#The crash is spectacularly horrifying

[giggly-squiggily]

squiggily my love how are you, i feel like it's been forever since i crashed in your ask box 🖤 i hope the universe gives you the queen treatment you deserve and i will just humbly leave my present in your courtroom and then show myself out to watch from my evil tower of evilness how you open the box and find *drumroooooll* a kny modern au scenario because i'm BACK BABY (moderately so i still need to write job applications but i'm back that's the point)

so anyway the scenario. and it needs to be modern au because. people are alive there.

i've been having some sabito brainrot and he would just be SUCH a horrifying ler, i know it. he knows exactly what teases get to his victim, he knows all their spots, he's agile enough to dodge attacks and strong enough to pin people down, he just has the full package. taking him down is literally impossible.

giyuu tries it. epic fail abort mission the absolute worst day of his life and he's had many of those so you know it's bad.

tanjiro tries it. EPIC fail, sabito is a substitute coach in urokodaki's dojo after all and he knows ALL of tanjiro's moves, it's hopeless.

nezuko tries it. failfailfail because yeah she's cute and dangerous but sabito is a teacher, he knows of the danger that comes from small people and once you see where kids stick their hands you become kinda immune to any kind of cuteness.

giyuu ropes his friends into it. some of them only need a little nudge ("i've been wanting to kill that guy for years" - "SANEMI"), some of them need extra encouragement ("and what's in it for me?" - "fun? exercise? come on kyo..." - "listen if you want this to happen you better treat me to some quality burgers because i won't risk my life for nothing") but in the end they do indeed end up trying their luck. emphasis on trying.

kanae and kyojuro fail spectacularly and publicly because they thought it was a smart idea to ambush sabito on campus. tengen and mitsuri fail embarrassingly because they have all this strength and at the end of the day it really does nothing. sanemi and obanai refuse to talk about it and akaza isn't sure whether he should be absolutely fuming at the defeat or ecstatic that he actually found someone whose martial art skills are on par with his own.

(shinobu and gyomei are smart enough to stay out of the mess and honestly good for them)

except there is one person who can actually take sabito down and that person is makomo. and getting the intel from her was always out of giyuu's pay league (she's EXPENSIVE) but now that sabito has humiliated all of his friends, tengen and his disgusting off-shore untaxed bank account are happy to chip in. and the trick is really just that sabito has one really weird spot but once you get that the rest of his spots sort of unlock like bonus levels and then it's bad. if you're just one person, getting the spot might be hard but well. they're eight now.

that's it i don't have any details after it i just wanted to share the setup. have the most lovliest wonderfullest day and stay hydrated, i will now go rewatch sk8 as i yearn for the ova they announced 🖤🖤

REY! 💖💖💖💖 Hello my love! It’s always a bright day when you come by! I wouldn’t say the universe is treating me very luxurious right now (shark week started and I’m hurting baaaaad 😭) I can’t wait to devour this delightful present! *opens it and gets smacked like a giant boxing glove full of modernAU goodies* YIPPIE! 🥰🥰🥰

SABITO HELP WHZHWJDJSJSJS He’s that one guy you just don’t expect to be so deadly in tickle wars? First glances are deceiving; with his sweet smiles and charming nature you’d think he’d be such an easy lee…BUT THEN- oh as you said; he is DIABOLICAL! Endless knowledge of everyone’s tickle spots combined with his endless agility and strength and there’s no one who can defeat him!

JANZJANZNSNNS SANEMI WHHSB 🤣🤣🤣 He’s so ready to kill good lord! And Rengoku is a MOOD! He’s not going down without proper compensation and I love him for it whsbbsbbsnsbs (Akaza reluctantly impressed is GOLD QJZNANZNSNND 🤣🤣🤣🤣🥰🥰🥰🥰) They all just kinda shuffle back defeated and Giyu’s genuinely concerned there’s no way to defeat Sabito

Makomo knows her worth like a true girlboss and I love her for it whsnwnsnwn TENGEN ABXBNWHSJS He’s not ashamed- Sabito took his built like a building down so fast whsnnwnsns I love the idea of Sabito having such a unknown spot qjsnnsnsns (I don’t know why- I’m thinking elbows; like- just above the joint if you squeeze it with the right pressure it’s like an on switch) He gets all giggly and then shocked cause “Wait that wasn’t supposed to happen” and now everyone’s looking at him like 👀👀👀😈😈😈 and he’s RUNNING!

It goes down in history as the greatest fox hunt of all time- Shinobu took pictures and everything (she needs blackmail for future endeavors) and now Sabito has to get even more creative with his tickly attacks to avoid said antics 🤣🤣🤣 God this AU is so GREAT!

Thank you for sharing Rey! This made my kinda iffy morning a lot better 🥰🥰🥰

[mydarlinginej]

read my full review of the villain edit by laurie devore here.

Emily Henry meets Fleabag …and The Bachelor!��An irresistibly sharp and sexy dramedy about a cynical romance novelist who goes on a Bachelor-like reality show to revive her flagging career, only to discover that while she may have just met the love of her life, the producers have turned her into the show’s villain.

Good villains make good TV.

Romance novelist Jacqueline Matthis’s big career has gone bust and she’s ditched the bright lights of New York City for her more affordable South Carolina hometown. Desperate, Jac dreams up a comeback plan—she is going to be a contestant on the 1, the most obsessively watched reality dating show in the world.

After all Jac is a romance writer—she knows how to pull off a meet-cute and create a spicy plotline.

On set, Jac quickly establishes herself as a front-runner for bachelor Marcus’s heart, but she’s shocked to discover who’s actually pulling the strings. How was she to know that Henry Foster, her last one-night stand before the show, was actually a longtime producer on the 1? Henry is just as horrified…but they can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.

As Jac plays the game and the show unfurls, she slowly discovers that she’s getting the villain edit. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but as Jac’s secret plan begins crumbling around her, she’s not so sure. What happens if Marcus chooses her? Worse, what happens if her affair with Henry comes to light? What if, in trying to save her career, Jac has ruined her life?

Heartbreaking, smart, and sexy, this novel is for anyone who has ever secretly rooted for—or felt like—the villain.

my review:

A friend brought this book onto my radar after we had a lengthy conversation about celebrity/fame books, and man am I glad she did. This is actually my second full five-star read of 2024, and I am just so genuinely obsessed with it. Spectacularly fucked up and messy, The Villain Edit explores what it means to be the villain in everyone’s story—and how to find your happy ending no matter the cost.

Jacqueline Matthis is a romance author whose career recently crashed after her publisher cancelled her books. After a few months of wallowing, she suddenly decides to go on the 1, a Bachelor-type dating reality show, as a means of improving her public persona. Once Jac arrives, she has instant chemistry with Marcus, the lead, but everything soon comes crashing down when she runs into Henry Foster, the only producer she hadn’t met prior to the show—and coincidentally the man she had a one-night stand with the day before filming started. As she navigates the complexity and toxicity of a reality show set, she soon discovers that she’s getting the villain edit and must decide what she actually wants.

Again, I cannot stress how genuinely obsessed with this book I am. I read maybe 20% in one day and was like, okay she’s good, and then somehow the next day I got so sucked in and read the rest of the book in one sitting over the course of some 7 hours. So yeah, it’s that serious for me.

I loved how complex Jac’s characterization is. Her voice is snarky and up-front and not afraid to get on your bad side, a self-admitted bitch. On the other hand, though, she’s so tired of being “too much” for every guy she’s ever dated; she just wants to find love, someone who will finally accept all of her. She wants so badly to be special and to be recognized for being special, and when her career came crashing down, she didn’t really know how to cope. Going on the show is clearly some amount of self destruction (and a lot of her actions on the show are too).

read my full review here.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Tada! Another Vast!Jon AU snippet.

I know where this is going now. Oh, boy, y'all are in for a ride.

Martin/Jon Childhood Friends

YouTube Baker Martin!

Famous Photographer Jon!

A plane crash! Angst! Drama!

Stoker brothers!

Archivist Sasha!

Currently: Jon understands he's been marked by the Vast.

He also has learned he's marked by the Eye, and has no idea what that means. Simon Fairchild got him an appointment with an old friend to explain.

(shudder)

Also, Martin is being... shall we say, stalked by a certain Sea Captain who sees some horrifying potential in Martin's delightful little baking show.

Wicked cackle, etc.

----------

Jon peers at the building.

It’s grand and glorious; white stone and red brick, elegant, with just a single, understated sign saying, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE: EST. 1818 by the entrance.

Something about it, though.

This building would go into the private collection.

The weird collection.

The photos he dares not release because they would destroy his reputation.

The photos he cannot explain because he does not believe in the supernatural, but the images he’s captured don’t care.

Or… well. He rather does believe, now.

He’d thought there was a scientific explanation for his weird photos. There had to be, right? It was atmospheric strangeness, or… or some kind of strange electrical interference.

It’s not, though, is it?

Though for all those photos to be real…

He breathes away the rising nervousness and raises his camera. Focuses. Snaps half a dozen shots.

“It is a lovely building, isn’t it?” comes from behind him, and he jumps.

There’s a man.

And Jon has to take a moment and close his eyes and let his brain reset because this man's head is one huge eyeball, jerking around, looking at absolutely everything in the world.

Jon takes a slow breath and opens his eyes.

The man looks normal now, to Jon’s relief - a decade or two older, well-coiffed and expensively suited - and does not have a huge, unlidded eye for a head. 

“Elias Bouchard?” Jon says.

“Yes. You must be Mister Sims,” says the not-a-man with a thousand-watt smile, and offers his hand.

Jon shakes it. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Well, you are in an interesting predicament, aren’t you? Come on in. Ah - fair warning: one of my employees is quite eager to meet you today, should you feel up to it. It seems she’s acquired one of your earlier photos - the spider leg illusion?”

Jon startles. “I thought that burned.” 

“Apparently not.” His gaze is unnervingly penetrating. “Call me Elias, would you? We belong to a very special club, and have no need to be formal.”

“Jon, then,” says Jon, because he kind of has to, even though he wanted the comfortable distance of formality.

“This way.” Elias takes the lead.

And even from behind him, Jon can feel he’s being stared at. 

Watched.

Studied.

Jon chews his tongue nervously as they enter in. The building feels just like Elias does, and everywhere Jon looks - just out of frame, in the periphery - he catches glimpses of something he swears might be more eyes.

If he looks directly, they’re gone. 

He’s pretty sure they’re not gone.

It feels horrible.

It feels wonderful.

It feels like he can stop pretending to be anything he isn’t.

It feels like he needs to go hide in a closet. “It’s, uh,” he manages. “This is, uh.”

“A little much? I know. It can be overwhelming at first - but I assure you, you are safe here,” says Elias. “I’m familiar with your body of work. I’m very impressed, Jon.”

He says that like being impressed isn’t a thing that happens often.

Jon’s heard compliments enough that they don’t make him feel any particular way. He’s too busy being annoyed that he can’t see all the eyes head-on. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Elias nods to a secretary (who pretends not to be staring at Jon's bandages and fails spectacularly), then gestures Jon into his office.

The door closing behind him is frightening and final, and makes him want to turn around and run right back out.

But he doesn't.

He needs answers. He needs to know what this is about, what the Beholding is, what he should do.

Oh, but now, now that they’re not on a public street, now that they’re not anywhere ordinary humans can see, Elias stops pretending to be one.

He circles Jon, too close, unblinking.

Jon stands completely still, like a camouflaging rabbit.

“Amazing,” Elias whispers. “I’d already guessed you were marked by the Eye; your photography is very powerful, Jon. And now, you’ve been marked by the Vast - which, I dare say, is rare enough - but Simon didn’t tell me you had three marks.”

“Three?” Jon says. “What? There’s another one?” 

“Yes. Very old.”

“Oh, come on, now,” says Jon, irritation cresting right over his hard-won and practiced politeness. “Simon told me less than ten percent of the population ends up with one mark, and you’re telling me I have three?”

“Three.” Elias stops in front of him, holding his gaze. “I know what I see.”

Jon’s protests die on his lips.

He stares.

Those eyes.

Those gray eyes.

They -

“What do you see, Jon?” whispers Elias.

“I… please let me photograph you,” Jon whispers back.

Elias smiles. “Of course. We’ll continue talking when you’re done.”

Jon still hasn’t blinked as he raises his camera.

He doesn’t until it’s over.

#

Martin jogs up the steps and takes a second to flap his shirt away from his body, hoping to dry the sweat before it stains.

This was not ideal. He hates running.

He could haul rocks up mountains or walk a million miles, but running? Pleh. For the birds.

“Though they fly, I guess,” he mutters to himself, coat over one arm, and brings up his camera app to ensure nothing is out of place .

He’d gotten a text while jogging and hadn’t noticed.

How does it feel to be so alone?

The number is hidden.

Martin stares at it, his heart caught in an uncomfortable tension.

He -

He shouldn’t. Doesn’t.

He - 

“What?” he whispers.

“Hey!” says Sasha, coming up behind him on the stairs. “Martin! Good to see you!” She gives him a quick side-hug. “Come on in. Just got back from lunch.”

Martin compartmentalizes the text with a will and focuses on the here and now. “So you didn’t see Jon?”

“He’s here?” She looks ready to levitate right off the stairs. 

“Should be. I was supposed to meet him before he went in, but…”

“Come on, have some tea, freshen up. Elias is harmless. I’m sure Jon’ll be fine.” She makes a happy little sound and skips twice, clapping her hands. “I get to meet Jonathan Sims!”

Elias knows about fear gods. Martin doubts he’s harmless. But Sasha’s joy is catching. “Heh. He’s grumpy, but I’m sure he’ll like you.”

She absolutely beams at him. “Rosie,” she says. “Please don’t let Mister Sims leave without seeing me first?”

“Sure thing, Ms. James,” Rosie says. “Oh - you need a visitor’s pass?”

“Probably. One second.” Sasha leaves Martin there and goes to Rosie’s desk to fill out a form.

The office beyond her is closed.

That has to be where Jon is.

Martin can’t hear anything.

He heroically resists the urge to press up against the door and listen in.

Funny, though: no voices come through, but he is certain he hears the click of Jon’s camera.

“There you go.” Sasha hands him a badge not dissimilar to the press pass she’d lent him days ago.

“Oh, I still have the other one,” he says, patting himself down. “Sorry, I left it at home.”

“No worries. You can bring it by whenever. Want to see my Archive?” She smiles like a proud parent.

Martin glances at the door.

“Don’t worry. He won’t leave without us. Come on, let me show you. Come on! You wouldn’t believe the mess it was in when I got the job.”

Another click from that office.

Martin can’t be hearing it. It wouldn’t carry that far.Shook up by that stupid text, he thinks, and wonders if he needs to change his number.

#

“Would you believe she even had statements put in folders with the wrong years?” Sasha is saying, threading her way through a maze of boxes and stacks of paper with the ease of familiarity. “We’re getting it organized, but I really need more help.”

“How much does it pay?” Martin says as a joke.

She tells him.

He trips over a box. “What, for real?”

“Mm-hmm. Benefits, too.”

Martin looks around. “And it’s just… organizing files?”

“That’s what I need help with.”

Could for sure tell Antoine to fuck himself tonight, and wouldn’t even need to click a spooky link to do it. “Do you hire me, or…”

She laughs. “You’re serious?”

“I really am.”

“Well… let’s go back up. See if we can get you an interview, yeah?”

“Hell, yeah. You should get Tim to join us. Danny, too. We could all quit our jobs and be spooky ghost researchers together.”

She laughs. “I don’t know if they’ll let me hire too many folks without qualifications, but… you shouldn’t need any for this? I mean, it’s basically filing.”

Oh. Right. Qualifications.

“I didn’t go to college,” Martin says, heart sinking, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking.

“I don’t care. You’d be looking at files and putting them in little folders with dates. If they say you need a degree for that, I might just quit over it.”

He thinks she’s joking.

Martin is calculating the amount of money needed to keep a building like this up and running, utilities and all, and is fairly sure qualifications will matter very much.

The office door is opening just as they get back upstairs.

Jon looks bombed.

Pale. Dazed. Staring at the floor with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Jon?” says Martin.

And it’s like the sun dawns. “You came,” says Jon, abandoning his haze like stepping out of a cave.

Behind Jon is a man who spooks Martin right to his core.

It’s the look, he thinks. Very cat-that-got-the-cream. “You ready to go?” Martin says, too cheerfully.

Sasha gives him a funny look. “I thought you - ”

“I really appreciate the tour. Definitely quite the place you’ve got here,” Martin interrupts because he is not working here under some fear-priest who looks like that.

Sasha’s not stupid. She’s confused, but she immediately changes course. “Sure! But before you go… Mister Sims?”

Jon looks at her as if he hadn’t even realized she was there. “Oh. Hi?”

She minds the bandages and doesn’t try to grab him or shake his hand or anything. “I am so pleased to meet you. My name’s Sasha James. I’m the head archivist here. Could I borrow you for a moment of your time? We have one of your old photos here, and I would dearly love to talk to you about it.”

Jon really does not want to give a moment of his time, but he’s learned to be professionally polite. “I can do that. I don’t know if I have any answers for you, though.”

“Ah - Ms. James, we don’t really allow guests down in the archive,” says Elias Bouchard, almost gently. “It’s not public facing.”

“He’s obviously going to make a statement,” says Sasha, chin raised.

Bouchard smiles. “Well-played. All right, Jon. You can go down.”

They’re already on first-name basis? Martin thinks.

“What about Martin?” says Sasha.

“One violation of the rules is enough for today, don’t you think? Not to worry - I’ll get him some tea. He’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

Oh, none of this was cool. “Uh,” says Martin.

“Sorry,” Sasha says, and means it.

“No, it’s all right. It’s fine.”

Jon touches his arm. Looking the question.

“It’s okay,” says Martin, because logically, Jon needs this connection, and Martin doesn’t want to fuck it up for him. “Go for it. I mean, maybe don’t take too long?”

“I don’t have the energy for ‘long,’” says Jon. “You could go? Meet me at a cafe, or something?”

“You don’t have a lot of energy and you want me to just leave you here,” Martin says, dry.

Jon laughs a little, embarrassed. “All right, all right. I’ll be back quickly.”

Sasha looks like Christmas came early. “This way. Oh, would you prefer the elevator or the stairs?”

“Elevator, please. Stairs are still a little tricky,” says Jon.

Martin watches them leave and wonders if he’s made a mistake.

He looks over.

Bouchard is the epitome of banal, non-threatening smiles. “Tea?”

“Sure.” What’s he going to do? Say no and start throwing punches?

Over what?

Jealousy, maybe?

Jealousy. That’s what it is.

Martin can identify it, but he’s not sure why it’s there, and it bugs him. He just feels weirdly… paranoid in this place.

“Do you have a preference?” says Bouchard, leading him the opposite direction of Jon and Sasha.

“Anything but Oolong.”

Bouchard laughs politely. “Good news: I’m fairly sure it’s Jasmine.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you.”

He doesn’t look like a fear-priest.

“Jon must have impressed you,” Martin says. “I mean, I doubt the head of the Institute is usually out here making tea for randos.”

Bouchard is still smiling as he turns around, offering a little wax-coated cup. “A keen observation. Yes. He did.”

And, Martin thinks but does not say, Bouchard wants to make a good impression on him, so it’s Nice-to-Martin hours. “Thanks.”

“This must be very difficult for you,” says Bouchard, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms. “Witnessing such a dramatic change in someone you know so well can be rather… frightening.”

Martin blinks. Jon told him?

But Jon said not to tell anyone. He said Martin would be in danger.

Well, apparently, he’d trusted Bouchard at once. 

What else had he told him?

The jealous feeling increases. “It’s… definitely frightening.”

“Understandable. And of course, the fear that you yourself are in danger must be sharp, as well.”

Wait, what? “Me?”

“Of course. New avatars tend to be… ravenous. You’re quite fortunate that he isn’t new to the whole situation, really.”

What kind of a conversation was this? “He…oh. He said there was that Eye thing, too?”

“Yes. For many years.”

Martin has no idea where this conversation is supposed to go. “Well. Got any advice?”

Bouchard laughs. “Try not to be eaten.”

Martin stares at him.

Bouchard smiles.

Martin sips his tea.

Bouchard smiles.

Martin decides there are hidden cameras all over the breakroom for whatever reason, and that’s why he feels practically x-rayed. “I, uh. Can I take this back out to the lobby?”

“I’d really prefer if you drank it in here,” says Bouchard, low and smooth.

It’s too hot.

Martin burns his mouth a little to get it down faster, and he wonders what else Jon told this guy, and he tells himself he will never, ever need to be afraid of Jon.

No matter what his deeply startled gut says.

Bouchard smiles.

Neither of them say another word until the tea is finally gone.

[queen-beefcake-sqx]

Names are significant in Disco Elysium. The game beats us over the head with this at every turn. Many characters have a title in addition to or even in substitute of a typical name. One of your first checks is to come up with a name (which I failed spectacularly).

And here’s the thing with names — especially titles and nicknames. The way we address someone is based on a lot of things, but usually there’s some kind of obvious dichotomy created when you say someone’s name. something that reflects not only a part of them, but also a part of yourself.

There are many instances of Harry’s identity coming out through the way other characters address him, but it simultaneously acts as an establishing moment for the characters he’s speaking to — Idiot Doom Spiral calls him “Tequila Sunset”, a name that evokes their shared alcoholism and occasional tendency for nihilism (a sunset instead of a sunrise). Lena calls him, “Sweetie”, familiar and warm as she nurtures his natural curiosity. Kim’s address for Harry changes over time, showing the growth in his respect and trust toward him.

And then there’s Jean, the only one I know of who calls Harry, “Shitkid”. His own unique nickname.

It’s mean and demeaning — Harry is fucking 40-whatever, and you’re calling him kid? It’s crass. It’s cussing to cuss. It’s the kind of bullshit nickname my kids would give each other. And actually you know who it evokes to mind?

Cuno.

No, don’t look at me like that. Think about his Empathy check scene. One of the instructions I was given was basically, “Don’t let him feel threatened. Let him feel in charge and control”. Then you get him calmed and he tells you all this incredibly fucked up shit about his life and you’re horrified… but also putting your hands on his shoulders and saying, “I am so sorry you went through this, but quit saying faggot and talking about fucking people up. It isn’t edgy and it isn’t cool and you just sound like an asshat.” And I read the spoilers about even being able to recruit him to the RCM.

Look me in the fucking eye and tell me that isn’t EXACTLY the kind of vibe he gives off. You make him feel threatened and he runs off. He’s the kid. He’s the one childish and immature, harboring a grudge, willing to let Harry crash and burn to prove a point instead of doing anything remotely useful. Jean is so resentful of Harry because he used to look at him and see himself, and now he looks and sees what Harry is without his influence. And he sees the common denominator.

new theory after reading a lot of fandom meta — the fandom doesn’t write Jean mean enough.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Soulmarks, Part 5

First part

Previous

~~~

The air left her lungs. Her suit was the only thing keeping her in one piece as he rolled over her.

Part of her just wanted to lay there and let him run her over again as she watched him come to a stop and start pushing his way back towards her, her entire body ached and screamed with every little movement, but she couldn’t let Chat’s sacrifice be in vain.

She pushed herself to her feet and watched Tim pick up speed. While he definitely had brute force on his side, his ability to make quick turns and stops was extremely limited.

Marinette jumped out of the way right before he could hit her again and he rolled right past, slamming into the white soldiers and toppling a huge group like bowling pins. He didn’t seem all that concerned with the bumps as he slowed to a stop and then started back in her direction again.

Hm…

She ducked through the crowds and grinned widely as Tim followed after her with no real regard for all the soldiers he was mowing down. They didn’t have magic suits to hold them together, so it affected them far more than her.

“HEY!” Yelled Bona-parts, who had finally noticed the commotion.

She sent him a cheeky wave and started in his direction.

The man was too smart to get bowled over, quickly dodging her/Tim’s attack, but she didn’t care about that as she knelt down and scooped Adrien up. She sent a wink as she ducked out the park and began running down the streets, Tim on her tail and rapidly gaining speed.

She slipped down an alley a while away that was too small for Tim to fit through. She set Adrien down.

Her soulmate groaned in irritation and punched the forcefield. Bright green light threatened to blind her and when she looked back Tim had been thrown back so hard he’d rolled a few meters.

He looked down at his hand and she could practically see the gears turning in his head. There was a short moment where he didn’t seem to know what to do. Then he shook out his hand and got to his feet.

He stepped back for a running start and then crashed into the alley.

Marinette was horrified to find that the building crumbled a little with the force.

He backed up and started again.

She listened to the dull thumping of the force-field crashing against the corners of the buildings repeatedly. The buildings would eventually cave, but that was a problem for a few minutes from now.

She wanted to lay down, but she knew that if she would she wouldn’t be able to get up. Instead, she settled for leaning heavily against a wall and resting her head back.

After a few minutes she finally managed to steady her breathing enough to speak: “You’re fucking stupid, you know that?”

“I think my plan worked,” he muttered, his face a bit pale as he pulled his broken leg to his chest. “Just… not how I intended.”

She shook her head slightly. “That’s literally the definition of a plan not working… but okay, sure.”

He sent her a slight glare and probably would have kicked her if either of their bodies could take it.

“Plagg, claws out,” he murmured, and there was a crunching sound as the suit forced his leg back into its normal shape. He pushed himself to his good foot and then slowly started applying pressure onto his bad one to get it used to holding his weight. “Well, we have…” He looked at the steadily crumbling wall as Tim ran into it again. “Around five minutes to plan before your soulmate makes this place cave in on top of us.”

She nodded and pulled out her yoyo. She messed with it anxiously as they thought.

She couldn’t come up with anything. Did it matter if she could, though? All the plans that she had employed that night had backfired spectacularly.

Ah, she could hear footsteps in the distance. They must have finished up Alya and Nino’s execution.

“They’re going to find us,” said Adrien.

She looked at Tim and cringed. He was right, unfortunately. A ball of pure light was hard to miss, and the sun was beginning to set. She may as well have had a neon sign over her head saying ‘Ladybug! Over here! Come get her!’

Her eyes found Adrien’s and she sent him a weak grin.

“Actually… they’re going to find me.”

~

She tore through the streets, Tim rolling after her.

She had considered trying to lose him through back streets and alleys, but decided against it. Even if it was a pain to dodge his attacks every few seconds, he was useful for taking down the soldiers.

She grinned as she turned a corner and saw the first group of soldiers. She glanced back and saw Tim slowing and then restarting in her direction.

She stood still, watching both of them coming at her.

She vaulted over the force field and grinned as Tim bowled over the guards. He turned around and rolled over them again as he started back in her direction.

Good, they wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.

She tried not to think about the fact that these were once people. After all, they were mindless zombies right now. She was putting them out of their misery.

Or, at least, she hoped.

But, since she could think of no other solutions, she continued using Tim to mow them down in droves.

As time went on, and the sky got darker, more and more soldiers started appearing, drawn by the light.

She could tell her soulmate was getting more and more frustrated as she dodged his attacks, but it wasn’t as if he could really change his strategy. There wasn’t much else he could do. He just had to hope she eventually tired herself out enough for him to land a hit.

And she was getting tired. And she could feel her injuries worsening the more strain she put on them. Her ladybug suit helped, but it could only do so much.

She was running out of time...

God, where was Bona-parts when you actually want to see him?

Oh. There he was. She reconsidered wanting to see him as her eyes found his blood-covered axe.

At least she knew where the akuma was.

She smiled and sent a wave to Bona-parts and then rolled to the side as Tim came past her.

The akuma dodged as well and stopped for a second to concentrate. She paused and looked around, waiting for the rumbling that accompanied the soldiers’ arrival…

But there was none.

“Where are they?”

She shrugged, trying not to let her relief show. “Would you like me to show you? I need to run from that guy anyways.”

“You do, do you?” He said thoughtfully.

“Try and use it against me if you want. Don’t think you have a way of pinning me down that won’t get you hurt, too, and my buddy here isn’t all that concerned with extra casualties.”

She saw Bona-parts take in the way that the green glow of the force field was somewhat muted and grimy. As if it were covered in a thin layer of paint.

“You killed them?”

She dodged another attack from Tim and shrugged. “I don’t think you’re one to talk.”

Bona-parts opened their mouth to respond and then whipped around, axe swinging. They missed Chat’s nose by centimeters.

Marinette cursed. There went that idea.

She pulled out her yoyo.

She glanced back at Tim and sighed. He was barreling towards them again. Fun.

Something clicked in her mind and she grinned as she gave Bona-parts a quick kick to the side. He scowled and turned his axe on her, swinging it --.

She jumped over his attack and he hit Tim’s forcefield. A beam of bright light forced her to look away momentarily.

She peeked her eyes open hesitantly.

Her soulmate had rolled an entire city block and was now lying unconscious in his bubble (or, at least, she hoped he was just unconscious, the kid had gone through enough).

Then her eyes found their way to Bona-parts. He was struggling to pull his axe out of where it had gotten stuck in a nearby building.

Chat grinned and pressed a finger to it. “Cataclysm.”

Marinette breathed a sigh of relief as she captured the akuma. Now all that was left was --.

Fuck. The lucky charm. She didn’t use her lucky charm at all during the battle…

Well, apparently it was a good thing that she’d summoned those handcuffs earlier after all.

She pulled them from her belt and smiled. “Miraculous Ladybug.”

Ladybugs swirled around everyone and she felt her bones mending under her suit. Cool, now she could actually take it off later without turning into mush.

She walked over to Tim and her eyes widened as he came into view. The ladybugs had helped him, too. His skin had been returned to a healthy shade and his hair was a glossy black.

Sure, it wouldn’t erase the memories of what had happened, but at least he wouldn’t have a constant reminder every time he looked in the mirror.

He curled up inside the bubble and rested his head inside his hands.

She looked away from her soulmate. She didn’t know if he was crying or just confused about why his likely concussion had disappeared, but it felt wrong to watch and find out.

Chat walked over and leaned against his baton as he smiled at her. “Well, Bona-parts is dealt with. Apparently, she worked at Amazon.”

Marinette nodded. “That explains it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

She watched Tim slowly start to stir and winced. She really did not want to do any more fighting right now…

“Think you can do a portal to the bottom of a staircase?”

“Yeah. Why were you in an abandoned building, anyways?”

“Long story. Wanna meet some American superher --? Oh, wait, no, vigilantes. They call themselves vigilantes over there.”

He grinned. “Are they too good to be heroes?”

“Too bad, apparently. Even though they don’t have the balls to kill anyone.”

“Losers.”

“Absolutely. Wanna meet them?”

“I’d love to.”

Kaalki opened a portal underneath the three of them and they found themselves back in Arkham.

~~~

Next part

Taglist

@pawsitivelymiraculous @golden-promises @salty-fang @kitsunebell @sassakitty @octobitch @glastwime859 @miyla-lokidottir @onlyabatfan @ira-sairain @2confused-2doanything @ultimatetornshipper @ladybug-182 @laurcad123 @we-want-mini-mini @roguishredaxion @just-reblogs-by-h @futursworld @magic-miraculous @nathleigh @smolplantmum

[elizabethan-memes]

What was so special about Thomas More’s relationship with his family? I see people talking about them a lot and I’m curious what that was like.

^Holbein’s portrait of Thomas More and Family

So Thomas More’s family were quite important during his lifetime and particularly towards the end. More was a devoted father, he told his daughters Aesop’s Fables, he encouraged all of his children to write to him and apparently refused to use corporal punishment on them, tapping their palms with peacock feathers instead. His marriages are a bit more ambiguous, probably happy but with maybe a Benedick/Beatrice kind of vibe. 

He was particularly close to Margaret, his oldest child, whom he called “my dearest Meg”. (In the picture, she’s the woman sitting and pointing to a passage in her book). All of More’s biological and adopted children (all but one of whom were female) were classically educated and highly cultured, learning Greek and Latin, music, geometry, philosophy, history and religion. Both Meg and her brother John (the young man reading a book on More’s left) were translators, though sadly their work was not as well-preserved as their father’s and has since been lost, with the exception of Meg’s translation of Erasmus’ Precatio Dominica from Latin into English. Meg was an expert in Eusebius, and so knowledgeable that she could correct Erasmus. Meg is by far the most famous of More’s children as when he was in the Tower, she gave him the spiritual support he needed to keep going. In/famously, she rescued his severed head after his execution and kept it until she died and was buried holding it (we don’t actually know where the skull is now, the remains of the two were shuffled around a lot). This has made her a rather saintly and tragic figure, and a symbol of feminine devotion, in the imaginations of artists and poets (like Tennyson).

A lot of attention was paid to the family in More’s lifetime because of its reputation for learning and piety. They were the model of the ideal humanist family. The ladies were walking examples of the benefits of female education: proof that if you educated women their brains could handle it and society would not collapse. (Especially as More’s daughters still married respectable men their father chose, and had children.) The structure of More’s household was very much like that of a university or a monastery: there would be Bible readings at mealtimes and lots of prayer, especially on holy days. More was very interested in lay piety: how to live a holy life while not being a priest. Erasmus had a long-running bromance friendship with More and lived with them for over a year from 1509-1511, and was godfather to John. He praised More’s children for their learning and piety, and his praise helped make them famous because anyone who was anyone at the time was a correspondent of Erasmus’, and he published collections of his letters. 

(Unfortunately after the execution of More in 1535 the family crashed and burned rather spectacularly. There was in-fighting that had to go to court, some of More’s grandchildren remained Catholic but some became Anglican-which would have horrified More if he knew-some of More’s family died in exile, and one of More’s sons-in-law was hanged for treason. Another son-in-law wrote The Life of Sir Thomas More and pioneered the genre of biography in the process.)

[hollypunkers]

i mean, it took me time to warm up to mako mostly before i understood him and his trauma (sometime in s3? maybe). i just wanted him to stop being so emotionally constipated and cold? but i started to get it, esp when they were in ba sing se. i question his career choices but that's more his neuroses to protect and do good by ppl. and bolin is his best relationship, which ofc he is, bolin doesn't have to hold onto the trauma 1/2

because mako will keep it with him until he dies (probably) and honestly they're relationship is my favorite in the whole series. also meelo is a child, what is wrong with ppl 2/2

Mako like explicitly protected Bolin from all the childhood trauma and took it on himself, and has a legitimately horrifying backstory, and the show never gives him the chance to grow. And when it comes to the relationships we never see Mako’s side of the story besides a throwaway line about “Always wanting to please everyone” in a clipshow episode (and I like the line but that episode does more harm than good to his character).

And I mean, at the start he’s still and awkward but he still shows affection for people he cares about and tells people he cares about them and he’s proud of them all the time, but Mako just does it in a kind of normal way. We see him get called names and accused of being a traitor (by Korra, when she called him a traitor for not commiting treason) and he just doesnt stick up for himself. Mako never expresses discomfort that Varrick is suddenly everyone’s friend after what Varrick did to him personally, and the only time he actually ever starts opening up to about his past with is when he is dating Asami, and then something always happens with Korra that ends that relationship. I don’t fault any party more than the other (and not Asami at all) for the relationship problems that plagued the show, I do dislike that Mako’s role in it gets played for a joke. It’s the first time Mako expands his circle of trust to others and it crashes and burns back on him spectacularly (and in a publically humiliating way) and it’s pretty fucking painful to watch.

Mako watched his parents get murdered in front of him by another firebender and the show basically ignores it besides some throwaway lines. We get one short about them growing up and it takes place seven years into Mako taking care of Bolin. I’ve said before but Mako’s development sort of piggybacks after Bolin (Bolin wanting to find more of their fsmily was always Bolin’s dream, Mako is clearly reluctant about it) and he doesn’t get a chance to address his own trauma; none of the characters get too much of that (besides Korra which is fair as the main) but Mako’s story feels extra negligent. We never even hear what happened to the mugger/murderer. We don’t see Mako dealing with the guilt of messing up his relationships. And we never see Mako deal with the trauma of Bolin growing up and apparently leaving him behind (their reunion in Book 4 was after over a year?!!? am i wrong??) which should be the worst thing for him. Over the series, we just see him grow more and more closed off as everyone grows up and leaves him/stops hanging out or visiting or answering letters, as he starts to hate his job which was his only security in life, until Mako kinda sort-of makes one friend and then soon after decides to sacrifice himself.

It’s hard to connect with a character that is a stone wall the way Mako is, which happens to most people with childhood ptsd, so I can understand where you’re coming from and I wish the show had put a little more thought into Mako as a character and actually making use of any of the glaring unshot chekov’s gun’s in his past.

[benevolentgodloki]

Rules: Tag 9 people who you want to get to know better ( just people in general )

Tagged by: @pi-jessicajones

Tagging: If you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged. I want to read your thing!

Top ships:

On this blog:

So this is not in order of preference, just as they spring to mind. All my ships are important to me, but naturally I have ones that really work for me even outside of what I share with partners, the ones that I end up thinking about for my own fan-crazed enjoyment.

1. Frostiron. I mean, you knew this was gonna be at the top regardless. Even though it only started from that one scene in the Avengers, I love the idea of the dynamic. The snarky hero/villain combo working to calm one another’s flaws or instead crash and burn spectacularly; the MCU smol and tol; the big heart to melt the icy one; the machine to mix with the magic. My enjoyment of it is insatiable, hence why I have many Tony partners all of whom I love for their individual takes on the relationship.

2. Thorki. I’ve said it before. I ship it, have since about 3 months into making this blog. It’s only recently I’ve started opening my doors to playing it, with appropriate tagging. I know it’s uncomfortable for some depending on how you approach fiction and how it meets with reality, or that it just doesn’t do anything for you, and that’s fair. For me, I adore the chemistry, taking their physicality and passion to a different level. The actors are both hot, the characters’ relationship is captivating and volatile with so much to draw on and explore. Thor is Loki’s most important person. He dies for him. They are yin/yang to one another so it’s inevitable they’d be prime shipping material, problematic or not.

3. Strangefrost/Froststrange. Yeah, I never know which way round it’s meant to be XD These two deserved more time together in the MCU (and we might get that in upcoming stuff), but just one exchange in Ragnarok makes for a fiery, snarky starting point. Comic-wise there’s a ton to draw on, but either way what’s not to like? Two sorcerers with different approaches to magic, a taste for the finer things in life, and sarcastic demeanours. This ship has such a great opportunity for lonely wizards to find solace and explore the heights of magical sex. 

4. Frostshield. I don’t have enough of this but the idea is so much fun. Loki spends so much time mocking Cap, shapeshifting into him more than once. They clash hard but that leaves so many avenues: Cap-softens-Loki, Loki-corrupts-Cap, angst abound.

5. Blackfrost/Frostwidow. Can you tell I like the dangerous/volatile dynamic? They both use deception and infiltration throughout their lives, rarely trusting anyone. After his encounter with her on the Helicarrier, Loki is impressed with Natasha’s methods, how they can play one another and expose each other’s weaknesses. The ship’s delicious for angsty, broken souls helping heal one another or just plain messing each other up.

6. Geroki/Frostwitcher. I’m inventing the names. I got obsessed with the world of the Witcher from both the series and TW3 and man, Loki paired with Geralt (or tbh Jaskier or both) is a thirst. Loki fits both the bard and sorcerer roles so throwing him in with grumpy, sexy Geralt works so well imo.

7. Frostsparrow/Sparroki. More made-up stuff. I’m hooked on this new ship too, I swear. Two flamboyant tricksters getting up to mischief is something I never knew I needed in my life but Loki’s not about to let it go XD

8. Lokicest. I snuck another one on the list. Who better for his own company to excite and amuse? With canonically more than one Loki in the MCU it’s practically a given to have them mess around and wilfully abuse the laws of nature. Especially if it’ll horrify everyone else.

Other ships I haven’t detailed that I love are: Loki/Sif (Sifki), Loki/Amora, Loki/Valkyrie (Lokyrie), LokiVision, Venom/Eddie/Loki. These are all especially favourites but doesn’t mean I don’t love all the other ships I have!

In general/other fandoms:

1. John Crichton/Aeryn Sun - Farscape

2. Londo and G’kar - Babylon 5 (not a romance ship but a friendship)

3. Thalric and Che - Shadows of the Apt series

4. Aziraphale and Crowley - Good Omens

5. Fitzsimmons - Agents of SHIELD

6. Eleven & Clara - Doctor Who

I’m sure I have a lot more, though quite often my favourite characters either don’t have lasting love interests or don’t get with ones I’m fussed about XD

Last song: Billie Eilish - I love you

Last Show: Andromeda

[fineillsignup]

please talk to us about tsunade. i get this rush of love for her every now and then and i love your metas. do you think, if kishi allowed his female characters to move on romantically (HA!) she would have given jiraya a chance? do you think she was open to the idea of being with him? i remember thinking that there was a lot of internalized guilt on both ends in their interactions, but i haven't read/watched naruto in a long time and i'd love to know what you think of these two's relationship.

also my GOD your blog is single-handedly responsible for getting me back into this galactic fuckery of a franchise. every time i think i’ve moved on from this pool of unending frustration i check your blog and i think “nope! i am actually not over this at all it still fucks me up.”

Welcome to the Hotel Naruto-fornia.

I kind of have a weak spot for JiraTsu, not in a “wow what a pure ship” sense, not even a little bit, more of a “wow look at this massive trainwreck that crashed spectacularly in such slow motion that it literally went on for like fifty years or some shit, just half a century of self-sabotage and alcoholism, that sure is Something.”

Above, Team Hiruzen in Rain Country.

I see self-sabotage as Jiraiya’s fatal flaw, he’s as afraid of success as he is of failure. His voyeurism is another side of this, it’s not simply a matter of an immorally acted upon fetish; his voyeurism is part and parcel of his inability to conceive of an enjoyable romantic/sexual interaction in which he is an accepted participant. The only women we ever see him not immediately spike his own guns by doing something openly horrifying in the first five minutes are sex workers, whom he doesn’t have to sabotage because the transaction is clearly timed, no success is possible, therefore he doesn’t have to sabotage himself with creepiness.

Incidentally, and I know this isn’t the point of the ask, but it doesn’t surprise me that Jiraiya abandoned the Ame Orphans, only that he held on as long as he did. He was clearly really trying against his own worst nature not to cut and run on them.

Tsunade is not nearly as fucked up as Jiraiya, she’s basically better on every scale, and that’s why she was able to become a more or less functional human being in Shippuden. Tsunade is a medic nin, a doctor; no wonder, then, that she self-medicates with alcohol and gambling to numb the pain and enjoy herself. At her nadir, Tsunade unofficially adopted Shizune, her dead lover’s niece, and raised her from then on (based on the timeline, Shizune must have been around twelve). And Tsunade never cut out or quit on Shizune, ever.

Tsunade, to Jiraiya, was his ideal women, and even worse, she actually kind of likes him; no wonder he sabotages himself more brutally with her than anyone else. Jiraiya, to Tsunade, is her intensely troubled childhood friend, the one who would die for her and has, on multiple occasions, tried to. Does she see his self-sabotage? Absolutely she does. Why doesn’t Tsunade, who has a hellish temper, especially about her looks, get even slightly mad when Jiraiya at one point says “Times sure do change… even you, beautiful as you were, are a 50 year-old bag now.” Because she really understood him and why he was being so cruel, to her, but really to himself. That was probably what made her most terrifying of all to Jiraiya. She understood him, and still liked him… aiee, terrifying, better flee screaming around the world half-heartedly working on smut for fifty years.

Dan, from the exceptionally brief look we get at him, shared Tsunade’s dreams and admired her for them, and she admired him for his dreams; that’s not something that can be said of Jiraiya. Jiraiya was a dreamer with no dreams, and Tsunade pitied him for it; pity kills romantic and sexual attraction like nothing else.

[anthonybialy]

Pressed for Precedent

Failures are due for a good break. Try the same idea that exploded spectacularly the last 700 times on the grounds that something simply must work eventually just to break the pattern. You win this time, gravity.

Presuming an established catastrophe will thrive during the next try is a favorite hobby of socialists who somehow still exist. The enthusiastic deniers of all that's happened claim to be for science despite their commitment to loathing evidence. It's a great sign when ignorance is the best excuse. Government's goons aren't aware of the earlier failures, hopefully, as it's unhealthy to ignore so many experiments.

Surrendering autonomy has worked out every single occasion before except for all of them. Just ask Bernie Sanders about which direction people hopped the Berlin Wall. It only looks like they're heading west because decadent capitalists who bought control of information flipped the footage.

It's the arrogance that's most charming in those who think you'e stupid for noticing how quickly money disappears when it belongs to everyone. Presuming everyone in opposition to one giant wallet either disregards human suffering or profits off it is especially open-minded, as there's no other reason a person could stand for persons being left alone.

Let's have socialism without the authoritarian parts. Also, enjoy cheesecake without the calories. It's a diet food now even if every time it's ever been eaten before has led to tighter slacks. You just have to consume it correctly this time, assures the New York Times editorial.

Thinking that concentrated authority won't require bossiness would be adorable if not for the ruined lives and corpse piles. People who claim ending insurance mandates and net neutrality lead to widespread death sure have lots of excuses for mass-murdering tyrants.

You just have to proclaim that a scheme will work. Don't you have faith, you heathen? Deciding the design of the present trendy system for supervising the minutes of our lives will function is the worst type of theocracy. Anyone who hasn't figured out central planning causes a plane crash into a tire fire every single time thinks it's our fault for not investing enough through taxes that are redundant to classify as a ripoff.

Pompousness enabled by obliviousness is a perfect pairing to keep socialism alive after a century that showed why it's deadly in so many ways. How anyone could oppose delicate schemes to bring wealth and health is a mystery except to anyone who's ever read the news. But those free market parasites are just being negative with their examples.

Nothing delights like fans of the most thoroughly discredited financial ideas in human history claiming to have objective facts. Their certainty can only get more precious considering they're advocating ideas that turned the Eastern Bloc into a sludge pit. Projections from people who think Washington manages money and lives efficiently couldn't possibly contain flimsy assumptions.

Planning failures sure are lucky to have a fawning media that is objective as long as thinking government action means caring for people counts. The limp goons are never prompted to provide one example of trading liberty for central planning that has resulted in bliss or even something other than ruin.

Adoration of ideas that least deserve them helps a certain kind of delusional candidate win elections. That's entirely different from winning at life. But all those craving the next temporary job need is to sucker half the voters. Government works splendidly for those who pretend it works.

Willfully disregarding what has actually worked is the ideology's crucial part. There are countless examples of markets lifting humans out of poverty, including in the exploitative rotten oppressive nation ingrates call home.

Things are so good that those outraged by compensation for value have time to act as if a company's owner making a lot more than a janitor is a moral outrage. You'd think with all that free time they could find successful precedents for what they believe.

Getting numbers and reality wrong isn't even the most horrifying part. Excessive power enthusiasts are making life fantastically easy for Donald Trump. The poor guy has never gotten a break. Now, the least deserving posing tycoon of our time will get to face ideas so easily dismissed that even he can do so with a vaguely rude gesture.

Our poor maligned president can once more point out his foes are horrendous without having to do anything else. A binary choice is always his best hope.

Facing collectivists allows him to bitch while never having to list his own accomplishments. The mouthy lightweight can just note socialist claptrap sucks, which is true in the same way as knowing The Walking Dead is dull in darkness. But it's apparently not obvious enough. Trump gets to stand up to massive overreach even as he bravely refuses to confront the entitlement state.

Offering an alternative to the most obnoxious president imaginable should be easier than free exchange. A seller who offers nothing but boasts can only succeed if the alternative promises to finally bring all the good parts of Cuba to America.

[imagine-darksiders]

What would happen, if the horsemen swapped bodies? Maybe add in Azrael and Ulthane too xD

This is such a stupid little drabble lmao, even I’M confused as to who’s who.

—-

Perhaps, in hindsight, they should have known theday would end in disaster when all six of them entered the same room.

Four horsemen, a boisterous, burly maker and thesoft-spoken archangel, Azrael.

‘The Incident’ – as it was affectionately coinedby Strife – happened eons before the creation of mankind and notlong after the Nephilim’s destruction.

They were all there at the behest of the HellguardCommander, Abaddon, who seemed to be under the impression thatinviting the horsemen to an extravagant gathering in the Templedistrict would be a fine idea. This was, of course, a blatant show offorce, an arrogant boast meant for his political opponents. For whowould dare stand against an angel backed by the Charred Council’sdeadliest weapon?

However, what went on behind the scenes was anentirely different matter.

There had been a monumental argument when Warquite ardently told Abaddon where he could shove his 'invitation,’that had only been resolved by Death and Azrael prying theirrespective companions off one another.

Azrael had then taken over negotiations, askingrather than demanding, that the Four attend, pointing out that ifthey did, he, Abaddon and Heaven itself would owe them a great debt.Death, of course, conceded because it was Azrael. Strife admittedthat it could be fun, Fury accused the two of them of being soft, andinevitably the fighting started up again.

In the end though, they reached a begrudgingagreement, which leads to the Four gathered inside Azrael’s privatestudy, hidden away in a corner of the Crystal Spire, each sporting adeep scowl as they gather around the angel’s tidy desk.

“What is the maker doing here?” Fury spits,jerking her chin at Ulthane where he towers behind the archangel,head and arms squashed in on themselves to appear as compact aspossible in the too-tight space. He levels a sneer at her.

“He is here at my request as well,” Azraelsighs before the maker can shoot her what’s sure to be a rude retort.Rubbing at his temples, he leans forwards on the desk, resting on hiselbows. “What use is my position if not to bring my friends to themost lavish of parties?”

“Aye girlie,”the Old one drawls, bending over Azrael’s head and bracing his handson the relatively flimsy desk, ignoring its protesting creak andgroan. “You got a problem with that?” As he moves back, pushedaway by the angel’s shooing hands, his bulky wrist knocks into a pairof tall flasks that were already teetering precariously close to theedge, sending them toppling down to the hard, marble floor below.

“NO!” the typically composed Azrael all butshrieks, throwing himself across the desk after them and stretchingout his arms in a fruitless attempt to catch them. Time seems to slowas the flasks fall.

Death reaches out for them as well, War rolls hiseyes up to the ceiling, Fury turns a glare on Ulthane and opens hermouth to call him a 'bumbling oaf’ and Strife merely watches withmild interest as the carnage unfolds.

As for the maker, he manages to eek out a sheepish'whoops,’ before the sound of shattering glass and sloshing liquidfills the room.

There’s a flash of blinding, orange light thatsears their retinas and throws them all into disarray.

When the light eventually fades, it reveals thateverything is….the same as it had been.

Ulthane flaps an enormous palm through the air,wafting away a thin layer of lingering mist. “Those were,” hecoughs, “highly volatile chemicals of – as of yet Unknown –origin! I have been conducting experiments on them for months! Do youhave any idea how hard it is to-”

The maker trails off as he cracks his eyes openand spots Azrael gaping up at him. The angel’s face is twisted intoabject horror and he raises his robed arms to run pale, slenderfingers along his angular jaw.

Ulthane tears his gaze off him to inspect his ownhands. “By the Light!” he squeaks – a very odd noise comingfrom the rough and tumble maker. At around about the same time,Azrael leaps to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the groundand exclaims, “What in the bloody name of Stone!?-”

At which point all Hell breaks loose and severalstrange things happen in the space of a few seconds.

Fury staggers forwards, totters on her heels andpromptly collapses to the floor with an undignified yelp. Deathrecoils as though he’d been struck and sputters, “Oh! Oh– What is that repugnant stench!?”

Across the room, Strife suddenly begins toscrabble at his helmet, wrenching it off and pitching it franticallyat one of Azrael’s bookshelves. “Who put that on me!?”

War meanwhile simply lifts his gauntlets and turnsthem over in front of his face. “Troubling,” he murmurs.

Just then, all four of them glance up and takestock of one another.

A series of outraged, confused and urgent yellsbombard the study.

“What happened!?” Strife demands,yellow eyes gleaming brightly against his charcoal skin.

As he speaks, Fury tries to drag herself uprightagain, using the desk as support whilst Azrael’s wings give a suddenflap and he barks, “Does someone want to tell me what’s going on!?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Azrael,”War growls, taking a step towards the angel, who shoots him anannoyed huff. “Azrael? I’m not Azrael! I’m Ulthane!”

Working his hands through the slick, black hair onhis head, Death mutters, horrified. “My hair! There’s so muchgrease!” before whipping a furious glare at everyone in the study.“Well, one of you must be Azrael! Speak up, so that I may throttleyou, bird!”

“Over here,” the maker pipes up, raising ameaty hand into the air, “And before we lose our heads, we shouldprobably sort out who’s who…”

Bending over the little desk, he tries to pinch adelicate quill between his thumb and forefinger, lips pressed into ahard line that gradually becomes a soft snarl after each failedattempt. After an awkward silence in which everyone watches the makerstruggle, he huffs and turns to the angel beside him. “Would youmind?”

Not-Azrael stops fiddling with the enormous,primary feathers and gives a start. “What? - Oh…Yeah, hang on atick..”

Sliding over to take the real Azrael’s place, hemanages to smack several book stacks over with his extensivewingspan. “Sorry.” He flexes his fingers a few times and picksthe quill up, holding it gently in his fingers as though he’s worriedit might break, then poises it over a scrap of yellowed parchment.“Alright, when you’re ready..”

“Good. Now then-” The enormous maker claps hishands together and winces at the volume, tentatively lowering themagain a moment later. “Let’s find out where everyone is, shall we?Death?”

The Red Rider, War, nods. “Here, Azrael.”

“Excellent. War? Ah - The real War?”

“I’ve never felt so puny,” Strife’sbody grumbles, throwing the giant a heated glare.

Propped up on the desk, Fury snarls at him. “Hey!You ought to be grateful you got me! Fury, how the hell do you walkin these heels?”

the angel continues to scribble on the parchment.“Safe to say we know where Strife is..” Raising a snowy eyebrowat the remaining, eldest horseman, he asks, “Fury?”

“You have no idea how much I wish that weren’ttrue, maker,” she gripes in her brother’s deep, gravelly voice.

“Wonderful,” Azraelremarks, “I propose to avoid confusion, we all refer to each otherby our proper names, rather than those whose bodies we inhabit.”

“Avoid confusion?” Strife scoffs, peeringwarily down at his breasts like he’d never seen a pair of them in hislife, “Now that is wishful thinking.” “

Chin propped on the back of his knuckles and theother hand fidgeting curiously with a pistol on his belt, War asks,“Was it the potions?”

The maker hums thoughtfully and starts to steparound the desk to pace, realises there’s very limited room to do so,and opts to remain where he is, tugging at the bushy beard framinghis entire jawline. “That seems most likely, I doubt the two weremeant to be mixed but I wasn’t even sure what their purpose was tobegin with..”

As he puzzles, Ulthane stares up at his own body,morbidly curious. “Is that really what I sound like?”

“Of course, as with most potions, the effectstend not to be permanent,” the non-angel continues, ignoring hisfriend’s fingers that poke sharply at his side. “I’d wager theeffects won’t last more than a few hours.”

“A few hours!”

“Uh, Azrael? That’s too long!”

“Surely you know a counter spe- Fury! You leavethat mask where it is!”

“Hang on, I gotta take these shoes off.”

The maker taps his fingertips together, shruggingsheepishly while the actual Ulthane grunts, trying to get hiswayward wings under control. Managing six limbs when one is usedto four is not an easy task.

“Alright, s'fine,” he barks, effectivelybutchering Azrael’s prim and proper accent, “We just stay in hereand wait till it wears off.”

Slowly, but agitated nonetheless, the groupconsiders this, sharing glances before they begin to settle, mumblingwords of reassurement..

Unfortunately, millions and millions of years fromthis point, Death would be travelling on Earth and hear a term thehumans refer to as 'Murphy’s law,’ which he would then think back andattribute to the situation he, his siblings, Azrael and Ulthane foundthemselves in. It’s a very fitting law that simply states, 'Ifsomething can go wrong, it will go wrong.’

And it did – spectacularly.

A knock on the heavy, wooden door has all heads inthe room snapping towards it and before anyone can move, it creaksopen and a head pokes through the gap. It’s a young angel with a mopof curly, silver hair flopping messily into his pale, amber eyes thatdart timidly around the room.

“I – Uh….Lord Azrael?” he utters,shrinking under the weight of several, intense scares.

“Ah! Sebastian, there you are,” Azraelsmiles pleasantly, his tone measured and perfectly calm. In fact, itwould almost fool anyone into thinking that nothing world-shaking hadoccurred there at all just moments ago, were it not for the fact thathe’d said it in a rumbling, nordic accent and stepped forward on tree trunk legs,bumping his knee into a free-standing bookshelf and almost upendingthe whole thing.

In an instant, Sebastian’s pale skin flushes pinkand he drops his jaw, glancing uncertainly between Ulthane and theangel sitting at the desk.

War coughs into a fist and discreetly kicks theangel’s robed shin.

“Oi! What?”

Pointedly, the horseman flicks his eyes at thenewcomer.

Following his gaze, Ulthane’s wings give anotherinvoluntary jerk. “Oh – er…Aye, I mean – Yes! What is it?”

Fury drags a hand down herbrother’s bone mask as Strife stifles a snort.

Understandably flustered, Sebastian gulps and drums his fingers on the doorframe. “S-Sir Abaddon sentme to ask for you. The guests have begun to arrive and he’s getting alittle…ah…impatient.”

“Abaddon? Impatient?” Death chuckles beneaththe crimson hood, “Somebody alert the scribes.”

Shushing the horseman, Azrael turns his head toaddress the young angel again. “Please tell him we’ll be alongpresently. Thank you, Sebastian.”

Once again, the angel’s face seems to turn an even deeper shade of crimson and a chorus of ’We will?’ erupts from the others.

Swivelling his head about to Ulthane, thearchangel wrings his hands together. “That is – of course – ifit’s alright with you, Lord. Azrael?”

Heaving out an exasperated sigh, the angel liftshis shoulders in a lazy shrug, failing to notice the twitch ofAzrael’s eyes when he does. “Fine, tell his Lordship we’ll be thereas soon as….as Strife here stops throwing a hissy fit.”

Everyone’s eyes shoot over to the gunslinginghorseman. War’s shoulders tense, eyes narrowing. After a moment ofperfect silence, he sighs flatly, reaches out a hand and pushes oneof Azrael’s ink pots off the desk.

“Brother!” Strife gasps in mock horror and shoves hissister’s body away from the wall he’d supported it on, wobblingunsteadily towards the door. “Honestly, we can’t take him anywherethese days.” Grabbing the young angel by the shoulders, he spinshim around and gives the middle of his back a quick nudge, betweenthe wings. “Run along now, and tell Abaddon we’ll be there in no time. Alright?”

“O-okay! Yes, Miss Fury.” Sebastian’s feathersshiver under the unwarranted touch to their sensitive tips but heallows himself to be steered out of the room, flinching when thehorseman slams the door behind him.

A scribe stacking tomes on a spiralling book caseacross the hallway looks up at the echoing sound. “Sebastian?”she calls, “Are you alright? Your face, it’s…it’s pink!”

Dazed, he smooths down his russet-brown robes andambles towards her, gliding the last couple of steps on hisremarkably dainty wings and landing heavily by her side. “He knowsmy name!” he sighs wistfully, slumping down the book case, “Me! Asimple messenger! And he knew my name!”

“Who?”

“The Black Hammer!”

She arches her brow scornfully. “That lug? So what? He’sjust a maker.”

“A gorgeous maker!” the youngster swoons.

Rolling her eyes to the painted ceiling highabove, she clicks her tongue and smiles knowingly. “Don’t let LordAbaddon hear you say that-”

All of a sudden, Sebastian shoots up off the wall,a sharp gasp leaping off his tongue. “Lord Abaddon!” he squawks,“The party! I’ve got to go!”

And with that, in a flurry of threadbare feathers,he zooms off down the hall, around a corner and out of sight.

Behind him, the scribe shakes her head and watches after him for awhile before she turns and continues her duty, placing books backinto their rightful spots.

—-

Back in Azrael’s study, any semblance of orderclings to a thread, threatening to snap at any given moment andplunge the room into mad chaos.

Livid, Death rounds on the angel in the room.“What possessed you to go and -” He pauses for a second, thentuts and turns to the gigantic maker. “- and say that? We can’t goanywhere like this!”

Strife passes between them, concentrating hard onplacing his heel down first before his toes follow. “I don’t know,I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

War folds his arms across his chest, ignoring hisbrother turned sister. “I concur with Death. In this state, we arecompromised. If anyone were to discover our…predicament, this wouldbe an opportune time for them to strike us down.”

“Well, we can’t remain in here,” Azrael pointsout, “If we do, Abaddon himself will come looking and he’ll knowstraight away that something isn’t right.”

“I am notkeen on having him find out about this,” Death mutters.

Holding up a bandage-wrapped fist, Fury clenchesit tightly. “We could always kill him,” she suggest, only halfjoking, “Come to think of it, I feel I could kill anyone at themoment….So this is imperviousness..”

The eldest horseman furrows his sleek, white brow.“Put it from your mind, little sister. This will not last.”

She shrugs, but continues to tense and flex hernewfound, sinewy arms.

“Furthermore,” Azrael coughs, “I’d rathernot make this situation any more uncomfortable than it already is –No offence, Ulthane -”

The Old one waves his apology aside.

“- and I fear that killing Abaddon will tip thescales into 'awkward.”

“So what do you propose?” War grunts.

“We could always just ditch this thing.”

“Oh yes, Strife. There’s an idea,”Death scoffs, “A maker, an archangel and four horsemen try to sneakaway through the streets of Heaven during a large-scale, socialevent. What could go wrong?”

Falling into grumbles, he absently finds himselfchecking the joints in his littlest brother’s metal gauntlet. 'Hmm.War never does use enough oil…’ he muses distractedly.

“If I may,” Ulthane interjects abruptly,venturing out into the middle of the room and eying the muscles onhis hijacked body longingly. He wouldn’t say it aloud, not to Azrael.But even as a youngling, he’d never felt this small. Fragile even.Shaking the sensation from his mind, he goes on, “I say we givethis a shot.”

He receives several incredulous looks, so he adds,“Look, you’re siblings. I would hope you know each other wellenough to pass as one another.”

All four riders share skeptical glances.

After a couple of long minutes where nobody uttersanother sound, Death sighs and rolls his shoulders. “Fury, you’dbest start teaching Strife how to walk in those shoes.”

War smirks at his sister’s objectionable groans.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Azrael warns, “Bevague, don’t talk to one person for too long, and for the sake ofeverything holy, don’t forget who you’re supposed to be. Ulthane -”He turns to the angel. “- This will be your biggest challenge.Everyone will be wanting a piece of me – I mean, you. Butworry not, I shall be by your side the whole night.”

Straightening out his back, Ulthane adopts hisbest dignified expression. “S'long as I act like a stick in themud, we’ll be fine.”

The glare Azrael throws at him pulls a chucklefrom Death.

Levelling a chunky forefinger in the old one’ssmug face, the archangel says, “And please remember to enunciateyour words. If I have to spend an evening behaving like a vulgarbrust, you had best be the picture of civility and grace.”

“No promises.”

“Hmph.”

Strolling past them to the door, Fury throws itopen, standing in the entrance and tapping Death’s leather sabatonson the marble. “Can we get on with this before Abaddon or someoneelse comes looking for their choir boy?” At her remark, themaker’s lips draw back over his fangs and he snarls, only to presshis lips together a moment later, a look of surprise flitting acrosshis rugged features. “I do apologise. I don’t know where that camefrom.”

“Don’t apologise to her, Azrael,” Death sighs,following his own body to the door, a motion that does not fly overhis head. “She’s just moody because she knows Strife is boundto make a fool of her tonight.”

“Bootlicker,” she snaps behind the mask, “Thefirst thing I’m doing tonight is finding the nearest fountain andjumping in it with a wash cloth.”

Strife follows her next. He – for lack of abetter word – sashays over to the study’s entrance, throwing hiships out around each exaggerated step.

Cringing, War coughs into a closed fist. “Sincewhen does our sister walk with so much hip, Strife?” Theirmiddle brother glances back over his shoulder at the remaining three.“Too much?”

“Definitely,” War replies.

“Just a tad,” Azrael puts more gently. At hisside, Ulthane purses his lips and shakes his head.

“Right,” the sharp shooter nods, “Less ismore. Got it.”

Shoving his brother out the door, War moves afterhim, standing with the rest.

Letting out a tired exhale, Azrael angles his bulktowards Ulthane, his pointed ears twitching and giving away his mood.The angel smirks up at himself and slaps a hand above the other’senormous elbow. “You always were a worrier.”

“For good reason, I think.”

Ever so slightly, Ulthane’s smirk softens – itdidn’t feel like it belonged on his face anyway. “We’ll be fine.”

Azrael’s ears perk up a little and he allows thesmaller being to give him a gentle push, guiding him towards thearched doorway. “I suppose you must be right, my friend. Afterall-” He places his colossal hands on his hips and casts ascrutinising eye over the mismatched band. “-What could go wrong?”

Oddly enough, nobody felt like following that upwith an ensemble of ’everything.’

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 9

Some background information about the residents of the September Foundation. Plus Rhodey learns something new about Tony :)

Warning: Mentions of abuse in this chapter. Nothing graphic, but a warning just to be safe

Links to Chapter 1, Chapter 8

Tagging @jamesrhodey  @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs @matre-dee @le-ephemere @lo-anlurui @savedbyholmes @kimmycup @typicalcampbell @natty-ts70 @damnhiatus @pubzie @giulisetta @goose-danvers  @donttellanyoneitsmebabe @bookwermthings @tonystark5ever  @polygamoussquamous @swanheart69 @schalabi422

Chapter 9

 He stares at the closed door in a stunned stupor, listening to the sound of Pepper’s retreating footsteps. He doesn’t know much about Maria Stark – she was never famous like her husband, stayed in the shadows her whole life. But her death, her death he remembers rather well.  There was a TV special about the Starks that he had stumbled upon a few years back: “A Curse upon the House of Starks” it was called, if he remembers correctly.  The narrator talked about the tragic circumstances in the deaths of both Howard and Maria Stark, the violent nature of them. Howard perishing in an explosion that destroyed the family mansion; his wife Maria dying in a fiery crash several years prior.  He remembers the narrator wondering darkly if the Fates have somehow been turned against this family, if they had hung a curse upon the Stark bloodline, and if the younger Stark would fall victim to that family curse as well, if he would suffer the same spectacularly violent, fiery end as his parents.

He never thought about it before, never questioned the official story: Howard Stark’s latest experiment going wrong, Maria Stark falling asleep behind the wheel….  

 But the Fates had nothing to do with it, did they.  Sta- Tony’s convinced that his father’s death had been orchestrated by someone from the White House.  And Maria…  if he understood what Pepper was implying, Maria may have been killed by Howard himself.

Which is… impossible. Ridiculous even.  More ridiculous than Tony’s wild insinuations that Obie and Justin were the ones behind Howard’s death.  Howard Stark was a visionary.  An engineering legend.  A weapons icon.  

A man like that – an abuser? A murderer? How is that even possible?

 “Howard didn’… didn’ hit me so much when Obie was there.  It… nice… t’was nice…”

 He sucks in a sharp breath as Tony’s pain-slurred words flicker across his memory, unbidden. Casts a glance at the unconscious man’s face, his stomach churning with nausea and dread. He thought he’d misheard him then. He hoped he’d misheard him.  Because it was too ugly, too horrifying to process.  Because it was the Starks.  Because…

 Oh dear god…

“Mr. President?”

 The door opens with a soft squeak, and one of the teens from earlier slips inside.  Shifts awkwardly on the doorstep, looking everywhere but at James.

 “Your…uh… your room is ready and… uhm… Miss Potts said to tell you that we’ll be having dinner in twenty minutes, if…uh…,” he risks a glance at James, shifts it almost instantly toward Tony before dropping it back down to the floor, “if you’re hungry.”

 His stomach rumbles at the thought of food, loud enough that the teen shoots him another awkward glance.   “I suppose that answers that question,” he jokes and frowns in confusion as the teen looks away again.  “Something wrong?”

 The teen fidgets.  

 “Kid?”

 “I’m sorry about before,” the boy blurts out suddenly and he’s looking right at James now, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with… shame?  “Pulling the gun on you,” he elaborates at James’s deepening frown.  “Harley and I… it’s our job to protect this place when Mr. Stark isn’t here.  He said so himself.  And then when you showed up, I…. But Miss Potts explained… she told us that you came here like us and Mr. Stark, he…”

 “Kid…” He holds up his hand to forestall the rest of the verbal assault, rubs his throbbing temples. “You’re kinda starting to give me a headache.  No offense.”

 “Sorry.” The teen bites his lip, stares down at his feet again.

 “Look,” James heaves out a sigh, pushes himself to stand, casting one last look at the man on the bed. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”  Slowly, he crosses the room, coming to a stop in front of the boy.  “How about we try again, huh? Hi, I’m James.” He holds out his hand expectantly and smiles when the kid returns the gesture after a moment’s hesitation.

 “Peter. Parker.  Peter Parker.”

 “Good to meet you, Peter Parker.”  He squeezes the boy’s hand lightly before letting go.  Nods approvingly.  “Nice job earlier, by the way.  Impressive. I think Mr. Stark would be proud.”

 The teen, if possible, blushes even more at the praise, his face and neck growing pink, and James barely manages to suppress a snort as he claps the boy on the shoulder before following him out the door to his new room.

 ***

 Twenty minutes later he makes his way down the hall that Peter had indicated to him earlier and finds himself inside a light and spacious dining room that almost rivals the one at the White House.  There’s a long country style oak table in its center, set for ten. Everyone’s plates are full, but no one has started eating yet.  Waiting for him, James realizes, even as all the attention in the room turns toward him.

 “I’m glad you could make it,” Pepper rises to greet him, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.  Smiles as he sits down cautiously beside her, trying to take in all the curious faces, some already familiar, some not.  “Why don’t we all go around and introduce ourselves?” she proposes, nodding at the quiet murmur of approval from the others at the table.  “I believe you already know Peter,” she motions to his teenage guide who grins widely back at her.  “He and his aunt are one of our oldest residents.”

 “His aunt?”

 “Me, Mr. President,” comes the quiet, amused response, and, oh, James wants to facepalm himself now. Because, of course, of course.  Parker.  The kid said his last name was Parker.  How did he not make the connection?

 “How did you…?” he gestures inarticulately at their surroundings, struggling to make sense of it all.  Because he can’t understand why a woman with a cushy government position would abandon it all like that, disappear off the face of the earth.  Because he keeps remembering the dark look that flashed in Stark’s eyes when he had asked him about the reasons for May’s departure. Because he knows he’s missing something important here.

 May presses her lips together, flicking a quick gaze at Pepper as if for reassurance.  Raises her hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear. “Senator Hammer began making sexual advances toward me after about a year of me working for him,” she says finally, determined and furiously blunt.

 And, no, that wasn’t at all what James was prepared to hear.  This was… this is… His mind flashes back to Justin, to the leering look in the man’s eyes that he had glimpsed more than once when the senator would stare after a female colleague.  Oh no…

 “I repeatedly told him to stop, filed several complaints with the HR, but nothing ever came of that. And then one day we were working late, and he called me to his office and locked the door.  He knew I had just filed for permanent guardianship of Peter the week before, and he told me that if I screamed, he’d contact his buddy at the Child Protective Services and have Peter taken away from me.…”

 Beside her Peter makes a choked off sound of anger, the boy’s hands curling into fists, and she smiles at him, small and watery.  Reaches out to cover his fisted hand with her own.  

 “It’s alright,” she says. “I’m alright. You know he didn’t get far.”  

 “Still wish I was old enough back then to break his stupid face,” Peter grumbles unhappily.  

 And, yeah, James can understand the sentiment. Can feel his own fists itch with the useless desire to punch the lewd bastard.

 May’s smile grows a bit brighter at that and she raises her other hand to ruffle the teen’s hair.  “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her eyes warm, “I’m afraid Tony got there first.”  She turns her attention back to James, her expression turning serious once more.  “Tony lost his job because of that incident, got an assault charge on his record, and for that I am truly sorry. But I’m not sorry for what he did.”  Her hand tightens around Peter’s.  “We are safe here. Happy.  I can never be sorry for that.”

 “I… I understand,” James manages, his throat uncomfortably dry.  But the thing is, he doesn’t understand. Any of it.  He worked with Justin.  Rubbed elbows with the man almost on a daily basis.  He never knew… how did he not know?  He shakes his head, feeling irrationally angry with himself.  Stupid, he thinks. Naïve and stupid.

 “Laura?” Pepper addresses a short slender brunette sitting on the other side of James, breaking the awkward silence that settles at the table following May’s story.  “Would you like to go next?”

 The woman shrugs her assent, gives him a small, hesitant smile.  She has a plump-cheeked bright-eyed toddler bouncing excitedly on her lap, small, chubby fingers reaching hungrily for the plate.  “Well, I’m Laura,” she begins, smiling indulgently at the toddler even as she gently guides the little hands away. “And this little troublemaker is Nathaniel.” She nods at the two children sitting next to her. “That’s Cooper and Lila.  We’ve been living here at the Foundation for about…,” she looks back at Pepper for verification, “two years now?”

 “That’s right,” Pepper inclines her head in agreement before turning to address James.  “Laura’s ex-husband is a former CIA operative whose cover got burned during a mission with a Russian double-agent.  He has since disappeared.  There are speculations that he had switched sides and went on the run with that Russian woman.”  She gives Laura an apologetic look, her mouth pinching unhappily.  “Either way, Laura and the kids were left out in the open as potential targets to anyone whose path he ever crossed.”

 “Jesus…” James can’t help the exclamation that escapes him as he stares with mounting horror at the three little kids at the table.  How could someone endanger their own children like this?  Why?

 “Clint was never good about thinking things through,” Laura dismisses with a shrug, her smile just a tad too strained.  “Luckily for us, Tony got to us first.”

 And, yes, James thinks, lucky indeed.  He can’t even imagine what would have happened to this little family if Tony hadn’t intervened.  He’s seen enough reports about families of compromised agents where the subjects were not quite so fortunate.  Some of those gave him nightmares for weeks after.  For a husband, a father to willingly…

 He shakes his head, grits his teeth against a wave of anger against a man he doesn’t even know.  “How did… how did Tony find you?”

 “The Shield.” It’s Pepper who responds.  

 “The… what now?”

 “The Shield.  It’s an AI program that Tony and Jarvis, Tony’s… guardian, have created,” she clarifies, her lips twitching in amusement at his open-mouthed confusion.  “It monitors police and military channels, reports from CPS and other government agencies according to the parameters that Tony set up, sends him alerts whenever something falls within those parameters and…,” she shrugs, “then Tony goes to investigate.”

 James blinks. Blinks again. “You’re telling me that Tony Stark… former Special Agent Tony Stark… created an artificial intelligence program?”

 Pepper’s laugh, lighthearted and contagious, resonates across the room.  “Surprised you again, didn’t he.  Told you he’s good at that.”

 “Tony graduated from MIT at 17,” another kid chimes in, gruff.  It’s the other teen from his welcoming committee: an unruly mop of curly hair falling over his ears and sharp blue eyes drilling holes in James from across the table.  “What, you thought he’s just a dumb jock like all the other boneheads you call secret service agents?” The kid scoffs, rolls his eyes with obvious disdain, bumping shoulders with a little girl sitting beside him, who giggles in delight. “Please, the guy’s a genius.  And Pete and I, we’re following right in his footsteps, ain’t we, Pete.” He winks conspiratorially at Peter, who has the decency to duck his head and blush.  “I’m Harley, by the way.  The hacker.” And there’s a wickedly mischievous glint in the teen’s eyes that has James shaking his head in wary bemusement.  

The kid’s trouble.

 “Harley here,” Pepper cuts in with an indulgently disapproving tilt of her head, “got on the police radar at 10 years old for somehow hacking into the local mayor’s home computer and projecting….” She pauses, lips pursed, as if she’s searching for the right word. Grins at Harley, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “…compromising pictures from the mayor’s birthday party onto the wall of the City Hall.”

 The bark of disbelieving laughter bursts out unbidden. “You’re serious?”

 “The town’s water tower got busted,” Harley shrugs, unconcerned.  “The whole town was without clean water for weeks and that asshole wouldn’t do anything.  So I had to give him some… incentive.”

 “Right.” Pepper’s smile dims a bit.  “Unfortunately, the mayor wasn’t quite as amused as the rest of the townsfolk. And when he found out that Harley and his sister had been living without proper parental supervision…”

 “Our dad split when I was 5 and our mom spent more time looking for another Mr. Right than she did at home with us,” Harley clarifies with another shrug and James cringes at the forced carelessness of it.

 “The mayor’s lawyers argued parental neglect,” Pepper continues, confirming what James is already thinking.  “Child Services got involved, the mother walked away and the kids got placed into a group home.  Spent months there by the time Tony managed to push the adoption paperwork through and bring them both out here.”

 “And next year I’m going to MIT,” Harley concludes with a cocky one-sided grin, shoveling more potatoes onto his plate.  Bristles at Pepper’s chidingly raised eyebrow. “What? Tony said so.”

Somehow James doesn’t doubt him.  

He shakes his head, stares numbly at his still empty plate.  All these people, all these potential tragedies averted.  They all could have become just another statistic, another tragic loss.  But here they are – happy and thriving and safe.  A patchwork family, broken but somehow perfect.  And it’s all because of Tony.  He tries to reconcile that with the image of the annoyingly self-assured, abrasive asshole he met in his office all those weeks ago, the guy he’s been so irritated with only a few hours prior.    

He feels like such a jerk.

 “A lot to take in, isn’t it,” Pepper asks him quietly over the clinking of silverware and the low din of resumed conversations.  Smiles knowingly when all he manages is a silent nod.  “You should eat,” she tells him.  “I’m going to go check on Tony after dinner. I’m sure you’ll want to join me.”

 And, yeah, yes, he will. But first…  “Were you also… Did Tony… What did he do for you?”  He flusters as her smile falls, her lips thinning out.  Backtracks awkwardly.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.  I…”

 She waves off his apology, reaches to unbutton the right-hand sleeve of her shirt. “My ex-boyfriend, Aldrich, had a very… fiery temper,” she murmurs, slowly pushing up the white fabric.  There’s a long thin burn scar that runs along her forearm, marring the smooth skin. “He did this after I tried to leave him the first time.  Told me he’d burn me alive if I tried again.” She drops the sleeve, lets it fall back over the damaged skin.  Waits in silence as James stares back at her in open-mouthed horror, words he was about to say stuck painfully to the back of his throat. “I had just graduated college. I was still so young… naïve. Didn’t really know what to do, where to go.”  She smiles again, a bitter twisted little thing.  “I couldn’t sleep that night, I was so scared. So I called Tony.  Sobbed to him over the phone.” She pulls at the edge of the sleeve again, fiddles with the button there, threading it back through the loop. “He came over that same night.  Drove… god knows from where.” She shakes her head, her expression turning wistful.  “He came inside, told me to go wait in the car…”

 James watches her expectantly as she falls silent all of a sudden, lost in the memory.  “And?” he prompts gently, curious despite himself.

 She blinks as if coming out of a trance. Looks up at him, her eyes hard once more.  “And I did,” she says simply, holding his gaze as if daring him to question her further.  “Tony came back out a few minutes later.  He got in and we drove off.  That’s all.”

 James knows better than to ask anything else.

[salamoonder]

Words Fail

All those long nights are finally getting to Logan. (Sanders Sides)

Wordcount: 2.6k

Warnings: Semi graphic self harm

A/N: I don't recommend reading this if you're in a bad headspace. Yes, there's self harm, and it's not terribly graphic, but I did go into quite a lot of detail about Logan's emotional state. This is the first and probably the only songfic I will ever write. Also!! sidenote, this takes place in an established platonic LAMP universe.

|| Read it on AO3 ||

There’s no dramatic inciting incident. Nothing huge that pushes him over the edge; no screaming match or offhanded, deep-stinging insult. No failure.

It’s just late, and he’s just tired, and when he goes to get up his wrist catches against the sharp edge of his spiral bound notebook and it breaks the skin. He turns his hand so the blood wells up and doesn’t drip, walks to the bathroom, rinses the cut, swipes over it with an antiseptic, and bandages it.

Then he returns to his room and conjures a knife.

His hands are shaking. He lays the knife on his bed and runs a finger over the bandaid on his left hand. It’s weird. He’s read about this. He’s clinically familiar, keeps an eye on Virgil to make sure he doesn’t flinch when people brush against his arms, that he’s not scared of rolling his sleeves up. But he’s beginning to understand that there’s quite a big difference between reading something and practical knowledge.

There’s a surprising sort of relief in what remains of the pain in his wrist. He knows a flood of chemicals went straight to his brain, dopamine among them. It’s odd that knowing something and experiencing it would be so different.

He should be horrified at himself. Absolutely disgusted.

Instead, all he feels is the numb tiredness of his third three AM study session in a row. The gently aching void in his chest where the ping of caffeine should be. The softness of his sheets, the warmth of the room.

None of those are real emotions.

He smooths his thumb over the bandaid again and he feels it. A tiny jolt of pain. An even smaller jolt of pleasure. And underneath that, mind blowing relief. Again. He presses harder.

But it isn’t enough. The pain goes away after a moment, and then it’s just vaguely unpleasant pressure.

Logan locks the door of his room and strips down to his boxers.

He knows, looking back, that he didn’t do much that first night. Not in comparison. But it felt like a lot, watching the blood bead along each slash mark on either of his thighs, trailing the knife a little further to make them symmetrical. He was exhausted and high on a feeling he’d never experienced before. Not quite pleasure, not quite pain. Something like a shot of adrenaline mixed with fear and a deep, strange contentedness that was almost satisfaction.

Two neat, perfect lines. He didn’t go any further that night. He felt overly sensitive, like someone had scraped off a layer of skin and left him open to contagious emotions.

Well. He supposed someone had.

Logan summons the energy to clean and bandage these new cuts and then climbs into bed. He lays flat on his back, turns out the lamp, and tries not to strain his eyes looking for the ceiling. But he can’t help it. He doesn’t like sleeping on his back; it makes him feel vulnerable. He usually sleeps on his stomach or curled up on his side, but he doesn’t want to reopen the cuts on his thighs.

It takes him a good half hour to fall asleep, and when he finally does he has nightmares. Something’s chasing him, and he’s tearing through the dark with his hands outstretched, trying to clear away the cobwebs in front of him. He’s running down a long hallway that swirls and bends with colors that make his head pound. The something has loud footsteps that sound faintly of Danse Macabre each time they hit the ground. Snippets of sound. Snippets of the clarinet solo and dancing strings and the colors hammering into his head like what he imagines an acid trip must be like, and it’s all crashing over him like a tidal wave and he can’t have a panic attack in a dream, can he?

“Logan?”

He sits bolt upright, grabs at the sheets to be sure they’re covering his legs. Patton’s hovering in his doorway wearing an absolutely heartbreaking look of concern. “I’m fine,” he says without prompting. “Merely a nightmare.”

“I heard you yell,” says Patton slowly, inching the door further open. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No-” says Logan too quickly. “No, I’m fine.” He doesn’t add anything else so that Patton can’t make an objection about it really being no trouble.

“Alright…” says Patton, frowning at him and not moving. “Yell if you need me.”

“Will do.” Logan fumbles for his laptop to switch on his sleep playlist and waits for Patton to leave. He does, reluctantly, letting the door click softly closed behind him.

It’s essentially all over after that.

Every night after dinner Logan slips into his room and reopens perfect, symmetrical cuts along his thighs. They have to be even. If they're not, he lengthens one or the other until they match. It fascinates him to watch the skin peel away from itself, like he's coming apart in slow motion. It doesn't even hurt anymore.

He’s rationalized it a thousand different ways, because that’s what he does. He rationalizes. He reasons. That’s his damn job. He’s not causing any permanent damage, it’s not affecting his brain the way acid or crack would. He knows it’s addictive but that only means that he trails the knife further down his leg, waits a couple days, and then returns to a spot higher up, waiting for the first cuts to heal. Over and over. Straight, thick red lines. Symmetrical. Calming.

He doesn’t realize how distant he’s become. He doesn’t need anything from the other sides; his first solution is a closed door and a knife. It’s more efficient. Efficient is what he does. Not needing anybody is part of him, and he believes the other sides know that.

So when he opens his door in the middle of the night and hears a surprised squeak along with the soft thump of wood hitting flesh, the first thing he wonders is where he went wrong. How did he give himself away?

More importantly, how does he cover now?

It’s too late, though, Virgil’s already standing up and rubbing his back, a snarl half locked onto his face. “Watch it, Logan.”

“I- wh- Virgil, what are you doing up? Outside my bedroom? Wh- what?”

He’s trying to back away but Virgil’s eyes have already swept downwards and raked over each even line stacked along Logan’s legs. “Jesus, Logan. I...wow. I knew something was wrong, but.” He stops, whatever snarky thing he was going to say dying on his lips.

“It’s nothing,” says Logan, with no options left but to lie spectacularly. “Goodnight.” He starts to close the door but Virgil’s already jammed his body into the doorway.

“Logan,” he says. “Stop. Lemme in. Let me help.”

Logan frowns. “Help with what?”

Virgil’s mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Before Logan can continue the charade, Virgil’s closed the door behind them both and turned to face Logan fully. “Look, man, I get it, denial and pretending to be fine is like, a recreational sport with you. But would you just- just slow down for five seconds and let someone else in before you do something you’ll seriously regret?”

Logan falls backward onto his bed, resigning himself to Virgil, and bites his lip. “I…” he takes a deep breath. “I can handle it.”

“Bullshit,” says Virgil swiftly. He clicks the lock on the door on and sits next to Logan on the bed. “You’ve been sneaking out of your room in the dead of night for weeks.”

Logan startles. “How do you-?”

“Logan, I’m friggin anxiety. If something’s wrong, if anything in this whole place is the slightest bit off, I’m gonna notice it. And this-” he waves a hand vaguely at Logan, seemingly unwilling to gesture directly at the cuts, “is very, very, off.” He glances down, then looks back up quickly to face Logan. “At least you’re sanitary. You are taking care of it, right? That’s why you’re sneaking out?”

Logan huffs out a breath. “Getting an infection doesn’t exactly seem fun or productive.”

“This isn’t fun or productive either! Logan, how the fuck are you so smart and so short sighted?” Virgil’s gritting his teeth. He looks like he might be on the verge of a panic attack, so Logan stands up, just to have some semblance of control over the situation. He doesn’t need taking care of. He needs Virgil to not be distressed over something so insignificant as Logan’s emotional health. He tries to ignore the outburst, moves toward the door. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, trying to diffuse. Virgil looks ready to vibrate into pieces.

“I’m coming,” he says, standing up as Logan opens the door and trailing him to the bathroom. Logan doesn’t protest. He figures allowing Virgil to see him taking care of himself will get him off his case.

He goes to get bandages out of the cupboard but Virgil lays a hand on top of his. “Let me.”

“Virgil-” Logan starts, frustrated, but Virgil’s already shaking his head. “It’ll calm me down. Please.”

“I...I suppose.”

“Great. Sit on the counter.”

Logan does as he’s told and stares at the wall, jaw clenched. Virgil runs the water, dipping a finger in to check the temperature every few seconds. He dampens a cloth and starts cleaning the cuts furthest down Logan’s legs.

A few moments pass in silence and Logan thinks maybe he’s escaped Virgil’s lecture. Of course that’s the moment Virgil chooses to start speaking.

“Logan...how could you possibly think this was a good idea?”

“I didn’t exactly-”

“No. Stop. Let me finish. You’re…” Virgil pauses to put down the cloth and press the backs of his hands into his eyes. “Logan, you’re kind of perfect,” he says softly. “And I don’t understand why you of all people would want to hurt yourself.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “But you can understand how...other people…would?”

“That’s different,” he mumbles, and moves one shaky hand from his eye to pick up the cloth again. “We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you.”

“I’m far from perfect,” says Logan. Virgil snorts. “Yeah, well. Either way you’re too smart for this.”

Logan doesn’t have an answer to that. They pass a few more moments in silence, and Virgil moves on to his left leg.

“I’m just wondering why,” says Virgil, almost conversationally. “If I knew why I could help. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Logan opens his mouth to respond, and all the carefully constructed reasoning he’s done over the past few weeks falls away.

Why does he do it? Because it takes the edge off every unrewarding night of work. Because sometimes the tension building beneath his skin is so venomous that he needs to let it bleed out. Because the others don’t understand what it’s like to push and push and push yourself beyond what you’re capable of...and then keep going further. Because it’s hard, it’s punishing, to be the “perfect” one. No errors, ever.

Because there’s nothing else to do.

But he can’t say that out loud.

“Lo?” Virgil asks softly. “This is gonna sting.” He’s holding the folded tip of a second cloth over the mouth of a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He turns the bottle over once, quickly, and sets it back on the counter. “Logan. You okay?”

Logan lets out a shaky sigh and reaches out to grip the edge of the counter. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

Virgil bites his lip, then takes Logan’s hand from the counter and laces their fingers together. “Okay.”

It does sting, and more than once Logan finds himself tightening his grip on Virgil’s hand. Virgil rubs slow, soothing circles over the back of his hand with his thumb, and Logan wonders how someone who is literally the embodiment of anxiety can be such a comforting presence.

When Logan’s legs are completely bandaged, Virgil doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he tugs him off the counter, and they both wander back to Logan’s room and collapse on the floor.

“Talk to me?” asks Virgil tentatively. He’s leaning against Logan’s bed, and Logan has his head on his shoulder, trying to pretend that this is just another cuddle pile, just another movie night. He shakes his head, frustrated.

“Please?” whines Virgil.

“I don’t know how,” says Logan, and it comes out harsher than he meant it to.

“Logan, you’re a walking encyclopedia. How do you not know how.”

“Virgil, I’ve never had to deal with this before! There’s no precedent! And the more I research it- every time I see the word ‘blade’ or ‘dopamine’ or ‘skin’ I just want to do it all over again. I-” Logan stops, turns his face into the fabric of Virgil’s hoodie. “I honestly don’t know what to tell you,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

Virgil’s curled an arm around his shoulder, gathering Logan to him. “You’re okay,” he says, like he’s talking to a child who’s fallen and skinned their knee at a playground. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Everything’s...it’s gonna be okay. I’ll figure this out. We’ll figure this out. Hey. You like music, right?”

Logan shrugs, trying to stay within Virgil’s grasp. “I guess. Not like Roman does.”

“You don’t have to like it like Roman does,” Virgil says gently. “I was just thinking. Why don’t you pick a song that you can empathize with? I dunno, might be a bit easier than using your own words.”

Logan looks up. “I- that’s- that’s actually not a bad idea.”

Virgil smiles. “You’re not the only side who can think, you know.”

“I never said I was,” Logan says indignantly, and pulls his laptop down from his bed to scroll through his iTunes library. It’s mostly instrumentals, classical music and movie soundtracks. Nothing catches his eye. Then- wait. Oh.

Logan hesitates for a moment, lets his mouse hover over the title. If anything it hits a little too close to home. “Promise you won’t make fun of me?” he asks Virgil, whose response is to hook his arms under Logan’s and pull him into his lap.

“For something like this? Never.”

Logan takes a deep breath and clicks play.

Ben Platt’s soft voice blankets the room, and Virgil’s eyes widen a bit. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Logan.”

Logan shrugs again, almost embarrassed. The song is “Words Fail” from Dear Evan Hansen. And while the circumstances are quite different, Logan feels that the title, at least, is fitting.

They get to the line “I’d rather pretend I’m something better than these broken parts” and Virgil hugs Logan’s head to his chest.

He waits till the song ends. Then he says, “Logan, you know you don’t have to put up a front for us. That’s stupid. We love you. You know that.”

“I-” Logan swipes at his eyes. “Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Say it back, you idiot.”

Logan laughs through a sob. “I love you too.”

“Good.” Virgil hauls Logan up by the arms and throws back the covers on his bed. “Want me to stay with you tonight?”

“Is it going to make you feel like I’m safe?”

Virgil shrugs sheepishly. “Um. Yeah.”

“Then of course.”

Logan folds himself into Virgil’s body, and Virgil reaches out and turns off the lamp.

“Promise me you’ll come to me and let me know if you ever feel like doing that. Or Patton or Roman.”

“I…”

Virgil sighs unhappily. “At least come to one of us afterwards?”

“I’ll try to do something before it gets that bad, Virgil. But I promise either way I’ll get one of you afterwards.”

Virgil squeezes him so tight he can’t breath for a minute. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Logan pauses. “I was going to say ‘I know’ but- is this one of those instances where I’m supposed to say it back?”

Virgil laughs. “Oh, Logan, you’re an idiot. You can, if you want.”

Logan wrinkles his nose. “I’m not an idiot. And I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

“I know you’re not an idiot. Goodnight.”

Logan snuggles into Virgil’s collarbone. “Goodnight.”

[alifeasvivid]

Recovery is literally the hardest thing you will ever do. (tw suicidal thoughts mention)

It’s also the most worthwhile.

So I’m not gonna rehash everything in my life since last December. Long story short, I hit rock bottom, attempted suicide in a more serious way than I ever have before after dealing with those thoughts for around 15 years. I got sent to inpatient treatment and that did it. I broke the cycle. I got serious about recovery and I’ve been doing really, really spectacularly well since then.

Until recently.

That’s the tricky thing about bipolar disorder. It’s cyclical.

I’ve been falling into a depression since the end of September and the suicidal thoughts I had worked so hard to get let go of are niggling at the edges of my brain. It’s so hard. It’s not the depression that really gets me, it’s the feeling great almost all year and then now crashing back into it. It’s the cycle. It’s the ups AND the downs. I don’t want to do it.

I don’t want to live my life waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time. It’s TOO HARD and I’m so tired and I hate it. I hate it so much that I would rather---

But I look back and read all the things I’ve said on here, I remember all the conversations I’ve had with people about how even though recovery is immensely difficult, it’s worth it. I said once that I never thought I’d live this long so everything from here on out is a bonus. This is a part of my life I never thought I’d see, so why not make it something beautiful to look at?

How can I say all of that stuff, how can I stand as a credible example of all this real, hard-won positivity, hard-won self-love and confidence, if I fall apart at the first test?

I don’t back down. I don’t turn away. I don’t give up. Ever. I’ll work through this. The winter months are always a big bummer for me, but it’s fine. I can do this. I’ve been through so much worse.

So with that, a quick note to gen Z or any younger millenials... I see you guys. You’re everywhere, so I see you. I love you and think you’re all just the coolest, so I want you to have the best lives you can... so if it’s alright with you, I have some advice.

Do NOT idealize mental illness. Do not regard pain, suffering, and misery as dark and edgy and cool. I know it can be part of how all humans work out their own identities as teenagers/young adults, but... don’t take it too far. Listen to angry music. Listen to sad music. Write some highly emotional poetry and keep it in a journal that you’ll be horrified to read when you find it many years later. Let that be it.

Pain and darkness don’t make you edgy. They don’t make you interesting, particularly not in a cultural climate which is already so dark. I know a lot of millenials who have fallen into this trap (including me, shocker). It is a difficult and sticky mindset to get out of and it can lead to way more terrible things than bad poetry. Indulge in darkness in fiction, but don’t construct the narrative of your own identity and your life in that same fashion. I know maybe you think, like I did, that it doesn’t matter because you won’t live to see the part where you actually suffer the consequences for this mindset, but I stand here as proof that you will almost definitely live to see it.

Take care of your future self by loving who you are now. I know it’s hard. It’s hard because if you love yourself, if you know you’re a worthwhile person, then you have to treat yourself as such, which means you have to work hard to give yourself the life you really want.

I hope you know by now that I’m not the sort of person who says you have to have it all figured out right now. You absolutely don’t have to have it all figured out, whatever the hell that means anyway. It’s never too late to start or restart your life, but I had to learn that lesson the hard way and all I’m hoping to do here is maybe help prevent you from having to do the same.

Recovery is hard. Life is hard. Please, learn from me. Don’t make all of it even harder on yourself if you can help it.

You guys give me hope every day. You guys convince me that even as the people older than us make stupid decisions, better things are coming. More compassionate, more wonderful, smarter people are already here. I can’t wait for you to grow up. I can’t wait to see all of the even more amazing things you will do. We older millenials had the same potential, but no one believed in us. To this day, no one believes in us, but I believe in you.

I think you’re worth me sticking around for... so I can see something beautiful.

I hope you can feel that way about yourselves too.

[aadmelioraa]

Holiday prompt! Bellarke + "It’s after Christmas and we’re both hungover and trying to remember what happened after we opened the wine."

Thanks for the prompt, Lindsay! Happy New Year!

Clarke eased into consciousness with only vague memories of the night before—Jasper’s annual holiday party, dancing with Raven, teasing Wells about his spectacularly ugly Christmas sweater. Her eyes were shut tight against the inevitable, but she suddenly realized how late it must be and began to search frantically for her phone, squinting into the sunlight. She rolled over as she groped the bedsheets and discovered she was not alone. Suddenly she was was very much awake and very much laying half naked in bed with Bellamy Blake. Goddamit, not again.

Her frantic movements must have woken Bellamy. He groaned and rolled over. His eyelids fluttered open reluctantly, and when he realized where he was, he frowned.

“This isn’t my bed…” he said slowly.

“I cant believe they gave you a scholarship here,” Clarke retorted, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“I just mean…we usually hook up in my bed.”

“Yeah, that’s because you live alone, and I live with roommates.”

Bellamy shrugged and reached for the pair of glasses on the nightstand. As he leaned over, the sheets pooled just above his hips, exposing much too much of him for peace of mind.

“Hey, are you naked?” Clarke asked accusingly.

Bellamy made a show of peeking under the covers, and Clarke rolled her eyes. “No, I’ve got boxers on.” He looked her over. “That’s my shirt.”

“Yeah, well I’m going to keep it on for now, if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever,” Bellamy said casually. “But you can’t keep stealing my clothes and expect no one to catch on to this.”

Clarke ignored him. “What the hell happened last night? I don’t remember anything after Raven left…”

“I remember opening that last bottle of wine.” Bellamy stretched and ran and hand through his hair, practically shoving his bicep distractingly into Clarke’s face.

“The emergency wine? We drank the emergency wine?” Clarke yelped. That didn’t bode well. She, Raven, and Harper had managed to go almost 2 years in that house without drinking the last bottle of wine. It was a symbol that however bad things got, they always had that to fall back on. They really must have been on a bender last night. “Oh!” She sat up straight as she remembered another detail, “You wanted to play a drinking game with Miller!”

“Oh my god.” Bellamy buried his head in his hands. “No wonder we got blackout drunk.”

Clarke sighed and laid back against her pillow. “This is your fault, Blake…”

“Hey, um…” Bellamy began awkwardly, blushing slightly, “Did anything happen? I only ask because usually when we wake up bed together half naked…”

“I honestly don’t know,” Clarke said, worrying her brow. “I mean, we definitely didn’t have sex last night, but I don’t remember if we made out in front of anyone. I don’t think we did…”

Bellamy’s eyebrow quirked up. “You sure about that?”

“Do you have a million missed text messages from Raven and Jasper?”

Bellamy reached for his phone. “Nope. You’re right, we must have kept it on lock down. Surprising.”

“Why do you say that?” Clarke replied, then before he could answer, “Wow, my head is killing me….how much wine did we drink?”

“Well, you went straight to tequila if I remember correctly.”

“Fuck,” Clarke held her hands to her head. “I did, didn’t I? What a stupid thing to do.”

“I think I told you that at the time.”

“Shut up,” Clarke murmured through her hands, “You’re not helping.”

“Whatever,” he replied easily, running a hand over her back. “It’s not like we haven’t ended up in bed together before.”

“Yes,” Clarke admitted, tensing up a little at his touch, “but we were always careful before.”

Bellamy frowned and took his hand back. “I don’t know why you care so much if people find out.” He moved to rest his back against the headboard, and the increased distance between them felt deliberate.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Clarke glanced up, frowning, “it’s kind of a big deal.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Bellamy muttered, flushing slightly and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Is doesn’t?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” It was Clarke’s turn to get defensive. “I just…we’ve been spending a lot of time together, even if we we’re keeping this part between us…I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“You don’t want me to get the wrong idea?” Bellamy spat back, “You’re the one who crashes at my apartment three nights a week, and texts me constantly, and steals my clothes!”

Clarke’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry! If this is all too much for you, we can go back to just being friends.”

Bellamy stood up, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, and began to pick up discarded items of clothing from around the room. “Ok, Clarke, whatever. We can go back to being just friends, whatever that means. Whatever you want. Whatever.”

Clarke glared at him, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes. “Ok, fine!”

Bellamy glared back at her, pulling his jeans up to his hips, belt buckle jangling aggressively. “Goddamit, Clarke, can’t you just admit you like me back?”

“What?” Clarke croaked.

“I like you. I think I’ve been pretty damn clear about that. It was your idea to keep this whole thing a secret, but you obviously have some sort of feelings about it too!”

The first tear fell, and the exasperation drained from Bellamy’s face. “Why are you doing the sad puppy dog thing, Clarke? You know I can’t handle the sad puppy dog thing.”

“I’m not doing a puppy dog thing,” Clarke yelled, hot tears now running freely down her face. “Go to hell, Bellamy Blake.”

His eyes widened. “Shit, you’re really upset. I thought…fuck, I’m so sorry Clarke.” He joined her again on the bed, facing her with a horrified expression, one hand awkwardly massaging her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she replied stiffly, glaring up at him as she wiped the tears from her face. “I’m just hungover and allergic to jerks!”

A smile played at the corner of his mouth, and she could see him relax a little.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I was being a dick, you’re right. Can we just talk about this though?”

“About what?”

“About my feelings being possibly reciprocated in some form or another?” he replied gently.

Clarke sighed. “Your feelings have been reciprocated the whole damn time, you idiot. I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you.”

“Ok, here’s a tip,” Bellamy teased, “Unless we’re in Latin class, you have to spell it out for me.”

Clarke choked back a laugh. “Shut up. I’m a much better translator than you, anyway.”

He stroked her hair, eyes alight with mischief. “I’m going to let you have that one today because you’re very upset.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Not to be too forward, but…what does this mean?” Bellamy asked, a blush rising to his cheeks yet again.

“It means I like you back, you asshole.”

A blinding grin overtook Bellamy’s face. “Cool, ok. Can I have my shirt back now?”

“Nope.” Clarke stuck her chin in the air. “You’ve forfeited the right to all clothing in my bedroom from this day forward. I’m going to have confiscate those pants too.”

Bellamy laughed. “How am I going to go get us breakfast if I’m not wearing pants?”

“Fair point…you can keep them for now. But only because I’m starving.”

“I know,” he replied, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Ugh, are you going to be all sappy now that we’re dating?” Clarke groaned.

Bellamy’s grin intensified. “Wow, dating. Yeah, since we’re dating now, you bet your ass I’m going to be sappy.”

Clarke pulled him into a surprisingly fierce hug.

“Hey, you sure you’re ok?” he asked, leaning back slightly to try and look at her face.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was muffled in his chest. “I can hug you, we’re dating. Shut up.”

“I’ve been waiting months to hear you say that.”

“I tell you to shut up all the time.”

“Yeah, but now I know it means ‘I like you.’”

Clarke just laughed. He wasn’t wrong.

[whatarubberchicken]

December 10th - “Decorating”

Chat Noir chased after his lady in high spirits. He had a Santa hat on his head, mistletoe on the end of his tail (just in case!), and a song on his lips as they flew over the rooftops. But this wasn’t just any patrol. They’d already delivered toys to the children’s hospital, cookies and sweets to the police station, and now they had been tasked with finishing up the decorations on the enormous tree in the town square and lighting it up.

This was gonna be awesome.

“Hey, my lady,” he called as they finally made it to the town square. “I bet I can hang up more garland than you!”

Ladybug grinned at him from beneath her own Santa hat. “You’re on, kitty!”

Chat ended up losing spectacularly, mostly because Ladybug was just so amazing. (The fact that he’d gotten distracted by the shiny tinsel in the garland he was supposed to be hanging up was totally beside the point—and no, he was not tangled up in it—he could get himself out just fine—ok, please, my lady, help me, it’s caught on my tail!! Ow, ow, ow….)

By the time he was finally free, a crowd had started to gather. The two superheroes grinned at each other and took turns doing acrobatics and other showy moves as they finished the decorations, resulting in cheers and applause that made their cheeks redder than they already were.

Unfortunately, during one of their final moves, they miscommunicated somehow, and ended up crashing spectacularly into each other, midair. Even better, when they landed, Chat’s bad luck caught up with him in full force, and he smashed into the generator that had been intended to run the lights of the big tree. The crowd surged forward, anxious to make sure that their superheroes were okay, which they were, of course. The Miraculous armor was very useful. But neither of them felt any better when they heard the mayor’s horrified gasp at the mess they’d made.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor,” Ladybug said, wincing as she helped her partner to his feet. “We’ll help clean it up—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Ladybug,” Chloe interjected, for once coming to the rescue. “We’ll just get another one. Right, Daddy?”

“R-right, my sweet,” he said, hesitantly. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel the festivities for tonight at least. There’s no way to get a replacement in time.”

All around, the crowd groaned and grumbled and booed. People had been looking forward to this for weeks! Especially with the two superheroes leading the ceremony. Chat watched as Ladybug’s shoulders drooped and quickly determined to cheer her up.

“Aww, don’t be sad, Bugaboo,” he said jauntily. “Maybe all we need is a Lucky Charm…?” he indicated the yo-yo at her hip.

“I don’t think it works like that, Chat,” she said, biting her lip.

“Worth a shot, though, right?” he insisted, “after all, ‘tis the season for hope. And joy. And miracles.” He winked at her. She smiled weakly back.

“Guess there’s nothing to do but try,” she finally said. She threw up her yo-yo. “Lucky Charm!”

Chat blinked at the tiny object that fell into her hand. Okay, not entirely what he was going for… He’d been hoping for a tool, or spare part, or maybe even a replacement generator, but what they got was….

“A lighter?” Ladybug said, with an air of disbelief.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Chloe asked disdainfully, “set the tree on fire?” The crowd started laughing. Ladybug looked around, her anxiety obviously increasing as more and more people jokingly offered suggestions.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Chat said bracingly, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“That’s just it, Chat,” Ladybug said softly, “I’ve got nothing! No ideas! I… I think the stress of this season is getting to me,” she finally admitted. Chat blinked and realized just how tired his lady looked. Before he could open his mouth, though, her yo-yo shot out and she gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m gonna go think for a bit,” she said, her eyes shining with tears, “maybe something will come to me.”

She flew away before Chat could say anything.

...WaRC