each word weighty. “Doesn’t deserve you.”

You find yourself holding your breath.

“I know,” you answer, on the exhale.

Tommy grunts and lets you go. Then he slowly kneels down, sliding his hands down your legs as he does so, caressing them. He maintains eye contact with you until he’s kneeling right in between your legs and turns his gaze to what lies straight ahead of him. You squirm on the vanity, heart thudding hard in your chest. It's a little embarrassing to be looked at quite so closely, but your skin is tingling with excitement.

He runs his hands slowly up your legs, pinkie ring glinting as he does so, and nudges them apart, fingers squeezing your thighs, since he knows you’re liable to snap them shut when the tensions gets to be too much to bear. He licks his lips, enjoying that tantalising strip of flesh above the stocking, but it’s not what he’s after right now.

You’re helpfully not wearing any underwear and Tommy smirks, before shifting you a little closer, your little gasp of surprise amusing him. His breath is hot as it ghosts over your skin, and anticipation twists in the pit of your stomach.

The first lick is scorching hot, his tongue dragging a stripe up the centre of your core. Your mouth drops open, a whispered “oh” that you didn’t plan on saying drifting into the air. His fingers are firm as he holds you still, but not squeezing so hard as to bruise your skin. But despite how much you start to fidget, you can’t break free of his grip.

Not that you want this to stop. A throb is building in you with every stroke of his tongue, the sounds Tommy makes, greedy and primal as he tastes you, sends a tingle shooting through you like a firework. He doesn’t keep his hands idle, either, using one to hold you open for him and the other to massage lazy circles on your clit. You whine in response, two points of pleasure twining together to send you dizzy with how good it feels. You rake your hands through his hair, tugging a little as he sucks you into his mouth.

“Yes…” you mutter with a little hiss punctuating the end of the word. “Oh…mm…Tommy…it feels so good…don’t fucking stop…”

Tommy can be obliging when he wishes, so he doesn’t stop, not for a second, working you to the brink of an orgasm with that single-minded mercilessness that does him very well in his line in business. You feel drunk off what he’s doing to you, spellbound as he makes you come undone with little more than some flexes of his tongue. More things spill to the floor from your vanity but you scarcely notice, too wrapped up in the burst of pleasure slamming into you.

“Tommy-!”

Apparently, listening to the noises you were making, thinking about how he’s now pretty much fucked you on every available surface in your bedroom, has had quite the profound effect on Tommy as well. When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth (he’s oddly gentlemanly like that sometimes) and rises to his feet, tugging you closer by hooking his fingers around the backs of your knees. He jerks, impatiently, at his fly, slightly short of breath himself. The sight of him even slightly undone makes you pull him closer, clutching at his shoulders.

“You know there’s a perfectly good bed five feet away?” you laugh, breathlessly.

“Fuck the bed,” Tommy all but snarls, fingers digging into your ass. “I want you here. Now.”

He enters you almost on the wood, in one fell thrust, and you cry out without a pause, the sound leaving your mouth as if it had been trapped there all this time, just waiting to get out.

You know you can’t be as tight as he always insists that you are, but fuck if he doesn’t fill you up, hot and hard and it feels so fucking good. The spite towards your husband is just the icing on the cake, it’s like you’re both fucking him while you do this, your bodies united in a silent vendetta against his invisible presence. You growl as Tommy sinks in deep, and just because you feel like it, you drag your nails down his beautiful back, inch by inch, making sure that he’ll have marks of his own to carry around with him. Tommy’s eyes snap open, though you know he doesn’t dislike it.

“Naughty,” he rasps, giving your backside a sharp smack that makes you squeal.

“You like it when I’m bad,” you reply in a muffled voice, smirking against his lips. He huffs in amusement, forehead touching yours.

“That I do, love,” he concedes.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from grabbing one of your thighs and hoisting it up to his waist, changing the angle and hitting you in a way that makes you breathless, sinking himself to the hilt inside you. You can’t stop yourself from moaning anymore, though it’s softened by the mirror rattling behind you as Tommy rocks the vanity table with each thrust, his own curses of “Fuck” a low rumble in his throat.

The pulsing, throbbing that starts up again in your core but somehow has spread to the entirety of your body, flooding your system with want and need.

“Oh, fuck…” you breathe, squeezing him like your life depends on it. “Yes…Tommy, I’m so fucking close…”

“Are you?” he asks, somehow managing to sound arch even at a time like this. His voice dips even lower. “And did I say you could come, sweetheart?”

The bastard! He’s going to tease you now, when you’re this close? You make the mistake of groaning in annoyance and he slaps your ass again, opposite side this time and you yelp.

“No…” you mutter petulantly, though you have to suck in your cheeks a bit to stop yourself from breaking character and smiling.

“No, what?” Tommy prompts, deliberately slowing his pace to taunt you further, the tension that had been building in you rapidly uncoiling. Frustration and lust surge through you, making it rather difficult to think straight.

“No, Tommy,” you say dutifully, but he clicks his tongue like you’re deliberately giving him the wrong answer just to annoy him. Then it clicks and you feel your face grow hot.

“No, Daddy,” you correct yourself, squirming beneath that piercing stare of his. He reaches out and winds a strand of your hair around his finger.

“That’s right,” he says, relentless and beautiful at once. “Now, I believe there’s something you want. Ask me nicely.”

You’re tempted to refuse, just to keep the game going, but your body can’t sustain this – it’s been too long since you stole a night together like this – so you give in, surrender yourself to Tommy like you always do.

“Please, Daddy,” you say in a low voice, moaning as he slide out of you, inch by inch. “Please.”

“Good girl.”

And he rewards you as he always does, sliding back fully into you and picking up the pace like there was no interruption at all. You cry out as he hits you deep, stroking where your own fingers can never quite reach and you hook your legs around his waist, clinging to him like a drowning person. You bury your face into his neck, his name spilling from your lips like an incantation, Tommy…Tommy…Tommy… - it leaves you breathless.

Tommy growls something in Romani as he comes, his head back, eyes shut, his jaw clenching. The moonlight peeping through the window hits his face just right and you can only sigh to look at him.

Silence falls, heavy as snow as both of you fall still, trying to gather your bearings. Tommy recovers faster than you do and sweeps you up off the vanity, carrying you across the room to deposit you into bed. You reach up and gently, lazily skim the sun tattoo branded on his chest. You’re one of the only people you know he’ll allow it from, and he knows you love his tattoo.

“Maybe we should get you one, eh?” he teases as he flips the covers back and sets you down. “Maybe my name, eh?”

You give an obligatory smile, but your heart isn’t in it. Despite the afterglow beginning to settle in and the tingling shocks still thrumming through you like a plucked string, this is the part you hate the most. You try to be adult about it, but watching him dress and vanish at the door, into the cloak of nightfall…it makes you feel like he’s just visited a whore.

Isn’t that what I am? You think, with a stab of bitterness. An adulterer?

As usual, it’s like Tommy reads your thoughts, because he turns your face towards him.

“It won’t always be like this,” he says. “Eh? Someday we won’t ‘ave to fuckin’ sneak around like this.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?” you ask, dryly.

Tommy scoffs, one hand idly smoothing over the covers.

“’ave I ever lied to you, love?” he asks.

You blink, surprised at the question, but even as you mentally count backwards to when you first met, you can’t come up with a single time Tommy outright lied to you. He chooses not to tell you certain things, but that isn’t the same.

“I suppose not,” you answer, shifting onto your side. “I just...I hate watching you leave.”

“I ‘ave to be gone in the morning,” Tommy says, but you sense that he’s hesitating, looking away as if thinking hard. You bite your lip as you watch him, but quietly you choose to let it go. You mustn’t be selfish.

“I know,” you say, settling back against the pillows. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mean-“

But to your surprise, he rubs a hand over his face, seeming to come to a decision…and then he’s sliding between the sheets beside you, as if it’s perfectly normal. You’re so surprised that you don’t move for a moment until he pulls you closer.

“I don’t deserve you either,” Tommy drawls, almost musingly, his voice husky in your ear. “But that never fuckin’ stopped me before.”

He holds you close to him like he has no plans to let go and you can’t temper the delight that flares somewhere inside you that your bodies fit together so perfectly, nor do you want to. Instead you move closer and rest your head on his chest, smugly.

“Who’s to say who deserves what, anyway?” you say, sleepily. You turn your head and press a kiss to his chest, feeling his heartbeat jump beneath your lips.

Tommy hums approvingly, his hand lightly dragging up and down your skin. The movement is soothing and even though you want to savour the moment a little longer, your eyes fall shut, and you can’t muster the energy to open them.

~

When the morning comes, you know that Tommy is gone even before you open your eyes. The yawning emptiness of your bed is impossible to ignore.

Still, evidence of Tommy lingers in the room like perfume. You can smell the faint tang of expensive cigarettes on the pillow beside you, and your fingers trace a bitemark he left on your neck. It can be easily covered by your hair, just as your scratch marks on his back will be hidden…but the point is, you’ll both know.

Fog engulfs the ground when you twitch the curtains aside to peek outside, and it’s easy to imagine Tommy striding through the mist in his long black coat, conjured like the devil himself.

It’s then that your eyes land on something on the vanity. Everything else has been put back more or less where it was, but the little box, tied with a ribbon, is new. Curiosity needles you, so you tiptoe across the room and pick it up, rattling the box like a child on Christmas Day.

The ribbon slithers between your fingers and you find yourself holding your breath as you take off the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, sits a necklace with a delicate silver chain. You lift it up and gasp slightly at the jet-black pendant on the end, glittering like a drop of blood in the early morning light. The chain and the jewel contrast pleasingly, simple but gorgeous. You don’t know if Tommy actually bought it himself or just sent a secretary off with a generous sum of money, but either way, it’s far more thoughtful than a string of pearls you rarely wear. You don’t waste any time slipping it on. It glitters between your breasts and you smile to yourself – it suits you.

Tucked into the lid of the box is a note and you smile at the familiar sight of Tommy’s script.

Wear this and think of me.

Until next time.

Love, TS. X

He’s never effusive, but you take the note and slot it beneath the velvet, in a little compartment hidden inside the box. Nobody will know it’s there and this way you can take it out and read it when you’re alone.

Your reflection smiles secretively at you in the mirror, the necklace cool on your skin. The night may be over, the hidden side of you retreating as you get ready to face the day, but you feel comfortable that no matter how long it may take, Tommy will make sure to see you again. The gift he gave you is more than a simple present, it’s a promise, a pact sealed.

The witching hour will come again.

[anotherashley]

Give Me Thunder // 1988

Summary: When you’re part of rival fraternities the last thing you’re supposed to do is fall for the enemy, but then, Patrick’s never known anyone like Jonathan Toews before.

*

In retrospect, Patrick really should’ve known better.

Homecoming is a huge night for most fraternities, including his own, the Delta Chi house. They’re known for going absolutely balls to wall with the planning, preparation, and execution of their parties. It’s an event. An evening to remember if you will. And where’s Patrick? Wedged in some hallway at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon mansion drinking shitty overpriced beer from a keg, sweating his nuts off, and listening to fucking Chumbawamba playing from their high-priced stereo system.

This disgrace of a party deserves no attendees, and yet, the house is packed, every little inch and every single corner filled with Sigma Alpha brothers, their dates, and friends. A house of garbage monkeys. A house of ill repute.

"It's not that bad," Dayna says, exasperated.

Dayna, the reason he’s in this shithole in the first place.

Patrick narrows his eyes, watching her and the room suspiciously. "Oh, but it is, my friend. It is."

“You’re overreacting,” she says and grins.

Patrick frowns. He’s not usually one to get overheated, but it’s like a sauna in this joint. He pulls at his tie to loosen it, listening to some Billie Eilish song come on next. "I can't believe you made me come here."

"And I can't believe you wore a hot pink tie when I told you specifically I was wearing a royal blue dress, so I guess we're even."

Patrick surveys the slinky strapless number she’s sporting and his own shimmering tie. It’s not...awful. "I think it looks good together,” he shrugs.

She snorts. “You would.”

“I'm taking that as a compliment.”

“It's not one,” she fires back.

“Hurtful.” 

Dayna’s fun and gorgeous, wicked smart. They met last spring in Linear Algebra and became fast friends, partly out of necessity because the math department was full of dull assholes, and partly because they got along so easily. There’s this pressure to find dates for every Greek event, someone to hook up with or to show off, and Patrick just wanted - wants - to relax, hang out, have a good time and not be plagued the entire night with what might happen at the end or if his date will be disappointed. It’s why he asked Dayna in the first place - there are no strings. 

He hadn’t really counted on her betraying him in this obscene of a manner, however. Sigma Alpha? Really?!

“I'm sorry,” she says, rubbing his shoulder, but she seems distracted. She’s been looking off into the crowd as if she’s trying to find someone, ever since they arrived. 

Patrick tickles at her arm to get her attention and when she turns, smiling, he says. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

“Will you forgive me for ditching you? Because I'm about to do that too.”

Patrick blinks. “What?”

She scrunches her nose, just a little, and takes his wrist as if in apology. “It's not you, it's me.”

Patrick barks out a laugh. “You're not serious. Here? Now?!”

“I know,” she says, and begins patting his hand like she’s his goddamn grandmother or something. “I'm the worst, but it's really not you.”

“It must be a little me.”

“It's mostly Brent.”

Patrick gasps. As far as reactions go, it might be slightly overdone, but still. “Brent Seabrook? A fucking Sigma Alpha. Dayna!”

Dayna manages to at least look contrite. Sort of. She drops his hand gently. “I can see you're mad. Understandable. I'm gonna go...over there. And hopefully, when I see you Monday you'll be less mad. Bye Pat!”

“Bye Traitor!” he yells. He hopes the whole party hears it over the awful music playing in this awful house on this awful night.

Patrick watches her walk over to a table with a group of guys centered around Seabrook. They took up camp there shortly after Patrick and Dayna arrived. And more and more people have gathered around since. People always seem to gravitate to Seabrook, so Patrick really shouldn't be surprised that Dayna is too. The guy is huge in that cuddly bear sort of way, but with perfect hair, and the kind of laid back attitude that most people never really achieve.

Too bad he's a fucking Sigma Alpha.

God.

Patrick hates Sigma Alphas.

He's not joking when he tells this to everyone, and he means everyone: from the freshman rushes to his TA, Marian, from his Tuesday-Thursday biochem lab, to Lee, his favorite delivery guy, to generally anyone who passes him on the street. Sigma Alphas are self-obsessed, shitstain, egomaniacs, that ruin everything and have no concept of fun. They’re the absolute worst.

So, of course, it only makes sense on this wreck of a night that Patrick runs into the very worst one of them all after Dayna abandons him.

“Amazing,” a smug voice says from behind him.

It’s truly unfortunate Patrick recognizes that voice so well seeing how he can’t stand Jonathan Toews. One of life’s evil jokes, apparently, because Toews is the very embodiment of gum under his shoe, or a flat tire on a rainy day, or some other horrible Alanis Morissette analogy.

The point is...he’s terrible.

Patrick turns slowly, already annoyed when he sees the amusement written all over Jonny’s stupid, grinning face.

“It's not you, it's me,” he mocks. “I didn't know that was a thing people actually still said.”

“Well, that’s what happens when no one will go out with you, Toews,” Patrick fires back with a wink. “No one talks to you.”

Jonny’s smile fades. “Says the guy who just got dumped.”

They’re not exactly standing near each other, but the music is loud and to keep from shouting Patrick takes a step closer, having to tilt his head back just a bit when Jonny moves in too.

“At least I had a date.”

“A date that dumped you for one of my friends.”

Patrick clenches his fist at the smug expression on Toews’ stupid face. “What, you think you can do better?”

“I don't think, I know I can do better.”

“Oh really,” Patrick scoffs.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I could get any girl’s number in here before you.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. Inane. Besides the fact that Jonny has a clear advantage since this is his house and he probably knows half of these girls, it’s a dumb bet to make to prove he’s somehow, someway, better at not getting dumped. Which was the original argument? Maybe? Fuck, Patrick isn't even sure any more he’s too pissed off.

But he takes one look at Jonny’s smirking face and knows he’s going to rise to the challenge. He hates himself a little for not being able to just walk away.

“Go ahead then,” Patrick says, sealing his fate. “Show me your moves.”

Jonny eyes him, nonchalant. “You couldn't handle it.”

“Couldn’t handle what? You haven’t even declared a wager yet. That confident in your moves?”

Jonny straightens his back, stands tall, and pauses for a moment like he’s gathering himself, then he looks down at Patrick, down into his goddamn soul and smirks, calm, confident, cocky. “Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Uh,” Patrick says, confused.

Jonny moves in closer, the corners of his mouth curving up and up as he leans in. “I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?”

Did he just…?

Patrick laughs, can’t help himself. “Good god that’s an awful pick-up line. F minus. You’re supposed to be impressing me - I mean her, dude. That just makes you look like a stuck up jackass.”

Jonny’s brow furrows, displeased. “Okay, what about: Does your left eye hurt? Because you've been looking right all day.”

Less awful, but Patrick can do better. “Are you a 90-degree angle? 'Cause you are looking right!”

“Was that a math joke?”

Patrick glares. “Maybe.”

Jonny snorts.

“Don't shit talk math.”

He waits for Jonny to say something else, now that Patrick’s exposed a weakness, but instead he taps a finger against his chin, as if in thought again.

“I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?” he tries.

Patrick shakes his head. “Do you know what my shirt is made of? Boyfriend material.”

This time Jonny laughs, vivid and real, and it brightens his whole face in a way Patrick’s never seen before, not this close up. His eyes are almost black in this dimmed corner of the house and they sparkle when the light hits them. He takes another step in, closer, so they’re just a foot away from each other. When he catches Patrick’s gaze he says low, voice softer, “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met. I wouldn't forget a pretty face like that.”

Patrick swallows and pulls at his collar. It’s really fucking hot in this house. It probably shouldn’t be this hot in September.

“That’s um,” he coughs. “That’s not terrible.”

“It’s the one,” Jonny says, lips curving.

He’s more pleased with himself than he has any right to be, the arrogant dickbag. He thinks he’s already won this thing and they haven’t even ironed out all of the details yet.

Patrick purses his lips. “Anyway, what do I win if I get a number first?”

“You have to win first.”

Patrick steps forward, determined, until they’re only inches apart and whispers, “Watch me.”

Jonny doesn’t cede any ground, tall and looming, too casual. He makes Patrick’s skin itch in the worst way. If he could just get Jonny to break,  just a little, it’d be worth all this shitty night has wrought upon him.

He shoulders past Jonny roughly, using his upper body strength to edge Jonny a step back as he passes. It’s a small victory, but he relishes it as he looks around the room for a willing participant. Almost everyone is already clustered in groups or pairs so the pickings are slim. He’s about to turn into the next room when he sees two girls tucked away against a bay window, one texting on her phone and talking, the other, curvy, cute and brunette, looking bored beside her.

She’s wearing one of those side strap dresses that are incredibly sparkly, and her feet are shoeless. When Patrick steps up to her, smiling, she’s still almost as tall as him.

“Hey,” he says, cool, calm.

He’s got this. No problem.

“No,” she says, bored expression unchanging.

“I just-”

“No,” she repeats. She’s not even looking at him, which is a little rude.

Patrick drops the chill guy act and goes for something more sincere, genuine, as he bites his lip.

“Look, you want to maybe-”

“No,” she says again, this time sharper. “No, go away.”

“Well, alrighty then. You have a nice night,” Patrick salutes her, spins on his heel and walks away.

That was a dumpster fire.

He can already see Jonny laughing from across the room. Goddamnit fucking bullshit fuck. A weak-ass effort, and of all the times.

He trudges back to their original spot expecting the gloating of a lifetime, but Jonny has his chin tilted up and is already passing Patrick by, headed for somewhere and someone in particular.

Patrick’s eyes trail him, riveted to the way Jonny moves through the crowd like he owns it, as if the room bends to his will.

There’s a petite strawberry blonde with black gauges in her ears and dark red lipstick painted on her mouth, chatting with some skinny kid that's clearly trying too hard. She turns to Jonny when he steps up, her smile curious, but her arms crossed. Patrick can't look away, watching them talk back and forth, the way her expression shifts from curious to suspicious to amused. He barely says more than a handful of words to her before she’s writing her number on his palm.

And where did he even get a pen? Did he just have the pen on him? Who carries pens on a night like this?!

“How the fuck…,” Patrick murmurs to himself, and receives a weird look from one the Sigma rushes, as they walk by. 

Before Patrick can blink Jonny’s returned, standing straight and smug in front of him as he holds his hand up.

“Here ya go, slick.”

Slick? This guy is so lame. 

Patrick sighs. “Double or nothing?

“No way,” Jonny says. “Don’t filch on the bet now, Kane.”

It was worth a shot.

“Fine,” he shrugs, mentally preparing himself for whatever humiliation is about to come his way. “What do you want?”

Jonny hums. “Loser gives winner a blowjob?”

Patrick tries to replay the words Jonny just said, again, like it’s a recorded message and if he can listen to it closely enough he’ll understand. They’ll make more sense if he can hear them one more time. 

There might be a 404 ERROR message currently running through Patrick’s brain.

He needs a rewind button. 

He can’t...

He...

Patrick coughs his way into a laugh. “Uh...what?!

It's not that it's a secret either of them are into guys. Patrick's seen Jonny around campus getting friendly with both men and women more than a few times. Still, it's quite the leap to assume Patrick, a Delta Chi, and therefore a superior species is interested in him, a mere peasant.

“Are you serious?” he asks, still laughing. It might be a bit of a hysterical laugh. It’s pretty high pitched.

Jonny doesn't look insulted, the cocky asshole. His expression is more impatient, if anything, as he steps into Patrick's space and says, “Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”

Not yet, Patrick thinks and feels his dick twitch. Jesus. It's too goddamn hot in this house. Sweat gathering at his temples and his tie too tight around his neck. He pulls it looser and tries to shake off his jitters.

“That's a bold assumption you're making, dude.”

“Are you saying you don't want to?” Jonny asks.

The truly gross part is how Patrick only hesitates a second before looking him over, really takes a moment to let his eyes wander up and down the length of Jonny’s long body, his muscular arms, the broad shoulders, the ruddy tint to his cheeks, the sculpted jaw, his pink lips and dark brown eyes. The kind of eyes that are warm and so so intense, and currently trained all on him.

On Patrick.

Patrick’s traitorous dick thickens in his pants, his own body enacting a mutiny upon him.

He swallows roughly. “Uh...no.”

“Let’s go up to my room then,” Jonny says.

Patrick should leave. He should leave.

Instead, he follows.

*

Walking up the stairs to Jonny's room the only thing Patrick can think about is that he wishes he'd had more to drink. He’s not even buzzed enough to realistically blame this error in judgment on alcohol. But he refuses to blame himself either so it's pretty obviously all Dayna’s fault, and Brent Seabrook’s. Which means it's Sigma Alpha’s fault. 

So there, the world makes sense once again.

The upstairs is less crowded than the rest of the house, most of the bedroom doors shut, probably locked to prevent outsiders from fucking on house members beds. Jonny’s room is at the end of the hall, tucked away next to the bathroom. Jonny lets them both in, ushering Patrick inside first and flipping the lock behind them.

It’s a single, which shouldn’t be surprising since Jonny is the Sigma President, but it catches Patrick off guard all the same. He has to take a few beats to gather himself as his gaze travels over the room. It’s every inch what Patrick would’ve expected, from the collection of Apple products scattered over his desk to the trophies and medals pinned to his bookshelf. There’s an econ textbook on his dresser beside his overpriced watch and Armani cologne. Sports gear looks to be thrown in a pile by his closet almost artfully. It’s like his bedroom is a set for a fucking Abercrombie and Fitch ad. Patrick gags a little. Almost.

If that was all there was to Jonny in this room Patrick wouldn’t be surprised one iota. But it’s not.

There’s also framed photos of his family everywhere, pictures of him fishing with his brother, of their family dog, of his grandma knitting him a Christmas sweater. The floor is a mess with socks and crumpled paper, a thousand post-it notes of things he’s written to himself tacked up everywhere. He’s got anatomy posters on his walls and a signed Canadian hockey jersey framed over his bed, the forest green sheets are rumpled and soft to the touch when Patrick takes a seat on his bed. It’s a bit much to take in all at once especially with Jonny’s attention still on him as he removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt at the collar.

“I need a drink,” Patrick says, warm everywhere and restless.

Jonny pulls an unopened Absolut Vodka bottle from his dresser, unscrewing the cap, and handing it over.

“Here,” he says, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t have any clean cups.”

“Anything to chase it with?” Patrick asks, staring at the veins running along Jonny’s toned forearms, the skin golden and his hands large.

“You need a chaser?” Jonny says like it’s a dare.

“Oh fuck off,” he mumbles, shrugging out of his own jacket. He fists the bottle by the neck, using his free hand to wipe at his sweaty brow, averting his attention. He takes a breath, in and out, feels the way his stomach flutters. “Bottoms up!”

Jonny snorts as Patrick takes a long pull. It tastes horribly bitter and burns all the way down his throat. He takes another drink, and then two more, and then again one last time for good measure.

When he hands the bottle over to Jonny he licks his lips, catching a stray drop of vodka at the corner of his mouth and utterly staggered by the way Jonny’s staring at him, eyelids heavy and pupils blown wide.

The overhead light is turned off, just a small desk lamp left to softly illuminate the room, everything a soft yellow glow.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Patrick mutters, even if the idea of it all seems less crazy now with a glass of vodka in his system and Jonny’s bare forearms in view.

“Or you can’t believe you lost?” Jonny volleys back, taking a few swigs of his own.

“Do I have to choose?”

Patrick reaches for the bottle again, wiggling his fingers in a ‘gimme’ gesture. Jonny holds out the bottle for a moment, offering, but the instant Patrick actually touches it Jonny snatches it back, teasing, baiting.

“No,” Jonny says, low. “But you could come closer.” He tilts his chin up, gesturing Patrick to him, movements like dripping honey.

There’s this tension in the air, something that’s always been between them, but it’s different now. No less heavier, but still challenging, still stuck deep underneath his ribcage and tight. It’s sizzling through his skin now, making goosebumps pop up all across his overheated skin. He waits, just long enough to see Jonny shift on his feet before he stands - until they’re both standing. It’s a little victory, but he enjoys it, even more for the way Jonny meets him in the middle, stepping into Patrick’s space again and slotting a leg between both of his.

Jonny’s legs are long, full of thick corded muscle and his thigh hot to the touch. When it presses up against Patrick’s dick he can’t help the way a small gasp escapes his lips.

“This is so stupid,” he says, even as he pushes closer.

“Is it?” Jonny murmurs, rocking forward until they’re chest to chest, faces only a breath away.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate you,” Patrick says, huffing out a laugh at the absurdity of the question, of this entire night.

“Well,” Jonny, says, nose barely grazing the edge of Patrick’s jaw and the sensitive spot behind his ear. “I hate you more.”

Patrick shivers. “Impossible.”

“You wanna bet?” he chuckles.

He’s so goddamn annoying Patrick wants to shove him away and storm out. He wants it so bad he can taste it, the tips of his fingers practically tingling. So it makes absolutely zero sense that he fists his hands in Jonny’s dress shirt, yanks him close, and spins them both around to tumble back onto the bed.

“Just,” he groans. “Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”

Jonny stretches his arms wide, crosses them under the back of his head as he spreads his legs. “Pretend all you want, Kane, but I know.”

“Know what?” Patrick asks, settling between Jonny’s tree trunk thighs and unable to keep his eyes off the considerable bulge in Jonny’s pants.

“You’re hard too. You want this too.”

His voice is a deep timber and it slides over Patrick like a silky wave. Almost calming despite Jonny’s provocative words. He wishes he could deny them, flip the script on Jonny and show him he’s not as hot as he clearly believes he is. The truth is he can’t. His own dick is a hard line inside his boxer briefs, the need to rub himself over the bedding becoming a problem he won’t be able to avoid for very long. Especially not with the way Jonny’s stupidly perfect body is right within reach of taking.

“Stop talking,” Patrick snaps, fitting his hands over Jonny’s hips and moving them up. He can feel the buzzed flush at the tips of his ears spreading down his neck. Jonny’s own throat is covered in a glossy sheen of sweat and smooth enough to lick. Fuck.

Patrick frowns.

Jonny mimes zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key. It’s disgustingly endearing and Patrick gives up any pretense right then, gives all the way in. 

He reaches for Jonny’s pants, opening them up and then peeling Jonny’s silver-gray boxer briefs over his hips and the plush curve of his ass, his cock slapping back against his stomach. There’s foreskin, which is new. Not much, just enough to cover part of the rosy-colored crown. Patrick's never been with an uncut guy before. That's not what causes him to pause. Jonny’s cock is long too and so so thick, fat enough it’s difficult for Patrick to get his fingers around. The tip is slippery wet and perfectly shaped. It’s an unfairly gorgeous dick, as far as dicks go. Patrick wonders if he can hate a guy for being so well endowed while still wanting to see exactly how far he can deep throat him. It’s not a question he thought he’d be asking himself on Homecoming night.

When he takes Jonny in hand he’s pleasantly surprised to see the way his hips arch up off the bed, just a tiny sign of need. Patrick runs his hand up and down the smooth length of him, dragging up the foreskin and pulling it down as he goes, then thumbs over the slick slit. Jonny hisses, moaning in the back of his throat and Patrick grins to himself evilly.

He could do this all night, he thinks, as he works Jonny up with the twist of his hand and the tongue that’s swiping out over his lips. Leaning down to lick a stripe up the length of him from root to tip he relishes the way Jonny keens, reaching out and then digging at the sheets instead. Patrick does this a few more times, just to see the way he silently begs for more.

All of it has his own dick leaking inside his pants, balls tight and snug. He presses into the mattress for relief as he mouths at the head, breathing over it hotly, but not taking it inside.

“C’mon!” Jonny growls, impatient.

Patrick hums wickedly and doesn’t move. “Ask nicely.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, propping himself up on his elbows.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Patrick sings, biting at his lip. He tries not to imagine another time, another deal, where it could happen, where Jonny could be the one pressing Patrick down into his mattress right now and filling him up.

Jonny whimpers a little, hand coming up like he wants to yank Patrick down on his cock, before falling to his side again. “Will you just...please?”

He says it almost sweetly, his expression shifting into something soft, earnest. It could all be a play to make Patrick do what he wants. It’s embarrassing how well it works.

Sucking Jonny down is overwhelming. He tastes salty and hot and he’s heavy on Patrick’s tongue. He can only take so much inside, working by half inches as he bobs up and down in a continuous rhythm. When he can feel Jonny at the back of his throat he’s still got one hand inelegantly stroking the base where two could fit. He can’t take much more, even with his truly enviable skills.

It doesn’t seem to matter anyway as the movements he’s making are enough to have Jonny arching off the bed and groaning deeply as he comes. There was a half-assed warning in the flapping of Jonny’s hand, but Patrick doesn’t let up, sucking him down until he’s jerking weakly. He's not really sure why he swallows, he certainly doesn't owe it to Jonny after all. That was never part of the bet. But it might be the way his own dick aches when that first splash of come hits his tongue, filthy and tangy, so clearly all of Jonny. Or it might be the way Jonny's eyes roll back in his head when he sees Patrick suck harder on the crown, instead of pulling back, shuddering all over and letting out a breathy punched out ‘fuck’. He’s not sure why and he’s not going to question it further. Instead, he eases back lazily, wiping at the edges of his mouth and watching Jonny stretch out across his bed, murmuring happily.

“You're welcome,” Patrick says, heart pounding and skin prickly.

“Oh yeah, thank you,” Jonny smiles, eyes closed. “That was great.”

“I know.”

“Mmm. Made me all sleepy.”

Patrick watches him settle back into his pillow, body slack, relaxed even with his shirt askew and his pants still unzipped. “Are...are you actually falling asleep?”

“I could.”

“Right now?”

“Why?” Jonny asks, breezily. “Did you want something?”

Was this guy for fucking real?

“Nah, man. I'm good. See ya later,” Patrick bites out, twisting to move off the bed. He doesn’t make it far.

“Shut up and c’mere,” Jonny laughs, looping his arms around Patrick's middle and pulling him back down. Then he kisses Patrick long and bruising, stealing all the air from his lungs and licking the taste of himself off of Patrick’s tongue. “Your breath smells like dick.”

“Your dick.”

“Mmm yeah, it's good,” Jonny says, and sucks on Patrick’s bottom lip for another few long beats.

“You're a weird one, Toews, but you're hot as fuck.” It shouldn’t be said, but Patrick can’t not say it. His buzz is really starting to kick in now.

“Thank you?” Jonny asks like he's unsure if Patrick's insulting him or not.

Patrick nods, dizzy drunk and skin tingling. “You’re welcome.” 

A large hand settles hot over his cloth covered dick, rubbing in circles that make Patrick whine with the need for skin on skin. Luckily Jonny doesn’t make him wait, flicking open his pants and shoving his hand inside until he can grasp Patrick good and tight. He’s a sticky, wet mess, precome slick all over his boxers. Jonny uses it to ease the way, grip firm and surprisingly deft. He leans close to bite at Patrick’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth again as Patrick shudders out his release. It’s better than it has any right to be.

When Jonny pulls his hand free he licks some of the come from his palm, lapping at it slowly, making a show. Patrick's so mesmerized he doesn't realize Jonny's wiped the rest of the jizz on his thigh until he feels it start to seep through the material.

“You're fucking rude,” he spits. Or tries to with the way he’s attempting to catch his breath.

“You liked it,” Jonny grins, still smug as ever.

“That second rate handjob? I've done better with a bottle of Jergens on my own, pal.”

Jonny flips over onto his front, throwing an arm over Patrick’s middle as he pushes his face half against his pillow, lips just inches from Patrick’s temple. “You know how I know you’re lying?”

“Mmm?” Patrick mumbles, limbs heavy and the room a little spinny. Maybe he needs a quick nap before he hikes it the fuck out of here. Just a quick catnap.

“Every time I touch you...you tremble,” Jonny whispers.

Patrick doesn’t shiver.

He doesn’t.

Because if he did that would be embarrassing and this night has already ruined him.

He’s wrecked and he can’t think about it.

Patrick lets his eyes flutter shut, let’s himself float into the hazy warmth of it all and doesn’t think, only murmurs, “You wish.” And then he’s blessedly asleep.

*

Patrick wakes the next morning to a buzzing in his pocket and a dull headache. Jonny’s knocked out beside him, breathing deep and pressed heavily along Patrick’s side. His face is soft in sleep, all of his edges rounded out, gentle. There’s no conceivable reason why Patrick should spend any time looking at Jonny or even be in Jonny’s bed. He shouldn't have landed himself here in the first place, and yet here he is, still, easing himself out of the enemy’s bed, and his room, and making the walk of shame home stained in disgrace.

It’s lucky Sharpy called him when he did, early enough that Patrick can escape the Sigma house without being detected. He’s not even sure what he’d say if he was caught or what they’d do to him, especially if Backes or Kesler were the ones to cross his path.

There’s other people out walking at this hour too, if only just a few. Patrick passes a couple of them on his way down the block. They look as unkempt as he feels, hair ruffled and clothes out of place. The sun is too cheerful bright the sky too blue for his dehydrated mind to process and he realizes he’s still got a come stain on the side of his pants, chalky and stiff to the touch. Awesome.

The Delta Chi house, when he walks through the lawn to the front door, looks a bit worse for the wear after last night. There are streamers and Solo cups strewn across the yard and trailing inside. Patrick kicks past some glittery confetti shit, pulling his phone from his pocket as it buzzes. It’s Sharpy again. His tenth text since last night and three missed calls. Yikes. Who’s about to get a lecture? Two thumbs for this guy.

Patrick considers trying to evade him for a few hours, maybe take a nap first. Unfortunately, he only makes it to the staircase before he’s caught.

“Where the fuck were you last night?” Sharpy says, face pinched and a mostly empty bag of trash in his hand. “You were supposed to help me with the pledges or did you forget?”

“Oh shit,” Patrick sighs. “Sorry, man. I...yeah. I totally forgot. Dayna dragged me to a Sigma Alpha party and well....”

Sharpy’s eyes go comically wide. “Sigma Alpha?!”

“Yep. And then she sorta bailed”

“The hell?” Sharpy says, stepping up to him.

The house has brothers scattered all over it in various levels of passed out, most of them too drunk to know better because if they did they’d be up safe in their rooms and not out in the open where anyone could mess with them. Shawzy’s plastered on the leather couch in front of the flat screen, some cartoon on that he’s probably seen twenty times before, Chaunette’s head pillowed on his lap. Phil’s smoking a cig by the window, even though he knows he’s likely to incur the wrath of their house mother for it. Buff is spread eagle on the floor, underneath the fancy shag rug that Soupy left them before he graduated last fall, a girl on each side of him. What a pimp. And on the green couch is G-Money, drooling from the corner of his mouth, and a dick in the shape of a J, for his first name, scrawled across his cheek.

Patrick’s going to have to wake him up in a minute. Hopefully, he doesn’t puke everywhere. 

“Yeah,” he shrugs in Sharpy’s direction. Then he sighs.

Sharpy chucks him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. But wait. Why didn't you just come back here then? Did you...you got laid, didn't you? Aww Kaner, good job, buddy.”

His smile is so weirdly proud that Patrick has to shove him away with an eye roll. “Stop acting so surprised, shithead.”

“Was she hot?” Sharpy waggles his eyebrows.

“He was...very,” Patrick admits, even if he’s not sure why.

“Nice. Name?”

“Uhhh.”

The thing is Patrick could tell Sharpy, probably. That it was a Sigma, that it was Jonny. He’d catch no small amount of hell for it, but Sharpy wouldn’t actively judge him like the rest of the brothers would, at least not in any real way that would have consequences. The downside of telling Sharpy would come when he inevitably opened his fat mouth and told everyone Patrick’s business, probably by accident, but that would be moot once it slipped out.

So Patrick knows he can tell Sharpy, but he won’t. Instead, he shrugs, mind still too fuzzy sleep worn and foggy from the alcohol.

“Did you at least suit up?” Sharpy asks, like he’s Patrick’s father.

“Umm,” Patrick says, fidgeting under Sharpy’s scrutinizing stare. How's he supposed to tell Sharpy no, they had not, in fact, used a condom, because Patrick didn't want latex between his tongue and that gorgeous cock? But he’s pretty sure if anyone is squeaky clean on this campus it’s definitely Toews' lame ass.

Sharpy frowns and digs in his pocket, pulling out at least five foil packets. He shoves them into Patrick’s hand. “Hey! No glove no love, okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Won't happen again.”

They break off after that to begin cleaning, Patrick shuffles to the kitchen to grab a few black garbage bags and collects empty Solo cups and balled up napkins off the floor. Other brothers slowly join in, if a bit reluctantly, grumbly and moaning about headaches and begging to know where the Tylenol is located. Once the majority of the mess is under control Patrick leaves the rest of the pledges to it and escapes upstairs for a long needed nap. On his way he passes a framed picture of the unofficial house rules.

RULES TO NEVER BREAK (EVER!) (unless you’re shawzy and don’t give a fuck)

don’t sleep on the green couch. you’ll wake up with a dick drawn on your face.

never let a Sigma in the house

don’t leave your shoes by the door, they’ll be thrown out.

laundry days are on friday. wash your fucking clothes you, filthy animal!

the strawberry yogurt is kaner’s. don’t touch or he’ll glue your ass to the toilet seat. right, shawzy?

sharpy gets the TV every thursday from 7pm-9pm for The Bachelorette. no, you can’t watch your shitty Cardinals game. DON’T ASK.

I repeat, never let a Sigma Alpha in this, our home and refuge

if reggie is around feed reggie.

stop putting forks in the microwave, you morons.

david backes is satan. never look him directly in the eyes.

312-664-7440 Dominos Pizza - ask for Malynn NOT Bree for the 25% discount

DON’T ASK ABOUT THE GRASS

don’t give carbomb grey goose after midnight. or you’re cleaning the second story bathtub.

Seriously. Under pain of death DO NOT let a Sig into this house or you will forthwith be banished from the kingdom.

He taps his finger against the glass of the frame as he passes it by, a reminder to himself where his priorities lie.

In his room he face plants on his bed and dreams weird dreams of being kicked out of Delta Chi, then college, then his parents' house to live a lonely, shameful life on the streets of Chicago all because he let Jonathan Toews put his dick in his mouth. When he wakes, more clear-headed and less hungover he makes a vow to forget last night and never think of it again, like it never happened.

It’s for the better. It has to be.

[tabletopmayhem]

What We Sacrifice

A repost for @jessicapendragon

"I think it's unfair you've been hiding your squire from us for just ages, Faust."

Sir Isobel Faust smiled the precise amount, bowed the exact amount of deference from knight to Baron, and watched out of the corner of her eye as the boy did the same from his own inferior position.  An appropriate obeisance, and the appropriate amount of fear in his eyes.

Good.

"Barone Rossi, please forgive me," she replied, rising from her bow, "I realize tradition is to bring them in immediately, but he was hardly ready.  I prefer good training to trial by fire."

"Quite, quite. Well, blaming a knight for being cautious just because of loss of amusement would be..."  The Baron trailed off, cupping a hand under his chin thoughtfully before finishing at last, "counter-productive."

"He came to me in dire need of sculpting, but hopefully I have at least given him the tools to help him finish it himself,"  Isobel said, slightly displeased that the boy's smile escaped for a half second before he restrained it.  

She'd despaired of getting him to hide his emotions, it wasn't a skill he seemed capable of.   When he was embraced, that carefree nature of his would become worse, not better as a Daeva. Well, everyone had their own strengths, and his...

"Admirable as always.  You, boy.  What is it your Maestra has been teaching you as of late?"

In that moment she became uncomfortably aware of just how many eyes were discreetly on them at this point in time.  It was unavoidable, having finally brought him.  After Vicontessa Viola had come snooping by the training manor and had attempted her little seduction, she'd known her days of keeping a tight leash on the boy were over.

That was never more apparent when he glanced up, smiled his perpetual half-smile, and lifted his shoulders in a little shrug.  She could see the instant the Baron's expression softened a little.  Damnable boy.

He was going to be so much trouble for her

"Everythin' she can get through my head, my lord, I got kinda a thick skull.  I'm doin' my best, though."

"Oh, he's local, how delightful!"  the Baron declared, as if he hadn't just spoken to the boy himself.

It had ceased to bother her some decades before, but she always found it a bit gauche for people who claimed to have impeccable manners.  Some people simply preferred the letter of the law to the spirit of it.

"Yes, Squire Leary challenged me to a duel a few years ago.  I admire his bravery greatly, even if he is a bit...rough around the edges."

"I lost," Connor supplied with a hint of a grin, as if that wasn't already obvious.

"Irish, that's a shame."

"Half," Connor replied, a little bit defensively, settling when she gave him a look of reproof.  "My mother was a Bianchi, my lord."

"Bianchi and Rossi, how amusing," the Baron replied wryly.

"This is the modern era, Barone Rossi," Isobel interrupted mildly, keeping her voice detatched.  "Such things have little bearing.  We are all Americans now."

"Quite, quite, but some of the older generation..."

"I am not Italian."

Silence for a few seconds, her face kept studiously blank.  Finally the Baron smiled, broad and agreeable, instantly setting her back up.  Not that she would ever let him know.

Never let them know.

"Of course not, Dame..."

"Sir," she interrupted, grateful that the boy managed not to smile.

She could see it in his eyes, though, she always could, the slight crinkling of the skin around them, the barest twitch of the corner of his mouth.

"Sir Faust. Forgive me.  Of course, you are so modern, I must defer to you in this discussion of the...modern age."

"You are as wise as you are gracious," she replied, pleased to see the Baron's interest in the squire had waned with the introduction of uncomfortable topics.

"I have some things that need moving next week, I was hoping I could avail upon you, Sir Faust, to accompany my...movers."

Ah, that was why he was being agreeable for once.  She smiled, inclined her head, and he returned the gesture before stepping back. She bowed, as did the boy, and the Baron turned on his heel at last.

When he withdrew she saw a slight relaxation of the boy's shoulders.  She wished she could have told him it was over, but she could see that vulture Viola already making her oh so discreet way towards them.  

"Squire, go find Sir Errol and tell him the Barone has requested my help."

"Now?  But you said I should stay close..."

She could see the minute widening of his eyes as he finally noticed the sidelong approach of the Vicontessa.  Ridiculous woman, in those overdone ballgowns that looked as if she was playing Cinderella in a highschool play.  Of course, they cost more than any school could boast in a year's budget.

She did try not to let such thoughts rankle.

The important thing now was getting her squire out of this pit of Ventrue, who would greedily hunt a Daeva-to-be regardless of whether their heart still beat or no.

"Yes sir, you got it, sir,"  Connor agreed in a hurry, turning on a heel and all but racing away.

He remembered his manners three steps in, luckily, and she tossed away the instant reproof that normally she would file for later.  He was doing well. How could she chide him, when this was a cage full of lions and he was little more than a rabbit to them?

Her ridiculous boy- how proud she was of him.

A sidelong step, a gracious smile, and she intercepted Viola, bowing immediately so that she'd be forced to respond.

"Viscontessa. It's such a delight to see you again so soon, I have been looking forward to spending more time in your company."

The instantly sour purse of the other woman's lips relaxed into a smile, a forced riposte to her initial attack.

And the battle began.

It was fucking exhausting dodging people, last thing he wanted to be doing.  Sir had done a pretty good job of telling him what to watch out for, but...well, hearing it and living it were two different things.  At least the other squires were here, even though they acted real different outside of the training house.

Here it was like they were some kinda toys, things slightly more interesting than the other people he saw running around, doing errands, carrying messages.

She'd warned him about that, too.

Messages could be traps, they'd have to go straight to her.  If he opened them, he'd be seen as interested.  Other...humans, kine, they could be traps, too. They were just there to work for the Kindred, if one of them asked him to talk, or offered him something to drink, it could be real bad.

He wasn't supposed to take anything from anyone, unless it was to go straight to her.

That had been his mistake the other day, thinking he was safe in the training house. That Viola woman had just said she wanted help with her shoe, he thought he was being polite, but...

The memory had him pretty hot under the collar, made him sure he couldn't go straight back to Sir despite Errol telling him to go back to her.  Clearing his throat, he ducked off to the side, through a door into a room full of books.  He couldn't go back out there like this.

"C'mon, c'mon..."  he muttered to himself, wandering through the shelves, finding the quietest spot in the room.  "Cold showers, fuckin'...Ol' Gert naked...that time you got your guts stabbed out...Christ on a cross, man, the last thing you wanna do around here is have to jack off in the bathroom..."

It wasn't helping. Of course it wasn't fucking helping, nothing seemed to lately. Stuck in a goddamn pit of sin, it felt like, barely hanging on by his nails.  Sure, it would probably be easier to give in, and Isobel didn't care except that he didn't want to, but...

His eyes fell on a desk back in the corner, cleaned of papers but set up with a lamp and matching pen set that caught the light.  Looked like real gold, which made his fingers itch, but they mattered less than what else was on the desk.

A phone.

Breathing out a heavy sigh of relief, he raked back his hair and headed for the phone, leaning down and grabbing it, slinging it around.  The dial tone in his ear was comforting, and punching in her number was his favorite song, not even needing to look down at the numbers.

It rang four times, which meant she was studying.

"It's past midnight," Hannah answered with a hint of complaint.  

The tone of her voice didn't bother him, he was so relieved that it took every bit of stress away, washing over him all at once.  He sighed, and she gave a small, grumpy 'hmph' that just made him laugh.

"Sorry, baby girl.  You know I had this business thing tonight.  Hi."

"Hey.  I know, so I don't know why you're calling, I told you I had to finish writing this paper.  I said we could talk tomorrow, remember?"

The irritation in her voice didn't fade, which brought back the worry again.  She'd been really snappy lately, which he was usually so good at pulling her out of.  She always said he could always make her smile.

"Hannah...c'mon, baby, is it so weird that I just wanted to hear your voice?"

"Yeah, a little.  Are you drunk?  Of course you are, why would I be surprised? What is it, wine and...and cheese and midnight parties, huh? Meanwhile I'm over here completely buried in work, but you don't even care."

"Th'fuck? How'd we get from I just wanted to hear your voice to I'm drunk an' not carin' about you?" "You didn't show up to Mikey's graduation.  You didn't show up to breakfast last week, you almost forgot my birthday..."

"Han, I apologized for all that, we talked about that.  You know I got a lot goin' on.  You know how hard it is for me to get away, to get up, I work real late."

"I have stuff going on, Connor!  I am working my ass off right now, you know. You're not the only one!  You act like you're the only one that matters, you call me in the middle of the night..."

"You're awake," he replied weakly, feeling the whole conversation sliding out of his grasp.

"I'm not every time!  And even if I was, it's just selfish!  You have gotten so...damn selfish!  Don't you ever think about anyone but yourself any more?"

Sudden rage overtook him, dragged up from who knows where, somewhere old and bad and always there.  He knew what his rage could do, he usually did such a good job keeping it down, but whatever she said had woken it up, brought it roaring out.

"Fuckin' selfish?  That's pretty fuckin' rich for someone whose 'hard work' is somethin' I'm payin' for. I'm sorry, I didn't realize workin' my fuckin' ass off so you could go to your fancy-ass college was such an inconvenience for you!  Don't worry, I'm sure the old house is still there, if you just wanna go back to livin' on the st-"

It died, suddenly, curling up and withering inside of him, replaced by a sudden fear.  

Shit.

It was silence then, the distant sounds of the party eclipsed by the thundering in his ears.  His stomach clenched, hand clutching the phone, and he finally managed a quiet, "...baby?  I'm..."

"Fuck you," she replied clearly, and the phone went dead with a click.

He listened to the dial tone for a good thirty seconds, and then swallowed, carefully hanging up the receiver and turning the phone back around.  Pulling himself up onto the edge of the desk he rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a long, slow sigh.

"...Happy fuckin' Birthday to me," he muttered quietly under his breath.

Nineteen.  Only three years left, she'd promised, before he could be free of this fucking in-between Purgatory and he could finally be Embraced.  And then, he'd figure out a way for Hannah to join him, so they'd never have to leave each other.

Just a little longer, baby...

The pit in his stomach said it was already over, but he'd gotten good at ignoring things he didn't want to hear.  She'd probably feel better in the morning, and he'd bring her something pretty to take her mind off of it.

It wouldn't work. That was why he loved her.

That was why he'd lose her.

[princesssarisa]

“Beauty and the Beast”: Belle’s beautiful discontentment (warning: long)

In my Feminist Defense of the Animated Belle, I addressed most of the issues I’ve heard people complain about regarding Belle’s character. But there was one I didn’t touch on, because it has very little to do with gender roles: the common complaint that Belle is a “snob.” I’d like to discuss that topic now. I’d also like to use it as a springboard to discuss a valuable aspect of Belle’s character that sets her apart both from certain Disney princesses who came before her and from depictions of Beauty in other Beauty and the Beast retellings: her willingness to own her discontentment.

I do understand the “snob” accusations. After all, Belle’s neighbors are poor peasants working hard to eke out a living. It’s only natural that they have little time for books or dreams of adventure and think Belle’s passion for those things is impractical. It’s reasonable to sympathize with their perspective more than the movie seems to want us to. It’s fair to argue that the movie has a (probably unintentional) classist undertone by portraying the villagers as small-minded and bigoted and by having Belle only find a kindred spirit in a prince, albeit an enchanted outcast prince, and find her ultimate happiness by leaving the town in favor of a royal castle. I’m grateful that other BatB retellings exist (e.g. Megan Kearney’s webcomic, or Robin McKinley’s Rose Daughter) that portray Beauty’s peasant world in a more positive light, depict the historic cruelty of royal court life in the Beast/Prince’s backstory, and have him leave the castle in the end to become a peasant rather than Beauty becoming a princess.

But none of the above is any reason to criticize Belle.

I don’t think she looks down on her neighbors. She most certainly doesn’t shun them, as some critics claim she does. Just look at her meeting with the baker during the opening song: she tries to have a friendly conversation with him and tell him about the wonderful story she’s read, only for him to rudely brush her aside with “That’s nice... Marie! The baguettes!” I don’t interpret her subsequent shrug and eye-roll as showing disdain for his “low-class” disinterest in books – just as “Oh well, as usual, no one shares my interest.”

Nor do I buy the claim that she shows disdain for the “I need six eggs!” woman (and by extension for all struggling mothers) when she rides past her. It’s true that she does seem to be smiling, which might imply amused contempt, but she might also just be enjoying her ride on the wagon while at the same time wistfully yearning for a new life, with her expression having nothing to do with the woman. I don’t know what the animators meant to convey. And even if that overwhelmed mother does represent the life Belle doesn’t want for herself, and if Belle sings “There must be more than this provincial life!” in response to seeing her, what’s wrong with that? I don’t think it’s an insult to women who choose to have big families. Even a woman who chooses to have five kids shouldn’t be expected to wrangle them all by herself while also doing her grocery shopping, with no help from her husband or from anyone else. That’s the kind of unpaid labor women have too often been forced into and it’s not “insulting other women” for Belle to yearn for something different.

Belle has the right to be bored by her small town life and want something more. She’s not some rich girl looking down on the poor peasants; she’s a poor peasant too. A person trapped in a dull, stifling lower-class existence has every right to long for a different life. Would we accuse Cinderella of being a “snob” and “ignoring the value of domestic work” because she dreams of escaping from her enslavement by her stepfamily? Of course Belle’s life in the village is more comfortable than that, but it’s still reasonable that she should want to break free from its limits.

“But Belle is clearly richer and more privileged than her neighbors!” some critics argue again and again. “Most peasants in those days were illiterate, so the fact that Belle can read shows she’s had a higher-class education, and in the stage musical, Maurice tells her she’s ‘class’ while their neighbors are ‘the common herd’!” I don’t buy that argument. I’ve never bought it. Not one bit. The movie’s setting isn’t the real late 18th/early 19th century France – it’s the Disney version of it. The village has a bookshop in the animated version and a church library and schoolhouse in the live-action remake. There’s no indication whatsoever that Belle's neighbors can’t read. (Gaston holding her book askance as he looks for pictures in it and Le Fou’s inability to spell Gaston’s name don’t count; the first is a “parental bonus” gag implying that Gaston is looking for a centerfold, while the second is a “Le Fou is stupid” gag. Gaston quotes Shakespeare in “The Mob Song,” so he’s clearly had some education.) Belle just stands out because she has a passion for books, instead of only reading now and then during breaks from “more important” things, and because she would rather read than engage in smalltalk about practical everyday matters. Belle is shown borrowing her books, not buying them, which I presume implies she can’t afford to buy them, and Maurice builds his invention out of ordinary household items (e.g. a wood stove, an axe, a teapot), so he presumably hasn’t spent much money on it either. Nor are they any better dressed than their neighbors, nor does their house look any fancier. They certainly don’t seem richer than Gaston, who apparently owns the village tavern and can afford to arrange a wedding party on short notice and bribe Monsieur d’Arque with a bag of gold to help him blackmail Belle. As for Maurice’s remarks in the stage version, they’re clearly about her personality, not about social class.

Belle also has the right to be an individualist and a misfit. That’s part of the whole point of her storyline. It seems to me that critics who complain that she “looks down on normalcy” are doing the same thing the villagers do, which is supposed to be wrong: saying “It’s a pity and a sin she doesn’t quite fit in.”

It’s no surprise that people should complain about Belle’s complaining, though. Traditional fairy-tale heroines aren’t supposed to complain. As much as we can joke about the cliché that the “I want more” heroine became during the Disney Renaissance, we shouldn’t forget how innovative that kind of heroine was in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Just think back to Snow White: at the beginning she’s dressed in rags and forced to work as a scullery maid by her stepmother, but we find her smiling and cheerfully humming as she scrubs the castle steps. Then there’s Cinderella: a bit more complex and openly discontented than Snow White, but in general she still goes cheerfully about her chores. The heroine who lives in unhappy circumstances but “bears it cheerfully and without complaint” is a mainstay of classic, old-fashioned fairy-tales (and other stories too). The early versions of Beauty and the Beast are no exception. After Beauty’s family falls into poverty, we’re told that her sisters constantly wail and cry over their lost wealth and status, but Beauty swallows her grief, resolves to be cheerful, patiently shoulders all the household chores, and devotes her days to consoling her father and siblings. For this she’s held up as a role model, in contrast to her complaining sisters, who despise her and insult her for it, but whom she always loves and forgives.

Of course there’s value in that kind of character. Resilience in the face of adversity and finding happiness where others find none is a strength in its own right. But it can be overdone. The more that women, poor people and outcasts are encouraged to be cheerful, patient and uncomplaining, the more they’re expected to “stay in their place.” Any righteous desire or demand for a better life or better treatment is labeled “rude,” whiny,” “petulant” and “selfish.” It doesn’t always cross that line, but it can.

Linda Woolverton, the head screenwriter of Disney’s BatB, knew that she wanted Belle to be different both from the traditional Beauty and from the likes of Snow White and Cinderella. So did lyricist Howard Ashman, whose experience as a gay man did much to influence the outcast heroes and heroines of the three Disney movies he wrote for. As noted in this Time Magazine article, they resolved to create a heroine for “the next century,” who wasn’t “based on being kind and taking the hits but smiling all the way through it.”

They definitely succeeded.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s wonderful that Belle owns her discontentment. It’s beautiful that she doesn’t try to fit in or put on a patient, cheerful mask, but unabashedly yearns to escape from her dull, small-minded village and find adventure in the great wide somewhere. It’s wonderful that she has no patience for Gaston’s rudeness and arrogance and that she loathes the thought of having to give up her reading and intellect in favor of a mundane marriage and raising a gaggle of children. It all leads beautifully into her friendship and romance arc with the Beast, where she refuses to tolerate his bullying, refuses to let him control her even though he’s the master of the castle, only forgives him when he earns her forgiveness, and inspires him to change for the better. The happy ending comes about precisely because Belle was willing to be discontented and shamelessly wanted more than she was given at first. This makes her almost the opposite of the original tale’s Beauty, whose story was written as an allegory for arranged marriage and whose purpose was in part to convince girls to submit to unwanted circumstances for their families’ sake. I love that instead, Belle refuses to submit to what she doesn’t want, and her refusal becomes the catalyst for all the positive growth and transformation in the story.

Let’s hear it for heroines who want more!

[lupinsx]

Stay With Me

masterlist

Request: hi!! i really loved your first fic!!😙 i was wondering if you could write one where the reader is a slytherin, and she’s like pretty good friends with draco. she gets an owl one day with some bad news about her family (you can decide what lmao) and she acts like she’s ok at first but she leaves the great hall rly early while draco watches and he goes to help. you can choose how it ends hehe

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Y/N and Draco are the best of friends. When Y/N hears news that will change her life, it’s up to him to help save her from her grief.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Mentions of death (nothing graphic though).

a/n — Thank you for requesting! I hope I did justice to this prompt lol.

——————————

For a moment, everything was nice.

It was late in the evening, and the Slytherin common room would be deserted if it wasn’t for you and Draco occupying the space. He sat lazily on the mossy coloured couch while you sat next to him horizontally with your legs draped over his lap, your back leaned against the armrest. The closeness between you two was almost second nature, being too overdone for it to be given another thought.

It was comfortable, that’s all. Just normal behaviour between friends.

Or at least, that’s what you say to yourself.

“And that damn bludger almost knocked my head off near the end! It was a miracle I managed to duck on time,” Draco beamed, using hand gestures as he spoke to walk you through the events. Earlier that day, Slytherin won a Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and Draco couldn’t be more ecstatic. You nodded your head in agreement as you kept your head low, focusing on the essay on your lap which needed to be completed.

With a boastful smile stretched across his face, he continued, “It was an amazing catch! The Ravenclaw seeker got close to the snitch, but I was clearly faster.”

It was silent for a moment as Draco waited for a response. You were too engrossed in the Transfiguration assignment in front of you that you almost forgot he was there, but a hand waved in front of your face brought you back to reality. Putting away the parchment with a sheepish grin, you turned your attention towards him.

“Sorry, I was finishing up my paragraph. But yes, you were amazing out there. I watched the whole thing, remember?”

His face reddened slightly at your praise, but you failed to notice under the dim candlelit lighting. Suddenly, a realization hit you; Christmas break would be approaching very soon. The mere thought warmed you like a nearby fire, and you found yourself getting giddy at the thought.

“Draco! Christmas break is in one more week. Can you believe it?” you asked, eyes wide in excitement like a child receiving candy. He nodded vaguely, unable to show much happiness at the matter.

You found immense joy at the idea of Christmas. While your half-blood and pureblood parents are comparable to a nasty old Grinch, your muggle grandmother makes the holidays entirely bearable. She frequently bakes with you, blasts old Christmas tunes whenever your parents are away, and puts on heartwarming films to enjoy together every night and morning.

These little traditions are practically the only reason you enjoy coming home. Your parents are strong upholders of the snotty rich family stereotype most Slytherins seem to bear, but having someone at your house who loves you for you and not your possible potential makes you extremely grateful.

Unfortunately, your best friend didn’t have that same luck. Draco’s parents are to a similar degree of cruelty as yours, but the lack of comforting adult figures at his house makes him loathe coming home for the break more so than you would.

It was only the prospect of seeing you after it what made him survive throughout the holiday season.

Frowning at his sudden quietness, you grabbed his hand and gave it a small squeeze. Your lips stretched into a comforting smile, not knowing what else to say to ease his mind.

He gave you a reassuring glance in response, and all was quiet for a moment. Merely the delicate crackle coming from the fireplace was heard as you unknowingly kept his hand in yours. After a minute’s time, you pulled your arm back and swung your legs off his lap.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” you said, dragging him up by his arm. He chuckled at your slight manhandling of him as you picked up your essay and waved goodbye to him. You then headed to the girls dormitory, while he went the opposite way.

That night, memories of candy canes, gingerbread houses, and the Home Alone series occupied your thoughts, leaving you in a blissful dreamland for the remainder of the night.

~~~

The next morning, you found yourself being awoken by the loud shuffling of feet outside your door. Judging by the streams of light pouring through your drapes, you knew it was time to get up.

Your morning routine didn’t take longer than 15 minutes. Once you deemed yourself ready for the day, you headed to the common room, only to see Draco leaning boredly against the portrait hole. Upon seeing you, amusement flickered briefly in his eyes.

“Race you to the Great Hall,” he spoke quickly, breaking out into a sprint before you could even respond. With a small groan and a grin threatening to spread across your mouth, you ran after the platinum haired boy.

Typical Draco, you thought. When will I ever catch a break.

Although his long legs and early exit gave him a lengthy advantage, you managed to catch up to him considerably fast, and you two crashed into the Slytherin table at nearly same time. An airy chuckle escaped his lips as you panted heavily, taking a seat as well as a large gulp of water. The pair quickly received eyes on them for their abrupt entry, but all stares were disregarded upon the sight of food in front of you.

You licked your lips in delight and swiftly reached for the French toast, ignoring the loud entrance of owls delivering the morning mail. You almost didn’t notice one approach your table, and certainly not when it swooped next to your head, but a small tap on your shoulder redirected your attention to the letter laid in front of you.

Curiously enough, you weren’t even expecting any mail.

“Who’s it from?” asked Draco nonchalantly as he scarfed down his scrambled eggs. You shrugged your shoulders and picked up the letter, impatiently unwrapping it without paying mind to front cover.

Dear Y/N L/N,

I hope you’re currently studying for exams or completing your coursework. Remember, I expect nothing less than Outstandings in every class.

Of course. Typical of mom to start off a letter addressing grades. No ‘Hello my daughter’ or anything.

I’m sending this letter to tell you that your grandmother has passed away. It was inevitable, really. She was getting quite old. But the burial was last Wednesday, so that’s done and over with. Our annual Christmas and New Year’s parties will resume as normal, so don’t you worry. Anyways, resume your studying.

Yours Truly,

Mrs L/N

Grandma… is dead?

Your knuckles gripped tightly onto the paper, your eyes skimming through it again and again to confirm you read it accurately. Eventually, the tears developing prevented you from seeing it clearly, and you simply crumpled up the letter and shoved it in your robe’s pocket.

You were alone now. All alone.

It took a minute for you to digest the information. You sat silently, making no effort to pick up your fork or look up from your lap. You couldn’t believe she was really gone from your life. It seemed like it was almost yesterday when you two were belting out Jingle Bells while icing sugar cookies.

And now, she was gone, just like that.

Standing up from your spot, you looked up to the ceiling to quickly diminish the water in your eyes. Once relatively dried, you faced Draco, who stared up at you with concern lacing his features. He was no longer focused on the meal in front of him, nor the conversations going on around him.

Forcing a small smile on your face, you croaked, “I’m feeling a little full. Just going to get some fresh air.” Without letting him reply, you rushed out of the Great Hall. Your jaw was clenched to prevent you from sobbing immediately as you ran out the doors and towards the Black Lake.

Soon, you found the spot under a tree which you had always claimed to be your own. It had the perfect view of the lake in front, so you often came here to de-stress, study, or simply hang out with Draco. Today, however, it was used as your crying corner, away from the eyes of your peers and noise of people chatting nearby. It was secluded.

And perhaps, that level of isolation was exactly what you needed to break down.

So, you cried. And cried. You sobbed louder than a newborn baby, and produced more tears within a minute than you have done within a year. You were grieving for the only adult figure in your life you ever found solace in.

What felt like hours of misery turned out to be mere minutes, which was soon interrupted by a figure dropping down next to you and pulling you to their chest. Although the puffiness of your eyelids and tears pooling above it blocked your vision, the smell of cedar wood and vanilla made you well aware of Draco’s presence. He cradled your upper body as you cried into his chest, gripping onto his shirt in tight fists.

“Draco, s-she — my grandma, she’s g-gone,” you hiccuped between your words. He didn’t respond, simply brushing the hair from your face and rubbing your back while trying to hush your cries.

It took a long while, but eventually, the tears had ceased and the whimpers were quiet and minimal. You simply took in Draco’s scent as he protectively held you. Upon noticing your silence, he finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You don’t deserve this.”

You released a pathetic chuckle, eyes looking empty as you dismiss the last part. “But it still happened. And now, I’m all alone.”

Immediately, Draco pulled you from his chest, keeping you in his arms but now facing him. He stared into your eyes with an unreadable expression and carefully remarked, “You are not alone. I’m here for you. Always.”

His response left you with a small grin tugging on your lips. You felt grateful to have a friend like him in your life, putting up with you no matter the circumstance. But as quickly as the thought came, it was replaced with the looming reality of what’s to come next week. You would have to come home for Christmas and endure constant neglect and judgement from your parents. Fear washed over your face in an instant as your eyebrows furrowed in worry.

Noticing the change of expression, he moved his hand to your jaw to hold the side of your face. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter now love?”

“I’m gonna have to come home for Christmas,” you spoke with quivering lips and a shaky tone. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes once more, but Draco caught each one and wiped them from your cheek with delicate strokes of his finger.

“No, Y/N, you won’t. Not this year, at least. You can come with me to my house, or I can stay with you at Hogwarts. Either way, I am not leaving you alone.”

“Y-you’ll stay with me?” you asked tentatively. You and him both knew how much you needed him at a time like this, but his understanding without your spoken words left you feeling a certain type of admiration for the boy.

Just as you did yesterday, Draco squeezed your hand in a reassuring manner before mumbling, “Of course I will.”

He then left a gentle kiss on your forehead, spreading warmth to every corner of your body. “I promise, Y/N. I won’t leave you. Not now, not later, not ever. I will always stick by your side.”

——————————

a/n — I had lots of fun writing this, despite it currently being an ungodly hour. Thank you again for requesting and let me know what you think!

[miloscat]

[Review] Conker: Live & Reloaded (XB)

Let’s see just how well this misguided remake/expansion holds up. This will be a long one!

Conker’s Bad Fur Day is my favourite N64 game. It’s cinematic and ambitious, technically impressive, has scads of gameplay variety with fun settings and setpieces, and when I first played it I was just the right age for the humour to land very well for me. A scant four years later Rare remade it for the Xbox after their acquisition by Microsoft, replacing the original multiplayer modes with a new online mode that would be the focus of the project, with classes and objectives and such.

First, an assessment of the single-player campaign. On a revisit I can see the common criticisms hold some water: the 3D platformer gameplay is a bit shaky at times, certain gameplay segments are just plain wonky and unfair, and some of the humour doesn’t hold up. It’s got all the best poorly-aged jokes: reference humour, gross-out/shock humour, and poking fun at conventions of the now dormant 3D collectathon platformer genre. I also am more sensitive these days to things like the sexual assault and homophobia undertones to the cogs, or Conker doing awful things for lols. Having said that, there’s plenty that I still find amusing, and outside of a few aggravatingly difficult sequences (surf punks, the mansion key hunt, the submarine attack, the beach escape) I do still appreciate the range of things you do in the game.

As for the remake, I’m not sure it can be called an improvement by any metric. Sure, there’s some minor additions. There’s a new surgeon Tediz miniboss, the new haunted baby doll enemy, and the opening to Spooky has been given a Gothic village retheme along with an added—though unremarked on—costume for Conker during this chapter based on the Hugh Jackman Van Helsing flop. Other changes are if anything detrimental. The electrocution and Berri’s shooting cutscenes have been extended, thus undermining the joke/emotional impact. The original game used the trope of censoring certain swear words to makes lines more funny; the remake adds more censorship for some reason, in one case (the Rock Solid bouncer scene) ruining the joke, and Chucky Poo’s Lament is just worse with fart noises covering the cursing.

The most egregious change, and one lampshaded in the tutorial, is the replacement of the frying pan (an instant and satisfying interaction) with a baseball bat which must be equipped, changing the control and camera to the behind-the-back combat style, and then swung with timed inputs to defeat the many added armoured goblings and dolls carelessly dumped all throughout the game world. This flat out makes the game less fun to play through.

On top of this, all the music has been rerecorded (with apologies to Robin Beanland, I didn’t really notice apart from instances where it had to be changed, such as in Franky’s boss fight where the intensely frenetic banjo lead was drastically reduced as a concession to the requirement to actually play it in real life), and the graphics totally redone. Bad Fur Day made excellent use of textures, but with detail cranked up, the sixth generation muddiness, and a frankly overdone fur effect, something is lost. I’m not a fan of the character redesigns either; sure Birdy has a new hat, but I didn’t particularly want to see Conker’s hands, and the Tediz are no longer sinister stuffed bears but weird biological monster bears with uniforms. On top of all this you notice regular dropped details; a swapped texture makes for nonsensical dialogue in the Batula cutscene, and characters have lost some emotive animations. Plus, the new translucent scrolling speech bubbles are undeniably worse.

I could mention the understandable loading screens (at least they’re quick), the mistimed lip sync (possibly exacerbated by my tech setup), or the removal of cheats (not a big deal), but enough remake bashing. To be fair, the swimming controls have been improved and the air meter mercifully extended, making Bats Tower more palatable. And some sequences have been shortened to—I suppose—lessen gameplay tedium (although removing the electric eel entirely is an odd choice). But let’s cover the multiplayer. Losing the varied modes from the original is a heavy blow, as I remember many a fun evening spent in Beach, War, or Raptor, along with the cutscenes setting up each mode.

The new headline feature of this release is the Live mode. The new Xbox Live service allowing online multiplayer was integrated, although it’s all gone now. Chasing the hot trends of the time, it’s a set of class-based team missions, with the Squirrel High Command vs. the Tediz in a variety of scenarios, mostly boiling down to progressing through capture points or capture the flag. Each class is quite specialised and I’m not sure how balanced it is, plus there’s proto-achievements and unlocks behind substantial milestones none of which I got close to reaching (I don’t think I could get most of them anyway, not being “Live”).

The maps are structured around a “Chapter X” campaign in which the Tediz and the weasel antagonist from BFD Ze Professor (here given a new and highly offensive double-barrelled slur name) are initially fighting the SHC in the Second World War-inspired past of the Old War, before using a time machine, opening up a sci-fi theme for the Future War. These are mainly just aesthetic changes, but it’s a fun idea and lets them explore Seavor’s beloved wartime theming a bit more while also bringing in plenty of references to Star Wars, Alien, Dune, and Halo; mostly visual.

Unfortunately the plot is a bit incoherent, rushed through narration (unusually provided by professional American voice actor Fred Tatasciore rather than a Rare staffer doing a raspy or regional voice like the rest of the game) over admittedly nice-looking cutscenes. They also muddle the timeline significantly, seemingly ignoring the BFD events... and then the Tediz’ ultimate goal is to revive the hibernating Panther King, when the purpose of their creation was to usurp him in the first place! It expands on the Conker universe but in a way that makes the world feel smaller and more confusing. It’s weird, and also Conker doesn’t appear at all.

On top of this, I found the multiplayer experience itself frustrating. To unlock the full Chapter X, you need to play the first three maps on easy, then you can go through the whole six. But I couldn’t pass the first one on normal difficulty! The “Dumbots” seemed to have so much health and impeccable aim, while the action was so chaotic, obscured by intrusive UI, floating usernames, and smoke and other effects with loads of characters milling around, not to mention the confusing map layouts, the friendly fire, the instant respawns, and the spawncamping. Luckily I could play the maps themselves in solo mode with cutscenes and adjustable AI and options.

I found some classes much more satisfying than others. I tried to like the Long Ranger and the slow Demolisher, but found it difficult to be accurate. The awkward range of the Thermophile and the Sky Jockey’s rarely effective vehicles made them uncommon choices. I had most success with the simple Grunt, or the melee-range Sneeker (the SHC variant of which is sadly the sole playable female in the whole thing). You can pick up upgrade tokens during gameplay to expand the toolset of each class, which range from necessary to situational. But ultimately it’s a crapshoot, as I rarely felt that my intentions led to clear results.

Live & Reloaded is such a mess. The Reloaded BFD is full of odd decisions and baffling drawbacks, while the Live portion feels undercooked. I’d have preferred a greater focus on either one; a remake is unnecessary, especially only four years on, but a new single-player adventure would have been ace. And a multiplayer mode in this universe with its own story mode could be cool if it was better balanced and had more to it than just eight maps. As a source of some slight scrapings of new Conker content I appreciated it to some extent, but I can’t help being let down. I guess it’s true what they say... the grass is always greener. And you don’t really know what it is you have, until it’s gone... gone. Gone.

Yes, that ending is still genuinely emotionally affecting.

[ducktracy]

107. buddy in africa (1935)

disclaimer: this review entails racist imagery, content, and concepts. i don’t endorse any of these stereotypes or depictions whatsoever, i find them gross and wrong. however, it would be just as wrong to gloss over them and act like they didn’t exist. this review is purely for educational and informational purposes. please let me know if i say something harmful, offensive, or wrong—it is NEVER my intention to do so. thank you for bearing with me and understanding.

release date: july 6th, 1935

series: looney tunes

director: ben hardaway

starring: jackie morrow (buddy)

ben hardaway’s last buddy cartoon. buddy sets up a moving variety store shop in africa, but a pesky monkey and gorilla cause problems for our little shopkeeper.

just a normal day where a man is mowing the grass in his african village, or so we think. a pan out reveals that he’s perched on top of a house, mowing the straw roof. another gag includes a human juicer, a man twisting the bone in his hair to squeeze the juice out of the fruit in the man’s mouth. some villagers engage in a game of horseshoe, a man tossing children and using their nose rings to get caught onto the stake in the ground. as always, racial stereotypes and caricature are abound and uncomfortable.

enter chipper buddy, whistling away as he totes his trailer behind his car, advertising a variety store. a somewhat similar premise would be used in porky’s five and ten, where fish wreak havoc on his own variety store. a gorilla is hitchhiking, eagerly sticking out his thumb when buddy approaches. buddy rides straight on by, bad news for the gorilla, who dismisses him frustratedly. there’s a nice (albeit standard) gag of a monkey traffic cop and a giraffe posing as a traffic sign. the monkey directs the traffic, while a kangaroo (in africa???) stuffs litter in its pouch.

a guard waits by the entrance of the village. he spots buddy approaching and snags another villager, shaking him and ringing him like a bell. everyone pokes their heads out to see what the occasion is as buddy drives through the gates.

buddy screeches to a halt and begins to set up shop, beating on a drum, his butt, some pots and pans, greeting the crowd congregating before him with “howdy, folks! here it is!” jackie morrow’s voice acting is very cute, and it’s neat that they got an actual child actor (i believe i read somewhere that he was 9 when he voiced buddy). i think jack carr’s voice suited him more, though—it was an ambiguous child AND adult voice. it could pass for either, just like buddy’s appearance. i guess it’s just a little strange seeing buddy drive a car and own a house and talk in a child’s voice. just something very petty to nitpick at, morrow does a very good job of voicing buddy. the villagers exchange fruit for the goods as the trade ensues.

there’s another rather redundant and arbitrary shot of the gorilla hitchhiker before cutting back to buddy and his booming business. one of the villagers goes into his hut with his newfound collectibles. he twists two lightbulbs in his ears, which add some much needed light into the dark hut. he placed a lampshade on his head and reads the newspaper. elsewhere, another villager stuffs fireworks in his mouth and lights them, flying off into the distance. it’s an absurd gag, but the abruptness and almost incoherence of it makes it highly amusing.

meanwhile, our little salesman triumphantly displays some bottles. “here’s a drink that’ll cure your jitters,” he announces in rhyme, “buddy’s famous jungle bitters!” one of his customers takes the bottles buddy was holding in his hands, whereas a pesky little monkey decides to help himself, too. buddy scolds the monkey, but the monkey isn’t bothered, chattering and slamming buddy’s car door shut.

four of the villagers drink the bitters—music strikes. a man plucks his hair like a bass as they sing “marchin’ towards ya, georgia!” a very catchy song indeed with lovely vocals, but appreciation severely muddled by the blatant blackface caricatures staring you in the face. a man plays an elephant like a pair of bagpipes, a man stretches out his lips (sigh) and plays them like a muted trumpet, and a woman sings some vocals. she has some sort of pipe on her neck (it’s difficult to tell since this print is so poor in quality), and a man annoyed with her singing turns a knob that shuts her up. meanwhile, buddy merrily juggles his bottles.

two of the villagers dance, bouncing around doing handstands. obviously, this whole scene, not to mention entire cartoon is cringeworthy and painful to watch (unfortunately, this is relatively tame compared to other cartoons), but the animation is solid, very bouncy and fun. a turtle plays itself like a banjo while the four singers finish up the song. very catchy indeed.

back to the monkey, who’s proving himself to be quite the nuisance. he bangs the bottle against the car in an attempt to open it—buddy yells at him to stop and to give it back, but the monkey refuses. buddy chases the monkey around the car—he dives under the car, where the monkey pops out on top and hits the bottle against buddy’s head. buddy snags the bottle (which somehow isn’t broken) out of the monkey’s hands and spanks him. back to the harman-ising days of spanking gags! how we miss you!

accomplished, buddy releases the monkey and laughs. the monkey shakes his fist and wanders off, right back to the hitchhiking gorilla. ahhh, of course. the monkey chirps and squeals about his horrific encounter with buddy, patting his own butt for good measure. the seemingly docile gorilla scowls and rolls up its fur-sleeves (such an overdone gag, but a big guilty pleasure of mine. i can’t help but love it!) menacingly. it puffs its chest out and tips its hat forward, preparing to march along. a nice detail as the monkey follows behind, also puffing out his chest.

the gorilla and monkey come to a standstill as a guard confronts them at the entrance to the village. a lovely little bit of acting as the gorilla shrugs at the monkey for advice, the monkey punching its palm. the gorilla takes its orders and pummels the guard into the ground, the gorilla stepping on his head and the monkey poking his eyes.

predictably, buddy gets his. he’s pumping up a tire when the gorilla terrorizes him, stepping onto the tire and propelling buddy upwards. the gorilla catches buddy and slams him down onto the tire, pumping the air pump and propelling him offscreen. thusly, the gorilla snags the pump and tire, preparing to beat buddy senseless by swinging the tire like the world’s most painful lasso. the scene reads as incoherent (even aside from the poor quality) as the tire hits the gorilla instead, shooting it into the distance. a tree slingshots the gorilla back to where it was (nice rubbery animation of the tree), and the gorilla barrels right into a lookout tower. the tower collapses, trapping buddy AND the gorilla who are both unscathed. finding great humor in the debacle, the little monkey laughs at the gorilla. in a moment of camaraderie, the gorilla exchanges a glance with buddy and punches the tire. the tire sends the air pump handle rocketing, which in turn hits the monkey, who flies into the distance. iris out as foes become friends, the gorilla and buddy shaking hands.

hardaway’s buddy cartoons, in my opinion, were slightly weaker than king’s. in general, they’re all pretty bland—the titles blend together and i can’t even remember if i have a discernible favorite or not. i know i had commended a buddy cartoon relatively recently and labeled it as good, but i can’t even think of it! thus proves buddy’s blandness. this is another bland one, more than usual. right off the bat the racial stereotypes and caricatures make the cartoon an uncomfortable watch. the monkey and gorilla scenes were amusing, though. the ending battle read as incoherent and incomprehensible, i kept having to rewind it just to formulate what was going on. it was certainly creative and high energy, though, and i applaud that. the song number was nice and catchy, but that’s it. i hate to say “it could have been worse” because blackface is blackface and stereotypes are stereotypes, any inclusion at all is immediately bad. but i suppose there are cartoons out there that are more mean-spirited than this one, more of a “celebration everyone sings and dances for the fun of it and everyone gets along”, but still. not pleasant and cringeworthy. even besides that, the cartoon doesn’t have much going for it at all. you won’t miss anything by skipping.

but, as always, i’ll provide a link. obviously view at your own discretion.

[aala-13jellychocolate]

THEY NEVER KNOW (Chapter Sixteen)

Author’s note: This is my first time writing, so I hope you all will forgive my mistake and grammar too. I’m hoping for comments on my writing. Thank you…    

This story has taken little inspiration from Sehun web story “ Dokgo Rewind”.

Summary, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven(M), Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen

-Sehun pov-

It has been three weeks, last time I saw her. As I said, I forgot her. In the morning I go to college, study hard. I don’t fancy to be Doctor, but I was enjoying studies. In fact, I love it, and also studies thing make me feel closer to my dead brother. I still remember, him making me study every day.  

In the afternoon, after lunch, I freshly start studying. As I still don’t have a job.  

In the evening, Yuna, Teayong, and Jinwoo join me at my house, we talk about Gang and things, research about them. Every day I fill myself with new information on gang members and make plans to expose them.

In the night, have dinner with my friends, then go to bed. I sleep after missing my shy ass brother, sometime even cry. Everything is peaceful for now.  

Teayong said, “Sehun, I inquiry a bit, Jaehyun is still out of town.” Jinwoo added, “Junsu is also stock by it. He said Jaehyun is gone to meet Wang gang leader, and don’t know when he will come back.” I nod, “Okay. I mean, are you sure, he is still alive?” Yuna smirk, “He is well and good. I was able to get it out from Jonah.” I don’t know how to thank Yuna and her alluring skill. I nod again, “Fine then, let end for tonight. Teayong drops Yuna back safely.”  

As they both exit my house, I sleepily yawn and say to Jinwoo, “I will go to bed now, you also sleep.” He imitates me, “Don’t cry tonight. I am tired, cannot bear your sobbing voice.” I mock, “Oh God, what should I do? Today, I’m missing my brother like hell.” I turn my back on him, ready to go to my room, he seriously said, “Or you’re missing Y/N?” I turn back, give him a death glare, but he didn’t stop, “How long you’re going pretending? You do miss her. I know, you are crying for your brother, but the truth is you are crying for her too. Sehun, she did hurt you, so you have. Go and meet her once. Try to understand her.” I keep glancing him, he collects the words and says again, “Sehun, you fell in love with her just a few months ago, and she loved your brother for years. She is hurt more than you. As much I come to know about her, she cares for you, give her time to shot out her feeling…” I cut him, “Stop. I don’t care about her. What is wrong with you? Why are you suddenly talking about her?” With a sad smile, he said, “Because, you both needed time before, everything happens so fast, you both cannot follow things. She needed to understand the difference between you and your brother. And you needed to know your priority. Now, things are stable. Meet her. If she is still angry…….” That was it. I couldn’t listen more, without saying anything I escape to my room. I couldn’t get angry because he was right. I never forget her. I do love her. Going the upper bed of my bunk bed, I start thinking. I smile thinking about, she sleeping in down bed. After her, I never sleep in the down bed.

When Sehyun was there, I use to sleep in the down bed. He was obsessive about sleeping in the upper bed. I rarely capture it. No matter how much we fight, I always get the down bed, and till late night, I’ve heard mobile keypad sound. I always thought he is studying, maybe that whole time he and Y/n were chatting. I was a fool who never read my shy ass brother behavior. Now, like a fool, I’m laughing alone remembering memory.    

I stop laughing and again think about her. Busy day always passes without thinking about her, but at night, I remember every moment spent with her. My heart was aching to know how is she. Hoping, she didn’t try to kill herself again. However, I’m not going to meet her. I have self-esteem. She must be right in her place, how could she insult me or my love for her and my brother. No one has ever treated me like her. I have the right to behave uncaringly. Wiping away my silent, unwanted tears, I sleep.

-Y/N P.O.V-  

Headache. Headache is the only loyal thing which comes in every morning since last few months. You are nearly recover after the accident. Last three weeks were different. Physically, you were healing. Mentally, and emotionally, you were a clutter.

After treating a headache with coffee, you go to college. Surprisingly, Myung and Mishal didn’t question about anything, from accident to till now your different behavior, so you didn’t say anything either. In the afternoon, back to your part-time job where you work alone. Your boss still didn’t find a replacement. After work, you spend time with Mr. Kim in his office. You study there, have dinner then back to your lonely house. Cry and sleep, again start the morning with a headache.  

You were trying to study when Mr. Kim asked, “Noodle are okay for dinner?” You nod. Every day since the last three weeks, Mr. Kim has dinner with you. Mrs. Kim and Sol-Mae must be cursing you for that, but you don’t care. You bury your head again in the book. Mr. Kim asked, “So, when are you guys going to talk?” You look at him with confusion. “Talk, with whom?” He pauses and says, “With Sehyun. It has been three weeks now so, talk things out.” You become bitter, “There is nothing to talk, we break up. End of story.” He signs, “Y/N, I think you still need to talk. You don’t seem fine without him. Maybe something in the story is remaining.” You snort, “There is nothing. You don’t know him. He only cares about his brother. And what is wrong with you? You always say ‘I’m like your father.’ You should be happy. Your daughter is not dating.” He laughs, “Your real father have also like the fact of your dating so he can scare your boyfriend not to hurt you. As for me, I think same as him and also want your happiness, and I think you are too much into him. I don’t know what happens, but you seem missing him too much…..” You cut him, “I will tell you what happened. He only cares about his brother, whether dead or alive. He deceives to me and then tries to cover it with 'I love you.’ Even after ending everything he still dares to say 'I’m his girlfriend.’ He is…..” You stop. Control your breathing. You mix up both of brother. Y/n, with whom you are angry? Sehyun or his ass brother? You ask yourself. He nods, “I still think you both need to sit and talk.” You look down at your book to ignore him saying more, “I’m trying to study.” Mr. Kim stop. You cannot understand. Why the hell Mr. Kim is behaving like this? Few times barely he met Sehyun that also in school time, during the parent-teacher meeting. And Sehun only one time in hospital. He knows nothing about them.  

Day ended, you were back to your bed and cry. You cry every night, but for what, you don’t know. You are trying to forget and move on then still find yourself in the same place. You were trying to hate them, but you cannot. After exhausting from crying, you fall asleep.  

Another day starts, half-day went the same as all ways. Suddenly your boss reminds today’s day, its string in the heart. You were never good at remembering any anniversary dates, Sehyun always tells you in annoyance. Now he is gone, you clearly remember dates. 13th of August, he confesses his feelings. Last year, he has given you a huge brown teddy, date in an amusement park, dinner and good amount of scolding for not remember the day. One of the best day of your life and now you were alone. You bury yourself in work, trying to forget about today then dinner with Mr. Kim help you in it. At home, you let out your frustration, crying in your bed.  

Your head starts paining after crying for hours. It was worst to remember everything, miss him. Sometimes, you think it was better to end life, get away from all the pain. But it is wrong, it is not right toward your parents, Sehyun, they loved you so much,  you have to survive till you can for others, who loved and care for you. At least today you know the reason for your crying. In between if crying, you smile too, thinking about happy memories. Well, you were in peace even in misery.  

It didn’t last long as you hear knock on your door. First, you ignore but after fifth doorbell ring, in frustration, you get up from the bed. As you open the door, your eyes grow wide.      

-Sehun pov-

We were looking at new information about Choi gang. Teayong looked nervous. After waiting for one hour, for him to say what is bothering him, I asked, “Teayong, spit it out already.” Yuna and Jinwoo also look at him. Teayong clears his throat, in small voices said, “I’m sorry, I have overdone it, but I thought it could help. I swear I didn’t even read one word also.” We silently waited for him to continue. After controlling his breathing, he stutters, “I-I-I’ve taken out-t-t Y/n, and Sehyun chatting conversation, and transfer in on paper which is currently in my bag.” I become fuming, “YOU DID WHAT?” I grab his shirt collar and raise my hand to punch him but stop, “YOU ARE IDIOT. We are not reading their private messages. If I want to read it, I had his phone in my hand, which of course you steal and transfer everything on the paper. ” Jinwoo and Yuna didn’t stop me or say a word. He argues in a small voice, “I know it is not right, but maybe they have talked about something which could help us.”

Running hand in hair due to frustration, I said, “You don’t know, Y/N already think of me as a person without respect and reading messages will be a new level. You know what, handover phone and messages sheets and leave. We’ll talk later after I control my anger. GET OUT.” He did what I said. Yuna and Jinwoo also left without saying anything. Thank god for that. I keep looking at phone and messages sheets. I wouldn’t lie, I had thought about before, but it doesn’t feel right, it is their private life. At the same time, we could get something. At least, we will know which places Sehyun use to visit, which will be a great help. However, I didn’t touch it. In annoyance went to my room and sleep.  

Next day, half of my day went the same as the last three weeks, in the back of my mind, I’m still thinking about Messages. For evening gathering, Jinwoo was running late. Yuna was worried about him while me and Teayong keep calling him. After an hour, he finally came and announced, “Junsu said, Jaehyun is not coming back. I mean, he is joining Wang gang while here Johan will lead on behalf of Jaehyun.” It was shocking for all of us. Suddenly why? Chaging a leader is huge thing for any gang. Jinwoo continues, “Rumore is, it is because of your brother death. Wang gang leader is not happy with it, and he sends you a letter.” Jinwoo handed me a black envelope. I open it without wasting time. Jinwoo, Yuna, and Teayong circle me. In the white handmade paper, in computer written words.

“I’M SORRY FOR YOU BROTHER. I KNOW I’M LATE. HOWEVER, I WILL KEEP MY ANOTHER PROMISE. NO HARM WILL COME TO HER. ONCE AGAIN, THANK YOU SEHYUN”

Why he is thanks to Sehyun? Jinwoo asks, “Her? Who is her?” I look toward him, “Her is Y/N. If I’m not wrong, Wang leader has promised to protect Sehyun or you can say me, but he failed, and Y/N is another promise. Wang gang had known about Y/N and Sehyun. Bloody hell. She meant to stay hidden after this letter, Jaehyun and his gang also know about her.” I crumpled letter and angrily throw it. Following our argument, I haven’t talked to her, even if I try, she is so stubborn than how I’m supposed to protect her? It is no meaning of warning her; she surely doesn’t care about her life. What should I do?  

Teayong says, “If Jaehyun doesn’t return we are on a dead end. He is the only one who knows the truth.”  

Yuna says, “I’ll go and see what can I do with Johan.” I stop her by holding her wrist, “No, wait. Let’s read Sehyun and y/n messages. If they ever talked about Wang gang or anyone like, then we will plan further.” Yuna and Teayong agreed while Jinwoo doesn’t seem to like it but nod.  

We divide messages sheets. Almost three years of messages, there were lots of things. I need to read only a recent one, but others were curious to know more about them. I try to stop, but Yuna points it out 'We are already invading the privacy, read more won’t change anything now.’  

While reading most of them were complains. Every one of us turns red and cough seeing sex texting or that kind of stuff. Jinwoo comment, “I never thought Y/n could be this bold, and your brother seems to have much more experience than you.” I cursed. Stupid shy ass, no, he was an intelligent asshole. He is not a novice at all. I’m an innocent one here. My ass brother; I want to kill him with my bare hand for keeping me in dark. On the other hand, there were lots of talk about me. Whenever any caring words are there from y/n, give a small spark of happiness. However, still now nothing unusual, Yuan says, “Guys look at this.”  

Sehyun: Where the hell was you for the whole fucking day?“

Y/N: What’s up? You know my schedule, college then work and now at home.

Sehyun: Really? You are the biggest idiot I have ever seen. You skip the college, went to the amusement park with your stupid friends, and none of you even realize someone was stalking.  

Y/N: Okay, it is dull day, so we went out. And stalking? How do you know about that? Unless you were the stalker.

Sehyun: Stop fucking nonsense.

Y/N: Okay, stop now. Did your stupid patient again say trash about my abduction? From what I know, Doctor and patient should not engage besides work. It has been a month now you saved him, and he thanked you now stop communicating with him or send him to the mental hospital. He is insane.  

Sehyun: You don’t know him. Just be careful girl. I cannot stay alive if something happens to you.

Y/N: Sehyun, if he is a dangerous person, then take your brother help. And I’m glad to hear it but love, if you are gone, I promise to move on, have a new and happy life. I’m a selfish person. I cannot die for you.  

Sehyun: Everything is over now, he promised to stay away from us. Plus Sehun already has many things to deal with; He cannot get involved. And Baby girl, my ghost will always be there with you. I will never let you forget me.  

Jinwoo whine, "What was Y/n relpy, turn the page, let me see.” I narrow my eyes and shout, “We are reading the novel? Why do you do want to know what they talk next? Anyways, stop reading. We have to talk to her. She could describe how this Wang leader looks like.” Jinwoo looks down. Yuna calmly says, “Let’s end today and go to sleep, tomorrow we will look further. Everyone nodded.  

I went to lie on the bed, thinking. If y/n give information about Wang gang, everything will become easy, but if I approach her, she won’t talk. Well, she seems good with Jinwoo. I have to ask him to talk. I’m feeling guilty about reading their messages, at the same time we come to know how close they were. Thinking about her message about moving on made me sadly chuckle, Sehyun ghost doesn’t need to be here, Y/n won’t forget him ever, no matter what happens.

Next day, I ask Jinwoo to contract her. Guess what, she was ignoring his call. Well, Jinwoo will keep trying to reach while I continue on other work.

Three days pass, there is no response for her. Jinwoo asks me to approach her for two reasons. First, because he thinks she will only respond to me. Second, because 'she and I need to talk thing out.’ Of course, I don’t want to talk to her. Taking everything on my ego, I was going to solve thing by myself.  

In evening gathering, today, Yuna was late. It made us extremely worried. Her phone was not reachable. After waiting for one hour, we get eager to find her. God, if anything happens to Yuna, I would be able to forget myself. Thing like this make me think, I should do everything alone and leave my friends out of my vengeance plan.  

When we were about to leave my place, Yuna comes with distress. She handed me a similar letter as Wang leader send me and says, "Jonah asked me to give you this. It is from Wang leader, and he has asked you to reply.” Opening the letter, make my blood boil. “What is it?” ask Teayong while he comes near me and read.

“WHY JAEHYUN SAID GIRL NAME YUNA IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?”

What the hell is this? Why does he care? What the fuck he wants? Why this bastard does rooting spotlight on me and y/n? Why? And Why? I need to find out about him. He is talking like friends do. I don’t think my brother was stupid enough to befriend with gang leader or to girlfriend problem talks. Other than me, only one person knows Sehyun. I need to talk to her and now. She maybe knows about this bastard and now people about her, will make her target. Jinwoo asks, “What will you relpy ?” Controlling my angry, said while writing him relpy ’She is not.’ “Yuna takes Teayong along with you, in case something happens and Jinwoo comes with me, we have to meet y/n.” My and Sehyun handwriting is likewise. Thank god. Handing a letter to Yuna, I continue, “I have a feeling we are going to meet Wang leader very soon. Our real struggle will start now.” Teayong annoyingly said, “Are you going to say Yuna is not your girlfriend? Do you know how much she is doing for you? If you say this, she will be the target.” I try to speak, but he stops, “Who is y/n? I get it she is your brother girlfriend, you care for her. Still, it doesn’t make sense, why we have to risk Yuna for us?” Teayong and Yuna still haven’t figure out my feeling for her. They think I merely care or have a soft corner.  

Old Sehun in me would have shouted, telling he loves and how she is important to him. However, new me, calmly said with mention my reason, “Nothing will happen to Yuna. She has you, me and Jinwooo. And we have no idea who is Wang leader? We need y/n to know him. In the same time, we need him to keep his promise, whatever it is. In simple words, if I say Yuna is my girlfriend, Wang leader is not going to protect Yuna, and maybe he will stop protecting y/n too. Which means we have to protect Yuna and y/n together. Trust me, it will create an unnecessary problem. My 'she is not’ is saving us from working more.” Teayong doesn’t seem satisfied with my explanation but thanks Yuna, he got okay and leave with her.

Jinwoo sadly smiles at me. I know he is also worried about Yuna. I console him, “Jinwoo, I promise no harm will ever come to Yuna and y/n…..” He stops me and says, “We need to look after y/n the most. Yuna understands our world. She knowing get inside this world while y/n is naive.” I nod and chuckle, “You know, previously it was difficult to make you understand stuff, it was easier to talk Teayong, and now it is changed. All the way around.” Jinwoo understanding laugh.  

We reach her apartment door. My feeling was mess up completely. I was excited to see her, my heart was beating so fast. At the same time, I was worried about her reaction. She hates me. I know that. The egoistic part of me, don’t want to meet her. My heart was aching to know her. God, why I had to fall in love with my brother girlfriend? Jinwoo tap in the shoulder being me out of through, asking to knock the door. I control my expression, making sure I have bitch face and ready for her wrath and knock the door.

[slothcritic]

Dragon Ball Z Abridged - Episode 4 Review

Hit-or-miss introduction makes way for some golden moments.

The opening skit for Snakeway to Heaven has a satisfactory comedic weight to it, though upon re-watching it for this review, I noticed an editing mistake I had never noticed before, despite becoming a fan of the series in 2012. When Goku falls off Snake Way, the scene actually freezes on that frame. It wouldn't be noticeable if the truck itself hadn't frozen as well. Small gripe but I thought it was an interesting observation to share.

[Title Sequence]

Goku's scream carries over into the first few seconds of the intro and resumes near the last few seconds, which I found to be a well played editing decision.

Once Goku has stopped falling, we're treated to an amusing take on the filler ogres from hell. The blue one is given the Swedish Hansel-und-Gretel accent while the red one speaks like a German or Austrian. And puritan as ever, KaiserNeko made sure to use the original, unedited footage. It would’ve been funny to see them maybe have a scene or two with the ogres wearing their different HFIL shirts, or maybe a bit more fun poked at the Ocean Dub, but no such luck in this scene.

TFS doesn't spend too much time on this scene at all, really. It’s filler, and so nothing here really matters to the story aside from laugh-factor. The comedic nature of this first scene is that it’s rushed. Goku swindles the two ogres out of a fight, like he’s trying to swindle the show into skipping this filler arc, as he immediately guns it for the exit... and then stops?

It would've been a much more emphatic punchline if the scene had changed right here. Instead we have an awkward stop-and-go motion to the scene they're trying to orchestrate and it feels stilted. A lot of this scene after Goku finds the exit I find to be entirely unneeded. Raditz has already been established as being in Other World so the callback here wasn't necessary, the special King Yemma fruit could be argued for having no plot relevance as it never existed in the manga, and we didn't really need that post-Goku scene to get the hint that these ogres were very chummy with each other when it came to subjects like oil wrestling and speedos.

But then, where would they put that great joke about the Blood Fountain? And the small dialogue about Dabura I did find risible as a fan of the original DBZ, despite my usual curmudgeonly take on yet-to-be-established jokes. Like many things, this does get much better as the series continues, eventually turning some moments of sequence-breaking into moments of well-crafted foreshadowing. This is just a funny pointless joke, and a nod to fans of DBZ, that has no impact on the actual story of DBZA itself.

Again, this isn't too much of a big deal. Just a whole work-with-what-you've-got bizarre scenario likely due to bizarre source material. Yet this was all deemed funny enough to edit, voice and keep in the episode instead of trimming it out like the other 90% of this mini-arc. I'm not convinced the presentation was done to par, but I do feel that the inclusion of "Goku in Hell" is necessary for the sake of tying loose ends together. Also, it would've been a far more egregious decision to have that cold open end in a do-nothing cliff hanger. So, a goofy scene and perhaps iffy writing, but not terrible.

We then return to the person who has so far been the breadwinner of the series, and Piccolo hasn't let up on either the humor or Gohan. Kind of a contrast to how somber he is in the show. It's not whack-a-doodle humor, it's exaggerated frustration and exasperation, which lands almost dead-center on my humor nexus.

But even better than Piccolo has to be this next scene - Debatably the first "meme" or seriously quotable moment in the show's history: Popo's Pecking Order.

On paper this doesn't look like it'd be necessarily funny, but when you attach to it a very do-nothing character like Mr Popo and turn him into a sadistic dictator, combined with the special emphasis and excellent delivery of the line, it's simply outstanding, and raises the bar for this entire episode.

Now I've said before that the source material of Z shouldn't factor into the end product that is DBZA. If I were to show this episode to my mother, I shouldn't have to show her all 291 episodes of Z so she can understand it. The show should be able stand on its own. That's not to say parody should have zero factor in the writing of this, or that there should be zero references at all, ever. By god what a silly thing to imply. But people can still enjoy Spaceballs even if they haven't seen Star Wars.

However, in the case of Mr Popo, DBZA does a good job of setting up Popo in the same way Z does. He initially speaks in a low, subdued tone, and is spoken of by Kami as some kind of adviser, or perhaps a respected peer, but as someone who is indirectly and respectfully implied to be below him. After all, it's called Kami's Lookout, not Popo's Lookout, and Kami is literally regarded as "The Guardian of Earth" while Popo just appears to be... there.

That all changes the second Kami leaves the outdoor area and Popo is entrusted with the reigns of the new Z Fighters. LISTEN UP, MAGGOTS!

The Krillin Owned Count also chimes three in this scene, and shows its first signs of picking up momentum.

Back on Snake Way, Goku gets eaten by the head of snake way, which leads into Jadoshin's palace. This is such a quick, cheesy, quirky but funny edit that I'm not sure what to say beyond I enjoyed it. It just hits you and then boom, you're in her castle.

The joke of Jadoshin being voiced by Solid Snake (Princess Snake, Solid Snake, on Snake Way) seems like a bold strategy but I think it's one of the better jokes they've committed to that ended up being really good, at least this early on. The voice even lends itself to the awkward dialogue that would've simply lost its charm or fallen flat otherwise.

Unrelated, but one of my favorite lines from the dub happens in this scene, where Jadoshin's attendant simply says "I've got something to show you. And it's my gun.", and then kills herself with it. I didn't expect to see that in this scene, but a small part of me did hope.

When Goku finishes up in the hot springs (with a Metal Gear Solid box gag to boot) and tries to leave, Jadoshin then states that she wants Goku inside her. Goku is confused, of course, and smash cut to Goku flying for his life from a massive green fire-breathing snake trying to eat him.

Jadoshin however still has the voice of Solid Snake even in this form, complete with periodic grunts as they maneuver through the air. This eventually transitions into Jadoshin saying waka-waka, and the backdrop changes into a Pac-Man map. The Pac-Man skit was perhaps a bit overdone, with Goku finding meat instead of the normal fruit, but on the whole this was a very "solid" scene.

During the Ozaru scene, I feel like Piccolo just screaming "MOOOOOOOON!" in the DBZA Kai version is funnier than the "Stop mocking me!" we got in DBZA proper. Also, donkey kong barrel, really? It's not bad, but it's an "oh, brother" moment, like hearing a very bad pun.

When Gohan transforms back into his human (or Half-Saiyan technically) form, his junk is censored with a Dragon Ball. This is an interesting contrast in philosophy over the years, as KaiserNeko explained the decision "to not censor baby dicks" in a Episode Breakdown livestream on the Broly Abdridged movie, where Broly's baby wiener can be seen uncensored in a few scenes of that movie.

The episode ends with Goku continuing down Snake Way, having tied Jadoshin up into a tangled ball, prompted the GAME OVER screen and someone yelling "Princess Snaaaaaake!"

Conclusion

Despite my lackluster thoughts on how Hell was handled, this episode had a lot going for it compared to it's predecessors! Most of the episode was spent on two strong scenes, and while I didn't think the Ozaru scene was anything special, it didn't feel out of place or off-kilter, but provided more insight and I suppose world-building into the relationship between Piccolo and Gohan and the constant reminder that they're training to eventually face off against the Saiyans. This is further reinforced by Stinger #2 with Nappa and Vegeta en route to Earth.

This was almost opposite to Episode 3, which I felt had strong bookends. While I didn't find the end of this episode to be bad, it was simply "alright" when compared to the Popo and Jadoshin scenes. Characters are starting to have stronger internal identities instead of simply being parodies of their original counterparts. Though it is noteworthy, and rather obvious, that this only applies to characters with speaking lines. Tien, Yamcha and Chiaotzu made their first appearances but had nothing to say. Maybe it would have been cluttered or detracted from the pacing of the Popo scene, but it may prove challenging to properly attach sentimentality to these characters in the short few episodes they have before the inevitable happens. 

Because y'know, nobody watched Dragon Ball.

Score: 73

Passing Thoughts

I liked that Stinger #1 dealt with the actual ramifications of DESTROYING THE MOON unlike the series proper did. I guess it was just no diff for the Dragon Ball world?

"He made a horrible mess of the blood fountain." "Looks fine to me." "IT USED TO BE WATER!"

"I killed everything here with my bare hands. Including the bear hands." -Pictured in the top left of the frame are actual bear hands.

"Stop grunting, it's creepy!"

"CLOTHES BEAM!" and “That is easily my most metro attack.”