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slackersunite-ao3 · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 10/10 Fandom: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, Spider-Man, Deadpool Additional Tags: Fluff, Smut, Sexual Abuse, escort!au, AU, Wade is a sweetheart as always, Escort!Peter, Tagging as Updated, Slow Burn, kind of, rape mention, Angst, Suicide mention, happy endings, original origins, Bottom Wade, Top Peter, Complete, Prostitution Summary: Peter Parker is a prostitute, and Wade is one of his favorite customers. After an unfulfilling night a call from Wade has Peter feeling better than ever before.

Chapter 1

Suddenly his hands were everywhere. Down Peter's body, through his thin, ripped shirt. Then the man's mouth was all over him, and Peter wanted to scream but he couldn't. This, he had to do this. He had done it before, he would do it again. The man was muttering things about how he was a "pretty little bitch" and Peter wanted to run away and curl up in the shower, but he couldn't.

Then just as the man had been using his body just a few seconds ago, the hands turned suddenly rougher. Suddenly more prone to hitting, the mouth that had made it's way all over his skin became suddenly more prone to biting. Peter groaned, and he tried desperately to push away but the man was stronger. Peter could be fine with a little rough sex, a little beyond the limits and lines, but this was something that he couldn't take. The man was suddenly pushing Peter roughly against the wall, even if he was older with his greying hair he was still stronger than Peter whose tired muscles and malnutrition made him the perfect fuck toy. This was the fourth man tonight, and most likely the last. If the man didn't kill him, which he might, Peter would likely pass out right there.

The man threw Peter against the wall, his head banged harshly against the dusty dry wall, and then before he knew it Peter was face to face with the man's dick, and it was choking him, the man's hand pulling at Peter's hair. Peter couldn't breathe, and he tried desperately not to choke to hard. Then the man came all over his face and in his mouth and Peter was let go to fall onto the floor heaving and panting. The man kicked Peter harshly in the ribs, there was no payment.

It took all of Peter's strength to get up, he quickly grabbed his tarnished shirt and wiped his face best he could before he hit the streets again. Not the streets, he would be going to one place and one place only. And that was his dusty, broken apartment, which was terrible all except for the fact that it was empty and peaceful in its own way.

Peter walked the few blocks to his apartment, but before he could get all the way there his battered phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open and read the text, "You free?" It was one of his regulars, a guy that was generous with the cash and easy to please. He was probably one of Peter's favorite customers. The guys he slept with either ranged from okay to extremely crappy, but Wade was just really good as a person. Peter sighed and slumped against a street sign. He needed the money, he hadn't gotten payed for all the lovely bruises he know had, and Wade wasn't too bad. He'd go, Wade might not want to sleep with him because of how fucked out he looked, but who knew maybe it was a hidden kink.

Peter texted back asking for an address, and Wade bless his soul had sent back an address just a block away. Peter trecked the block, his thin ripped clothing doing little to shelter him from the cool night air. The address led to a scarily fancy hotel. Peter didn't think they would let him in, at least not bloody and barely dressed. He texted Wade, "Don't think they'll let me in." And just after he hit send his phone started buzzing dramatically, a call. Peter answered, and Wade's voice on the other line was loud and bright as usual. "HIYA BABY BOY!!"

"Hey Wade," Peter tried his best not to sound as tired as he felt, but the boys tone wasn't lost on Wade.

"OkaY! So as you knoww... I LOVEEE MAKING A SCENE!! Soo... do me a favor and just walkk in through the fAncY ass double doors lIkE you PaYED TO BE THERE! I'll be waiting on the other side." With that Wade hung up, and Peter sighed with a small grin on his face, Wade was one of the only people who could make him smile. Peter jarred himself for whatever scene Wade was going to be making and moved towards the double doors.

It was lucky that the doorman had left for the night, so he was able to get through the doors at least. As soon as he got inside everyone in the lobby's heads turned immediately to him. The gold reflective material on the wall revealed to himself that he looked even worse than he had expected. The people at the reception desk were looking at him wide eyed, "Uhmm excuse me sir? But... do you have a reservation?"

Peter walked over to her, not ready for the scene which was at this point undoubtedly Wade showing up and making everyone look ridiculous when they tried to kick him out. "Yeah, no... I-"

"Okay, yeah well then you need to leave," the man at the counter said eyeing Peter like he was a nasty stain on his new car. At this point, the stain would have been more acceptable. Peter didn't move though and everyone in the lobby especially the old people sitting in the lounge looked extremely offended.

The man behind the counter moved around to stand intimidatingly next to Peter, and woman picked up the phone on the desk. "You need to leave before we call the cops." Peter smiled at the two of them, this would be funny. And right on que his knight in shining leather strolled out of the elevator. Peter couldn't help but burst into a brilliant smile, and Wade mirrored it under his mask.

"PETEY! BABYY!! YOU MADE IT!" Wade yelled throwing his arms up and moving towards Peter. Everyone in the lobby was looking at the ridiculous man in the red mask and the tux, and they didn't know what to do. The desk clerk who had come out from behind the counter straightened his collar, "You-a know this man?"

Wade turned to look at the guy in his green uniform vest, "Yes of course I do, don't you?" With that Wade strung his arm gently around Peter's shoulder, "He's the love of my life." With that Wade placed a soft masked kiss on the side of Peter's head, and by now everyone in the lobby was ready to pass out and the hotel's stock was plummeting. Peter was absolutely giddy with the looks they were getting, and he was just as petty, if not more than Wade. So Peter, knowing that Wade would never without asking first, turned in Wade's grasp and reached up turning Wade's head to face his own and kissed him where his mouth should've been. And then without missing a beat Peter turned back around to the desk clerk, "My boyfriend Wade always picks the nicest hotels doesn't he?"

And now the old people in the lounge were mentally passed out, and the desk clerks jaw had visibly dropped. Wade shrugged, threw a ben franklin on the desk and spun Peter around and walked him to the elevator, "Do me a favor and send up some Champagne!"

Once safely inside the closed elevator both men started laughing like idiots. "Oh mann BABY BOY THEIR FACES WERE BETTER THAN BOMBS!!"

Peter shook his head laughing, "Those old guys were really about to try and pour holy water on us!"

They laughed ridiculously all the way to Wade's room on the 69th floor. Which only made Peter laugh more, "You totally did that on purpose!" Wade looked at Peter, putting a hand on his chest and in mock offense, "Peter how could you doubt I wouldn't?!"

They made it all the way to Wade's room and Peter couldn't believe the sight. He had been to hotels with his Aunt years ago, but even then they were never like this. The room wasn't a room so much as it was a house. It had a living space, an office nook, a hallway and beyond. "Woah," Peter sighed as he stepped into the room, feeling completely in awe and out of place.

Wade smiled taking off his mask, "It's pretty nice isn't it."

"Yeahh," Peter breathed out, still amazed at the beauty of it all. Then Wade stepped closer to Peter and asked him to sit down. Peter hesitated, not wanting to ruin the perfectly nice couch. But Wade insisted, and Peter was likely to get paid so he did.

"Baby boy, what happened to you?" Wade kneeled down next to Peter, his eyes full of unadultered concern. Peter looked away, and suddenly he remembered how much his throat hurt, and he could feel all of the bad cuts and bruises, and suddenly he was tired enough to sleep for an eternity.

"Wade... I understand if you don't want me tonight. I know I look terrible, I'm sorry. I'll leave," Peter moved to get up, but Wade stood in his way. "Petey, you can leave if you want but not before I bandage you up."

"Wade... I can't, that's not your job." But Wade wasn't moving, and Peter was too tired to resist. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?! You never know maybe applying first aid is one of my kinks," Wade winked before he got up to go get the first-aid kit.

The first aid-kit wasn't a first kit at all, it was a heavy duty backpack stuffed to the brim with gauze and alcohol wipes, and suture equipment. Wade emptied all of the contents onto the coffee table. And then he went to the mini kitchen and brought back a warm damp towel. He carefully wiped Peter's face and then down his neck. Soon the towel was red and black and Wade tossed it into the trash, tearing open an alcohol wipe. "This might sting," he whispered as he gently wiped the open wounds on Peter's face. Wade worked that way for what seemed like hours that way. Gently cleaning Peter up, bandaging him in a way that only a medical professional could, and always asking before doing something, and continually explaining what he was doing and why. It was refreshing.

Once he was done, Peter felt about a thousand times better, and Wade sat back on his heels. "Do you know where I get my money from?"

Peter looked at Wade and cocked his eyebrow, "Well... you're a crazy psychotic mercenary, but I think military doctor might fit you a little better." Peter was only quoting the words of the man in front of him. He had described himself that way the first time they had met, months ago.

Wade smiled, "That's exactly right! CRAZY! PSYCHOTIC! FUCKED IN THE HEAD MERCC WITH A MOUTH!" Peter laughed, "I'll believe the merc part, and the mouth part, but not the rest. You're probably one of the sanest people I've met."

Wade let out a low whistle, "Baby boy I think you need to rethink who you're meeting." Peter shut his eyes and put his head in his hands, "Yeah, you're probably right." Wade put a hand on Peter's shoulder, "Yeahh, well being a mercenary and all I'd totally go pro bono for you."

That made Peter laugh, and Peter's laugh made Wade smile. "As lovely as that sounds, I think that's all the charity I can take from you for one night." Peter stood up to leave and Wade let him get all the way to the door before he was standing right before Peter. "Kiss me hard before you go!"

Peter laughed, "Lana would be proud." And he kissed Wade, sweetly, softly, perfectly. When they pulled apart Wade handed Peter a thick sweater and ten bens. Peter looked down at the money, "A kiss doesn't cost 1000 bucks Wade."

Wade kissed Peter's forehead, "You're right," he shoved another three hundred into Peter's hand, "GET HOME SAFE BABY BOY!" And he closed the door on Peter before he could argue.

Peter stood there shocked, staring at the red hoodie and the green cash, it was Christmas! Peter put the sweater on, it was warm and comfortable and it felt safe, and the cash was enough to keep Peter on his feet for a few days. He walked his bandaged, warm, rich ass home and fell asleep content and dreaming of Wade.

Wade had doned his mask again, and followed Peter home. He wanted to make sure that the man got home safely, and after Wade saw Peter collapse onto his bed, the single piece of furniture in his small apartment and fall asleep Wade walked back to the hotel and fell asleep a little upset and dreaming of Peter.

#spideypool #fanfic #black and blue #chapter fic #fanfiction #slackersunite #chapter 1 #black and blue 01

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crazyfreckledginger · 6 years ago

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The Outlaws x Reader x Deadpool - “Team Red” [Part 11]

Warning: a lot of description of sex for some reason.

“Jason?” The ginger asked.

“Hmm?” His serious expression feel back again as he lost sight of the girl and got his attention redirected to his colleagues.

"Are you sure this is just friends with benefit?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, it is, she just said-”

“For you, do you consider it friends with benefits? No strings attached?” Roy murmured, leaning closer to him as Wade stood up to go to the bathroom. Jason’s jaw clenched in thought before glancing at him and shrugging.

“Does it matter?” The raven-haired man bit his lip.

“Of course it does Jaybird, she won’t think more of this relationship than, well, this.” The ginger shook his head, patting his friend’s back, “I can tell you don’t consider her a fuck buddy.”

“Listen, Roy, I like what we have, if I may, I adore being able to come home and just, you know, put it in there. If she doesn’t want this to be anything more then I respect that,” He nodded. Roy chewed the inside of his cheek, sighing as he stood up.

“Okay buddy,”

*****

“This is boring,” The girl sighed, sipping from her cup. “Give it time, Roy is nearly finished with the job.” Jason nodded.

“Hell yeah, then we could go party to a strip club with the ladies,” Wade cheered, blowing a bubble of gum. Red Hood stole a glance at the girl and he was sure he saw her frown momentarily before looking away.

“We’ll see later,” Jason grumbled, staring at the screen inside the small van, “Roy, give us a visual.” he commanded.

“Coming right up,” The com responded as the screen suddenly lit up, “gotta tell you Jaybird, eye cams are really bad, we’ll need to find something else in the future because this is just so uncomfortable,” The ginger jumped over the rooftop, maintaining his balance and making sure he wouldn’t be seen despite the dimly lit sky.

“There Royboy, on your left,” Wade pointed at the screen as Arsenal’s cam froze on two sets of vans, two white ones with an unknown logo on them, and two black ones.

“Zoom in Wade,” Jason nodded, the merc shuffled closer to the screen as Red Hood and The Scarlet Witch leaned over to get a better look at the scene. Wade moved the joystick, zooming in on Roy’s camera.

“Scruffy looking dude and bald headed asshole, looks like our guys,” Deadpool commented sarcastically.

“Perfect, now stay hidden Roy,” The man did as he was told, crouching down and placing a small visor on the edge so he could witness the scene.

****

“Yeesh, how long before they are done talking?” Wade groaned, putting his feet up on the table and his hands behind his head.

“Well at least you’re sitting on a comfortable car seat in the warmth, I’m at the top of a building, laying on a dirty concrete floor where people may have done some questionable things in the cold night,” Roy complained.

“Both of you, stop,” Jason chuckled, shaking his head, finding himself sneak a glance once again at (Y/N). She was trouble, her mind had wondered someplace else. The girl wasn’t even facing their general direction. His head tilted back to his teammate.

“Wade,” He whispered, tapping his shoulder lightly, earning the merc’s full attention.

“Hmm?”

“Can you get out of the van for a second? I need to talk to (Y/N),” Jason whispered.

“If by talking you mean fucking then no, I don’t want to stand outside like a dumb fuck whilst the only sounds that could be heard are moans and the squeaks from the van is moving uncontrollably and-”

“No, Wade, I actually have to have a discussion with (Y/N), please?” He begged. The mutant groaned softly, jerking his hands up in the air in surrender.

“Fine, seven minutes, max, with all the fiddling the both of you have been having, I’ve heard y’all, I’m sure you can’t both finish in that time, you can’t be that good at it,” Wade pointed his finger at him. Jason smirked smugly, biting his lip.

“Well, I can’t speak for her but by the sounds of it, she thinks I’m really good!”

“Ew,” Wade shot off his chair and moved towards the door, sliding it open and jumping out.

“Where is he going?” The girl frowned, coming back to her senses.

“He’s uh, getting fresh air, can we talk?” Jason shifted closer to her. She nodded slowly.

“What’s been troubling you?” He pulled her closer.

“Nothing,” She mumbled.

“Babe, I’m serious,” His tilted her head to the side so she made eye contact with him. Beautiful blue eyes locked with her breathtaking (E/C) ones. They were so soft and comforting.

“I just, I feel we could be doing more about Francis you know? Like Wade and I, we know what those type of people are like -- even before Francis I knew because,” She trailed off, “my point is, he’s keeping people and using them as guinea pigs, we should be helping them as well. It’s not against Wade but we need to do more than just looking for a way to reverse his skin condition,” a sigh escaped her lips.

“Hey,” He rubbed her shoulder softly as she leaned into his chest, nuzzling his neck, “we’re going to do that when we finish with Wade alright?”

“You promise?”

“Of course doll, I promise you, as soon as we’re done, we’re going to kick Francis’ ass,” He kissed her forehead unconsciously.

“Okay,” she nodded softly.

“You guys are cute!” The intercom called out.

“ROY!!”

“Oh, look, they are on the move,” The ginger announced. Jason extended his arm to the door and knocked on it, Wade opened it and waltzed inside.

“Woo, finally a little action,” He celebrated, plopping down on the seat. All three of them stared at the screen as the visor showed the two sets of vans moving away from each other.

“Roy, stay in pursuit of the black vans, we’ll follow your tracker, keep us informed.”

“Roger that boss,” He teased.

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master-sass-blast · 6 years ago

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Found Family, Part Two --Neena.

HELLO.

Okay, this fic covers a LOT of ground. Like, it’s not long (not by my standards, because nothing is EVER going to seem long in comparison to Gatekeeper EVER AGAIN), but it jumps through a lot of fics I’ve already written.

Thus, I have a list (not in order of how it lines up in this fic) of links to the different fics I include different side scenes for or reference: Authority Issues, “Myshka,” Rubber Meets Road, and Decisions, Decisions.

Summary: an overview of your siblingship with your coolest big sister ever, Neena.

Rating: T for mention of injuries, mention of kidnapping, allusions to abuse, allusions to rape (like you can tell what they’re talking about but it’s not graphic/it doesn’t happen to you or Neena), and mild moments of angst.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Special thank you to @leo-writer for proof-reading this to make sure I wrote Neena right since I still haven’t seen either of the Deadpool movies sdhflksdjlsfjdls.

@marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie

You didn’t grow up with siblings. You’re pretty sure your parents only had you to fulfill the societal expectation of having children and creating a family. They definitely didn’t have any kids after your mutation presented –one “abomination” had been enough for them, fuck them very much.

You hadn’t realized just how deeply, desperately lonely you were until you escaped to the Institute, until you were surrounded by people every day and could talk to them, hang out with them, laugh with them.

And Wade’s a godsend, if God exists and has a really weird sense of humor. He’s a ball of chaos and has the best sense of humor. He sticks to your side like glue most days, and you don’t know what you’d do without him.

But Wade isn’t always around. And, despite his best efforts, he doesn’t manage to take care of all the things you need to learn.

Fortunately for you, you’ve got the coolest big sister to lend a hand whenever Wade’s off running a mission –or his mouth, as the case may be.

Neena “Domino” Thurman.

Neena is, without a doubt, the single coolest person you’ve ever met. She’s stylish. She walks with swagger. And, unlike Wade, she actually has her shit together.

You don’t get to see as much of her as you see of Wade; she has her own apartment and does work out side of the X-Force stuff, but she occasionally pops over to the X-Mansion to train with some of the people there or talk to Xavier.

Point stands: the two of you haven’t spent much time together. You’re usually running around with Wade anyway.

Until one morning, she pulls out the chair next to yours at the breakfast table and sits down next to you. “Do you have a bank account?”

You, unfortunately, are in the middle of horking down as many pancakes as you can in one sitting. You try to swallow the mass amount of mush in your mouth –and when it’s clear you won’t be able to do that without choking, you just shake your head.

“I didn’t think so.” She smiles and pats your arm. “I’m training with Logan today. Come find me when you’re done eating. I’ll help you get one set up.”

You blink after her as she walks away. You’re not exactly sure what just happened –or why it just happened—but you’re pretty certain that the coolest, most together person you know just offered to help you get your life in order.

Well. You’re definitely not gonna turn that down.

The two of you set up shop in the dining room when she’s done training. As fortune would have it –part of you is starting to wonder if Neena’s probability powers extend through time and space—you’d had the foresight to grab your birth certificate and social security card before running away from home. Add the laptop Wade bought for you, and you’re all set to make your own bank account; you don’t even need to leave the mansion –bonus!

Wade pops into the mix in the middle of it all. He’s resplendent in his suit, freshly back from a mission with Cable. He cocks his head to the side when he see your documents and laptop on the table. “What did I say about giving your information to Internet trolls!”

“Nothing. Ellie taught me about Internet safety, not you,” you fire back. “And I’m not!”

“I’m helping her set up a bank account,” Neena explains.

Wade goes quiet for a moment as he processes that. “Huh. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Hey, let me know when you’re done; I can give you some cash!”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Sure I do! What are siblings for? Besides, I don’t do my taxes, so this a good way to make sure that my dough gets distributed.” He ruffles your hair, then stares at his gloved hand. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. There’s so much blood on my suit.”

“Ew!” You wipe at your hair with your hands, then shove him away from you. “Go take a shower, you fucking cretin!”

“Ooh, ‘cretin!’ That’s a fancy insult! Very—” Whatever he’d been about to say next is abruptly cut off by a very tired, very pissed Cable grabbing him by the collar of his suit and yanking him back, effectively choking him.

“Shower, you walking, talking dildo,” Cable growls as he shoves Wade in the direction of the locker rooms used for clean up after training and mission.

“Ooh, is this the part where we shower together? Shit, I don’t think I have any lube on me –ow!”

Neena shakes her head as the two men disappear from view. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how Cable hasn’t killed Wade yet.”

“Who’s to say he hasn’t? It’s not like it’d stick.”

“Fair enough. Alright, click that box –that gets you a debit card. You’re gonna want that for shopping and stuff. Cash is good, and you’ll definitely want to stick with it if you have to go under for a bit, but plastic’s good for regular life stuff. Helps set up a paper trail and all that.”

You do as she instructs, then glance over at her. “Thanks for, uh, helping me with all this. I don’t think I would’ve ever considered to open my own bank account.”

The corner of her mouth turns up in a smile. “I had to figure this all out on my own after I left Essex House. Even if I’m lucky, I still wish that I’d had someone to help me with this shit.” She looks over at you. “Always pay it forward. Be the person to others you wish you’d had.”

You nod, humbled.

She studies you for a moment, then nods at the laptop. “Alright. Let’s get this wrapped up for you.”

You don’t see much of Neena after that. You’re busy training –and breaking shit with Wade—and she’s busy having her life together and being super cool—

Until you run into her in a hallway at Xavier’s. “Oh! Neena! Hi!”

She grins at you. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much.” You heft the laundry basket you’re holding. “Laundry day.”

She frowns at the small pile of clothes in the basket. “You don’t have much to your name, do you?”

“I kinda had to take whatever would fit in a backpack when I left,” you explain. “I can’t exactly fly with a suitcase.”

“Makes sense.” She cocks her head to the side. “Do you have any plans for today?”

“I mean… I need to put my clean laundry away.”

She smirks. “And after that?”

“Uh… not really, no.”

“Cool; me either.” She grins. “Let’s go shopping.”

She takes you out to a couple stores, helps you stock up on shirts and pants and pajamas and –everything you’d wear day in, day out, basically. You need just about everything.

The two of you swing by a coffee shop after to get a bite to eat.

You marvel at the stylish purple and blue exterior. “How’d you learn about this place?”

“Lucky find.”

You squint at her. “Do you ever get tired of saying stuff like that?”

She grins. “Nope.”

The two of you –and the hundred million bags from your excursion—bump into Colossus as you make your way back into the mansion.

“You had very busy day.” He frowns as you wrestle with your armload of bags. “Do you need help?”

“Uh, I think—” You curse as one of the handles on the bags breaks. “Yes, actually. That’d be great.”

He takes the majority of the bags –he’s got the hand size and arm strength for it—and the three of you head up to your room to get everything sorted.

You’re chattering a mile a minute about your day, what the stores were like, the coffee shop. “—and they have a trivia question of the day, and if you can answer it correctly you get a free pastry with your drink! I thought that kind of thing only happened in TV shows.”

“It’s pretty common,” Neena says with a chuckle. “If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have it in TV shows.”

You shrug. “It’s not common in the middle of nowhere.” Your jaw clenches involuntarily, and you start digging through your bags and tossing clothes on your bed before you’re swamped by bad memories. “Look! I got so much cool stuff!”

Colossus chuckles at the flurry of fabric. “Perhaps you should take tags off first.”

“Oh, yeah.” You try tugging the price tag off the shirt in your hand, then tug at it with your teeth when it doesn’t give.

“Myshka—”

“Hang on.” The tag breaks, and you spit it on the floor with a triumphant laugh. “See –aw, fuck. The little plastic thingy didn’t come out.”

Colossus smiles at you and shakes his head. “Wait one moment. I will get scissors.”

Neena smirks as he walks out the door, then gives you a look when his footsteps fade down the hall. “I’m pretty sure he likes you.”

You roll your eyes. “No. We’re just friends.”

“I know you like him,” she fires back.

“Well, that doesn’t mean he likes me,” you retort, ignoring the way your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. “So there.”

Neena shakes her head. “Whatever you say –but I’m usually right about these sorts of things.”

You quash the hope swelling in your chest and go back to unloading the bags from your shopping trip. It won’t happen. Don’t get your hopes up.

Your outings with Neena become a regular thing after that. She helps you fill out your closet, pushes you to apply for a library card, takes you to various shops around New York when you both have time.

She also becomes a bit of a confidant when you’re dealing with stuff you don’t want to talk to Wade about; he’s wonderful and hilarious and surprisingly wise, but Wade’s also unhinged and unstable. Cable –Nate—is aloof and just as lost in the present as you are.

And, sure, most of the X-Men come from unhappy pasts, but Neena just… gets it in a way that the X-Men don’t.

Sometimes, even, you think she gets some of it better than you do.

Case in point, when she walks into your room and drops a basic padlock, a set of real handcuffs, and a lock picking kit on your bed. “How was your day?”

“…Good.” You look at the stuff on your bed, then look at her. “What’s all that for?”

“I’m teaching you how to pick locks.”

“I can do that with my powers.”

She grimaces. “You won’t always have them.”

You shrug –she has a point after all. You open the kit and pick up the padlock, then stop and look up at her. “Won’t your presence affect my ability to do it? Like, make it easier?”

“Practice is practice,” she says simply, and that’s that. She shows you how to do it once, how to hold the tools properly, and then sits down on your desk chair while you have at it.

You work at the padlock with the lockpick, but you can’t help but notice the way Neena’s knee bounces up and down boot rubbing against the carpet with a soft scuffing sound.

You glance up at her after a moment, note the way her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s staring off at nothing. “You okay?”

She swallows visibly. “Job,” she offers after a moment, as if that explains everything.

And you guess it does, sort of. You’ve been around Wade and Nate after jobs have gone wrong. Wade’s always a little twitchier after, a little more homicidal; Nate doesn’t have many visible tics, but throws himself into work like the world depends on it.

Which, considering the jobs he does, maybe it does.

But this is the first time you ever seen Neena rattled.

It’s disconcerting.

“Didn’t go well?” you venture.

She shrugs. “Got paid.” She sighs when you put the lock and pick to stare at her –a clear sign that you want her to talk. “I was hired to rescue some rich millionaire’s daughter. The paycheck was good, he’s an environmental and queer rights activist, so I figured why not.” Her mouth tugs into a harsh grimace. “Didn’t make it in time.”

You stomach drops –and then you frown. “But… why would you get paid…”

She shakes her head. “Not that kind of ‘in time.’ The other kind.”

It takes you a second, and then— oh.

Oh.

No wonder she’s so rattled.

“It just… it reminded me of when your parents hired bounty hunters to get you back,” she admits wearily. “If Colossus hadn’t gotten there when he did…”

You shudder at the memory. “Yeah.”

She looks at you, finally. “You’re not always going to have your abilities to help you. The more tools you have under your belt, the better –whether they’re ‘ethical’ or not.”

You nod. You get it.

You start practicing on the padlock again.

Neena’s the one that teaches you how to drive after you crash a car with Wade, too.

She’s smirking at you when you when you walk into the garage at Xavier’s. “What, exactly, made you think that Wade fucking Wilson would be a good driving instructor?”

You scowl a little, even though you deserve it. “I wasn’t exactly thinking. At least, not about that.”

She laughs and nods for you to get into the driver’s seat.

She takes you out on back roads –and keeps you at the speed limit, unlike Wade.

You drive for a while, getting the feel of the vehicle, how to turn properly, how to avoid potholes.

Eventually, Neena speaks. “How are you and Pete doing?”

“Better,” you say as you steer the car around a curve. “It’s been a little tense for a couple days, but I think we’re alright.”

“Story is that the two of you had a pretty bad fight.”

You let out a huff. “Something like that, yeah.”

After an hour and a half, the two of you are back in the garage at the Institute.

Neena pulls out a bag of tools before you can make a break for the mansion. “We’re not done yet.”

You frown at the tool bag. “What are those for?”

She grins. “I’m teaching you how to hotwire a car.”

“Wow. Hold the fucking phone for a minute.” Neena stares at you while you work on picking the lock on the driver’s side door. “‘As much as I deserve having to deal with each escalation in your behavior the longer you refuse to deal with void left by your parents.’ He actually said that to you?”

You grimace, but nod. “He was mad at me.”

“No shit. Doesn’t make it right.” She leans against the hood of the car as she watches you work. “You’re staying with him after that?”

“That’s the plan.” You toss a quick glance her way. “You think I shouldn’t?”

She shrugs. “Hey, it’s your choice. Frankly, I’m a little more worried about his control issues than anything else.”

“Ah. That.” You chuckle a little. “Yeah, I’m good with that.”

“You sure?”

You nod after a moment of thought. “Piotr’s tendencies… it usually isn’t about shit like this. It’s about little stuff. It’s about how the fridge is organized, or his teaching schedules, or me eating enough vegetables. Stuff I don’t necessarily care about, stuff that doesn’t hurt me or anyone else.”

Neena nods in understanding. “And what happens if it turns into something worse? Something that does hurt you?”

“That’s a bridge I’ll have to cross if and when it happens,” you say with a shrug. The car door picks that moment to pop open, and you let out a whoop of victory. “Awesome!”

There’s the sound of footsteps outside, and then Piotr’s striding into the garage. He frowns when he sees you and Neena. “Myshka, what are you doing?”

“I’m teaching her how to hotwire a car,” Neena says amicably. Her expression sharpens when Piotr’s turns to exasperation –and suddenly you can see the well-trained mercenary and fighter that hides just underneath her skin—and she points a finger at him. “She’s already been kidnapped once. If it happens again, knowing how to hotwire a car is a skill that she will need.”

Piotr relents with a grimace, even if it’s just barely. “I came to tell you dinner is almost ready.”

“Alright. I’ll try to be done in about twenty.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Will you be staying, Neena?”

She smiles. “Sure.”

She stops by to visit you after Wade and Nate move out after the incident in Hell’s Kitchen.

You’re out on the back patio, enjoying the late afternoon sun and the warm weather –with that damn wheelchair nearby, because heaven forbid you try to go anywhere without it.

You’ve got new sympathy for Charles, that’s for sure.

There’s the familiar sound of Neena’s boots in the kitchen, and then she appears by your side -with a box of Poptarts in hand, bless her. “I bring gifts.”

You grab the box from her and tear it open; you rip open a package –strawberry flavored, one of your favorites—and shove half a pastry in your mouth with abandon and complete indifference to whatever judgement you might receive. “You’re my hero.”

She laughs as she sits down in the seat next to yours. “I figured Pete would be keeping you on a clean diet. Thought I’d hook you up.”

She’s dressed in a distressed, light wash denim jacket, a white tank top that has ‘i do it better’ written on it in pink lettering, green shorts patterned with four leaf clovers, her boots, and sunglasses.

She’s the coolest person you’ve ever seen, bar none.

“How’s your leg?” she asks as she swipes a packet of Poptarts for herself.

You let out an annoyed huff, partially at your injury, partially at the pastry theft. “Hurts, even with the meds. And I can’t do anything for myself –though Piotr does have to help me shower, so…”

She cackles when you let your voice trail off and waggle your eyebrows suggestively. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a sweetheart of a man who loves to get you off whenever you ask for it. We know. Rub it in, why don’t you.”

You mime rubbing soap on her arm, then let your hand drop back in your lap. The two of you giggle for a bit, amused with yourselves.

“What happened?” you ask after the laughter dies off completely. “After I was taken into the hospital. Why isn’t Piotr talking to Nate? I mean, I know they’re mad at each other…”

Neena chuckles darkly and clucks her tongue. “You know you almost died, right?”

“Yeah. Piotr said as much.”

She nods. “Just checking. Anyway, he—” She chuckles again. “He hauled off on Cable as soon as the medics took you into the hospital. I’m surprised he didn’t break his nose; he might’ve been armored down, but he swung hard.” She goes quiet for a minute, considering, then adds “I think that’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him.”

“He punched dad?” You almost can’t believe it. You know Piotr gets angry, but his version of aggression is usually verbal or emotional.

Well, he’s hauled off on Wade once or twice, but Wade is Wade.

You never thought he’d do it to anyone else.

“He was pissed with him,” Neena says evenly. “Blamed Cable for taking you into a mission you didn’t have enough training for.”

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Seriously?”

“Castle sided with him, too,” Neena says. “Said you were too green for the environment.”

And, well, they might be right on that, but punching people is not the answer, Piotr, for Christ’s sake.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re not a mercenary and usually don’t go against people with guns. That makes you green.”

You slump in your seat. “Fair enough.”

Neena pats your shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

The two of you sit in silence for a bit.

This is the one thing that Neena’s better at than Wade by miles. Wade doesn’t do silence; he always has to be doing something, always has to be saying something.

You get it; you used to be the same way. But since getting into therapy, Alyssa’s had you working on being more comfortable with quiet, with stillness.

Neena’s a good person to practice with, if nothing else.

Eventually, though, you bite the bullet and ask her the one thing you know Piotr won’t tell you. “How bad was it? When… when I…”

She squeezes your hand reassuringly –and then tells you the truth. “It was bad. You almost destroyed the dock.”

“I killed people.” It isn’t a question.

She nods. “All of the traffickers. A couple of the victims, too. There’s always collateral with this kind of stuff.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to keep that at the forefront of your mind.

You only partially succeed.

“You’re a powerhouse,” Neena says casually, like it would fit alongside ‘pass me a fork please’ or ‘put milk on the grocery list.’ “I didn’t realize how strong you were until I saw you at the docks.”

“You’ve seen me fight before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you cut loose. It’s impressive.”

“Just once, I’d like to ‘cut loose’ without losing it.”

“You’ll get there,” she says, squeezing your hand once more. “I know you will.”

“You can’t know that,” you argue.

“I’m not usually wrong about these sorts of things.” She grins at you. “I was right about Pete liking you.”

You roll your eyes. “Lucky guess.”

“Sometimes luck’s all you need.”

“I could definitely use some more,” you grumble.

“I think you’re doing pretty good, all things considered. Hell, you might even be luckier than me, given all the odds you’ve faced down.”

You huff at that. “I don’t randomly find fifty dollar bills on the sidewalk.”

“Different kinds of luck for different kinds of people,” she says with a smile.

And then Piotr comes out with some water and your next round of antibiotics and pain pills, and you can’t help but smile at the sight of him.

Yeah, you’re pretty lucky.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #neena thurman #domino #neena is the coolest person ever #she has swag #so much swag #deadpool fanfiction #x men fanfiction

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spidergwenstefani · 6 years ago

Text

Holy Dimensional Gateway, Batman! | 2/?

chapter 2 of this.

tw: a bad guy gets stabbed a little bit, and shot. Also some angsty-ish discussion of superhero sidekicks at the end but idk if that’s really a trigger

rated: T

The klaxon is still blaring, red lights flashing and a swarm of SHIELD scientists scrambling to assess the damage done to their base. Tony, for his part, is doing an astounding job of staring blankly at the newly rearranged portal and moving out of exactly nobody’s way.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at Steve. “Was it just me, or did the portal kind of fold in on itself when Barnes dove through it?”

“It did,” Steve says, his jaw set in the patriotic way that it does when he dissociates from reality. Behind him, one of the scientists gently unpins a shriveled vine from the wall, letting the arrow clatter to the floor.

“So,” Tony says, slowly. It’s not that he’s still processing what’s happened, it’s just that he’d prefer to delay saying it out loud for as long as possible. “Barnes, um. He might not be in the same place as Barton. Right?”

“Right.” The unflinching void of space has nothing on the empty expression Steve’s wearing right now.

“Maybe he’s, um. Not even in the same time. And. And, the portal rearranged itself again after he went through, so…” Steve hasn’t blinked for a while, and Tony’s starting to get a little nervous about the state of his remaining teammate as well.

“So.”

“So, well. So, fuck.”

“Fuck,” Steve echoes.

>>==========>

“I want you to know,” Bucky shouts over the roaring wind, “If any pictures of this get back to my universe, I will actually shoot you.”

Superman just laughs, continuing his scientifically impossible flight towards their undisclosed location. He has his arms hooked under Bucky’s armpits, and while Superman seems to be tiring not a bit, Bucky’s having a hell of a time not sliding out of his grip. He’s self-aware enough to know what an idiot he looks like. He feels like a toddler trying to splash his way through a kiddy pool with nothing but those dumb arm floaties on. If Clint were here, he’d probably make another stupid comparison to that one Angry Cat or whatever. Bucky considers, for all of two seconds, telling him about it once they find him.

“Not to throw a wrench in your plans or anything, but I’m kind of indestructible.”

“Nothing’s indestructible, buddy,” Bucky says, trying to pull himself up just a little, but really only managing to kick around like a petulant child. “And for a guy that claims to be, you’re kind of slow.”

“Well,” Superman says, his voice still pleasant and cheery, “if I was flying at full speed, your brain might actually liquify.” His grip suddenly becomes a hell of a lot tighter, and Bucky feels very much like a puppy that’s been grabbed by the scruff of the neck. “Also, I don’t entirely trust you. I certainly don’t trust you enough to just drop you off at a friend’s door without spending a little time getting to know you first.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, because Superman has a grip of steel and it actually kind of hurts. “Lunch date?”

There’s a sudden flash from the ground below, and Superman stops short as an ear-splitting boom makes its way to them.

“There’s a great diner in Star City.”

“You’re buying,” Bucky says. Or, tries to say, because suddenly Superman is barreling down through the clouds and it’s all Bucky can do not to pass out.

He’s never seen Star City on a normal day, but he assumes there’s usually less general carnage and debris. Shards of shrapnel litter the section of highway Superman touches down on, and a lot of the piles of junk are still smoking from the recent explosion.

“How nice of you to join us,” someone says with a sinister sneer, and Bucky turns to find himself directly in the middle of a stand-off.

On one side of the highway, there’s a guy in a blue and orange body suit, the eyes of his mask and the sword strapped to his back pinging something familiar in Bucky’s head. He’s got some kind of tricked out semi-automatic in his hands and seems ready to shoot right through Bucky to get to the other guy.

The other guy, who’s got a bow and arrow, drawn and ready.

It’s not Clint. Bucky knows in an instant it’s not Clint. This guy is wearing green, a hood and domino mask helping to obscure his face. Even past the costume, his stance is different. When Clint draws his bow, he’s a study in serenity. Bucky knows for a fact his bow of preference has got a draw weight of two hundred and fifty pounds, but the strain doesn’t show. When Clint’s got a target in his sights, he might as well be made of stone. Nothing can touch him when he’s got an arrow at the ready, and the set of his shoulders says he knows it.

This guy? This guy looks almost feral, like a tiger ready to pounce. He’s on the attack and defense all at once, and maybe his form matches Clint’s in any technical measurement, but where Hawkeye is all tranquility, all patient tension, this guy is carefully channeled rage.

Superman is gone.

Bucky was so caught up in taking in the scene that he almost didn’t realize the big blue guy dropped down in the middle of the standoff and disappeared before anyone could blink. He catches sight of a blue blur on the edges of the battlefield, pulling back any civilians that haven’t already made a run for it, dousing fires that are spreading dangerously close to abandoned vehicles. Bucky wishes Superman could’ve at least pointed out the bad guy before fucking right off, because now he’s stuck between bizarro-world versions of Hawkeye and Deadpool with no background information whatsoever.

“Look, Robocop. Either make a move or get out of the way,” Robin Hood says, and Bucky hopes he hasn’t ended up in a universe where Tony Stark is blond and has even worse facial hair.

“Even a fancy arm like that won’t do much to stop a bullet,” Not-Deadpool says, which makes Bucky’s mouth quirk up just a bit.

“I’m trying,” he says, raising his arms slowly in a hopefully multiversal gesture, “to figure out exactly whose side I should be on here.” Nobody relaxes, but Robin Hood at least makes a short sort of snort.

“Well, I am Green Arrow, Hero and Protector of Star City. If you can’t pick between that and ‘Deathstroke the Terminator,’ I’m not sure I want you on my side anyway.”

Bucky turns to Deathstroke then, doing his best not to expose any weak points to either of them. “Deathstroke” is no “Deadpool,” but he figures it’s close enough to stake a guess on.

“You got a counterpoint, Wilson?”

Deathstroke doesn’t falter, doesn’t fumble with his gun or relax his stance, but the last name catches him by surprise, and Bucky only needs a split second of hesitation to draw his weapon. The bullet goes clean through Deathstroke’s shoulder, hitting at the same time as an arrow latches onto his gun, blowing the thing to pieces with the force of a small grenade.

Whatever knockoff brand Deadpool this guy is, not knowing when to quit seems to be Wade Wilson’s universal constant. He draws his sword, charging at Bucky with a speed that’s definitely enhanced. Bucky blocks the blow with his left arm, and the clashing metals send a supernatural clang through the air like a shock wave.

“What-” Deathstroke starts to say, and Bucky goes straight for the Ka-Bar on his belt. He aims a stab at Deathstroke’s side, but whatever’s in the guy’s body armor makes the blade glance off harmlessly. Deathstroke tries again with the sword, aiming a slash at Bucky’s thigh that he just barely dodges.

“Well,” Bucky hears Green Arrow shout from the sidelines, “I’m not gonna lie. I’m a little turned on right now.”

“There’s room for a third,” Bucky says through gritted teeth, ducking as Deathstroke gets a solid swing. His blade sings as it cuts through the air, and Bucky doesn’t want to know what kind of vibranium clusterfuck of an alloy the thing is made of. He drops lower, trying to knock Deathstroke off his feet by sweeping his legs, but he just sidesteps like telegraphing his movements is ever a thing Bucky’s been accused of.

Three arrows go whistling past Bucky’s head in rapid succession, but only one manages to nick Deathstroke’s shoulder, more of a papercut than anything else. It’s not for lack of trying. Green Arrow’s aim is true, but Deathstroke seems to dodge the arrows before they’re even loosed.

“Nice try, Emerald Archer,” Deathstroke sneers, and his next swing actually scrapes against Bucky’s arm before glancing off, the reverb sounding like some hellish version of nails on a chalkboard. “I know where those arrows will be before you do.”

Huh. That changes things. Bucky was thinking telepathy, but if this guy is just using some limited form of precognition, that’s something Bucky can work with.

“What about this knife?” Bucky says, just to draw Deathstroke’s attention back to him. He leads with the Ka-Bar in his right hand, swinging for the face. Deathstroke dodges easily, and if Bucky had to pick a counter move, he’d go for a sucker punch. He ducks before Deathstroke can even finish drawing back his fist, activating the retractable knife in his left arm and slicing at Deathstroke’s thigh. The body armor is lighter in his legs, and the knife cuts deep. Deathstroke lets out a shout, stumbling back. His rhythm is thrown enough for Green Arrow to let loose another explosive arrow, and the impact sends Bucky skidding back on the asphalt.

Deathstroke is gone when the smoke clears, which is a shame because Bucky was just getting into having a worthy opponent. He hears Green Arrow swear behind him, like that’s the end of that, and Bucky hasn’t taken half a step toward the vacant side of the highway before Superman is suddenly blocking his path. He’s radiating ‘disappointed mom’ in waves and the fact that his feet aren’t touching the ground does nothing to tone down the intimidation as he towers over Bucky.

“Well,” he says, squinting down at Bucky and pressing his lips into a flat line. “I’d be interested in knowing how someone from another universe knows the identity of one of our world’s deadliest mercenaries.”

He should probably be shitting his pants right now. Bucky’s getting the sense that Superman isn’t quite human, and beyond faster-than-light speed and a seemingly unlimited amount of strength, he’s still not sure what Superman meant when he called himself “indestructible”. Unfortunately, his intimidation technique seems more based on scolding than actual threats, and Bucky Barnes had to face down Captain America’s “disappointed in you” talk back when he was a teenager.

“There’s a Wade Wilson in my universe too,” he says, not even trying to act nervous. “The codename and the costume aren’t exactly the same, but I only needed him to let his guard down for a second.”

“Well, good work,” Green Arrow chimes in, and Bucky turns to see him counting the arrows left in his quiver. Apparently being escorted by Superman is enough of a character reference in this universe, because Green Arrow’s bow is strapped to his back instead of held at the ready. “Slade Wilson doesn’t let his guard down for almost anything.”

“Huh. That makes a couple more differences between him and the guy I know.”

“I’d like to hear more about the differences in your universe,” Superman says, a note of suspicion still in his voice. “I believe we had plans for lunch?”

“Cheeseburgers are on me,” Green Arrow says.

>>==========>

Batman, it turns out, is a lot more friendly when you’re on the same side.

Well, friendly is relative, but Clint thinks the provided Advil and glass of water have to count for something. He perches on the ledge next to Batman’s ominously gigantic supercomputer and wonders what it says about his life that the Venn diagram of people who have tied him up for interrogation and people who he considers his closest allies has a lot of overlap.

“Start talking,” Batman orders, his eerily pointed gloves clacking against the keyboard. “I want to know exactly how much our universes match up.” He pauses, turning towards him, and Clint gets the sense that he’s being scanned through the opaque eyeholes of the mask. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Oliver Queen, would it?”

“Nope,” Clint says, rubbing absentmindedly at his still sore wrist. “Try Barton, Clinton Francis.”

One quick search later and the computer yields no matches, which puts Clint more at ease than Batman. It’s nice to know there’s not another one of himself running around in this dreary universe, but Batman doesn’t seem quite satisfied.

“You don’t know who I am, but you aren’t phased by the cape and the mask,” he rumbles. Batman’s toned down the demon voice to a low growl, but he’s still got a hoarseness that could rival Wolverine. “You’ve seen plenty of our kind before. Who are the heroes of your universe?”

“Well,” Clint says, weighing his options for all of two seconds. Batman still gives him some major heebie-jeebies, and rattling off intel on his teammates might not be the best tactical move, but he needs to earn some trust here, not to mention his Earth has dealt with way worse threats than some guy in a bat suit that spends his nights beating up old-timey gangsters. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”

Batman leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Clint gets the sense that there’s one raised eyebrow behind his cowl.

“You mean you don’t have good guys? Sworn protectors of the common people?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Clint huffs, because it kinda seems like the guy that lives in a Doctor Doom lair and dresses like a vampire on super serum is accusing his world of too much moral ambiguity. “There’s all the Avengers, obviously. Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, Black Widow. Our roster isn’t really set in stone, you know? And there’s the Young Avengers, the Defenders, the Guardians, the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, A-Force, the Howling Commandos, New Warriors, the Thunderbolts, uh, sometimes. Alpha Flight, if we’re counting Canada. Then there’s-”

“That’s enough,” Batman says, which is probably good because Clint hasn’t even gotten to the spin-offs yet. “No Justice League, then?” Clint snorts.

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“The Avengers?” Batman says flatly. “The Defenders?”

“Well it’s not the Vengeance Guild, is it? It’s not the Group of People Who Defend Things.” There’s a muscle twitching in Batman’s jaw, and Clint remembers a little belatedly that he’s not exactly a welcome guest. “So, um. No overlap, I’m guessing?”

“Not with the names you gave,” Batman says. He pauses, and his next words come out more cautious. “You’ve never met Superman, then? Or Wonder Woman?”

Clint tries really, really hard not to smile, because what is with this universe and names? Something must show on his face, though, because Batman sighs wearily.

“‘Captain America’ and ‘Iron Man’ aren’t better.”

“Yeah, I bet Superman’s name is a holdover from the World War II propaganda machine, and Wonder Woman is just a big fan of Black Sabbath.”

“You haven’t given me your name,” Batman says, more gravel edging into his voice. “What is it, Purple Arrow?”

“That’s just lazy,” Clint says, hopping down from his perch so he can puff out his chest properly. “No, you’re in the presence of Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye. The world’s greatest marksman. The people’s avenger. The greatest sharpshooter known to man. The-”

“The public knows your identity?”

Clint deflates a little, because he was really just getting warmed up. Batman’s not the most expressive of people, but Clint’s spent enough time around super spies to notice the genuine surprise under his growl.

“Sure.” He gives Batman a one-shouldered shrug. “The public knows the identities of a lot of heroes. Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner… I guess Spider-Man keeps his a secret. I’ve got absolutely no clue who that kid is.”

“You aren’t worried about what villains might do?”

“Not really,” Clint shrugs again. “Secret identities are hard to maintain, and it’s not like I can’t handle myself if a villain shows up in my apartment.”

“What about your family? What if they go after them?” Batman sounds almost accusatory, like he’s been looking for something evil about Clint through the whole conversation and just found it. Clint kind of flails for a moment, and it takes a second for him to realize why the question is so odd to him.

“I don’t- The Avengers are my family. Or, the closest thing I’ve got. If someone tries going after any one of them, well. It wouldn’t work out too well. I’m pretty much as weak as the links get on that team.”

Batman steeples his fingers together like he’s a villain in a Bond movie. The wash of cold blue light from his giant computer screen doesn’t help soften the image. Clint tries not to fidget under his stare, feeling a little like a bug pinned up on a wall.

A moment passes, maybe two, and suddenly something in Batman’s posture shifts. He doesn’t relax exactly, but Clint gets the sense that a judgment has been passed. Something’s been decided.

“It’s almost dawn,” Batman says, and suddenly his voice sounds a hell of a lot more like a normal human being. “You should eat, and rest. We’ll get you back home as soon as we can.”

>>==========>

As it turns out, Batman’s enormous hell cavern is just the basement to a sprawling, gilded mansion.

Batman doesn’t say anything on the way up, and they both pretend not to notice when Clint almost passes out as the elevator shoots upwards. The mansion is still dark, still ominous as fuck, but the shadows thrown around Batman aren’t as terrifying when he’s surrounded by polished hardwood and plush carpets.

Batman leaves Clint in an expansive kitchen without a word, so Clint prays that at least the coffee in this universe is the same, and sets to figuring out the entirely too complex machine on the marble countertop. It’s a mess of buttons and light up touch displays, and Clint’s headache is coming back full force.

“Jarvis?” He calls, just in case. “Friday? Any fancy computer butlers around that can tell me how to work this thing?”

“Tragically, no.” Clint nearly jumps out of his skin at the very human voice, whirling around to see a man standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Uh, Batman?” He’s not the right build, but that’s something that a well-built suit can always remedy. The voice, though. That accent is all wrong.

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.” The man reaches out, and Clint gets about halfway through figuring out how to weaponize a Keurig cup before he realizes the guy is just turning on the light switch. Light floods the kitchen, rudely reminding Clint of his recent head trauma, and he nearly laughs because it hadn’t even occurred to him that Batman’s house would have light switches.

The man crosses the room to the coffee machine as Clint continues to blink the black spots out of his eyes. The machine gurgles to life, and Clint has to keep himself from hugging what he’s now realized is a much older man.

“Hi,” he says when he notices the room has lapsed into silence. “I’m Clint.”

“Alfred Pennyworth,” the man says, starting to pull cups and plates down from the cabinets. “Master Bruce will return shortly, and then I’m afraid you’ll have to meet the rest of the Waynes as well.” He offers Clint a smile over his shoulder. “I hope waffles are acceptable.”

Clint opens his mouth to say that yes, waffles are acceptable, in any universe, probably, but he’s cut off by another person entering the kitchen.

“Spare him the grand tour, Alfred. Our friend here needs food and then rest. Possibly with medical attention in between.”

The man is dressed in a robe and house shoes, like some kind of millionaire heir from the fifties. With the dark, slicked-back hair and classically handsome face, all he’s missing is the cigarette and three future centerfolds hanging off his arms.

“Um,” Clint says. “Batman?” If he asks every guy roaming the mansion halls, eventually he’ll get it right. Right?

“You can call me Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He’s almost effortlessly charming, all dazzling smiles and sweeping gestures, but Clint didn’t spend the better half of his life among criminals and spies not to notice the way Bruce pauses for a split second to scan his face, checking for a reaction at the name.

“Nice place you’ve got, Bruce,” Clint says. The coffee machine beeps and Alfred hands him a freshly steaming mug. “Excellent butler. Basement could use some work, though.” He blows on his mug, watching the steam swirl outwards. Just the smell of coffee is already easing his headache. “Is it just the two of you?”

Alfred gives an amused sort of hum as he sets about making breakfast. Bruce’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Well-”

“I missed this,” another voice announces, because apparently dramatic entrances are a necessity for living in a mansion. Clint makes a mental note to go easier on Tony next time he requires fanfare for walking into a room. “Good coffee, Alfred’s breakfast.” The newcomer is dazzling in an entirely different way than Bruce, and Clint takes an uncomfortably hot gulp of coffee to hide his blush when bright blue eyes meet his. “Bruce picking up strays.”

“This is Clint,” Bruce explains, settling down at the kitchen island and opening a newspaper. Clint’s not sure if the paper was on the countertop, or if it just came with the outfit. It doesn’t matter, because startlingly attractive mini-Bruce is now offering Clint a hand to shake.

“Dick,” he says, and it’s not the bluntest offer Clint’s ever gotten, but it’s up there.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “What?”

“My name is Dick Grayson,” Dick Grayson says, his friendly expression turning a little concerned. “How hard did he hit you?”

“Who?”

“Bruce. You took a hit, right? Are you okay?” There’s a lot of concern there now. Concerned is a good look for Dick Grayson. He’s got the same blue eyes and jet black hair as Bruce, but Bruce doesn’t make them look nearly as pretty. Maybe if he grew his hair out more. Dick Grayson’s has the kind of hair made for shampoo commercials. It looks almost as soft as Bucky’s does.

Clint realizes with a start that he’s still clasping Dick’s hand, and drops it awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he says, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry. I’m- maybe about to pass out.”

>>==========>

“It’s too early in the morning for cheeseburgers,” Bucky says, glaring down at the diner menu. He’s glad Clint doesn’t have to hear him say it, although if getting in an argument over In-N-Out as breakfast food is the trade-off for knowing Clint is safe, he’d take the heat in an instant.

“In your universe, maybe,” Green Arrow says. He’s still in costume, as is Superman, and their waitress seems to be having a hard time dealing with that. She has to use both hands to steady her coffee pot while Superman beams at her. “What, you have somewhere better to be?”

“Yes, actually,” Bucky growls. Superman seems to be stalling on his promise to take Bucky to his ‘friend.’ Stopping a firefight on the highway is one thing, but Bucky’s pretty sure “cheeseburger breakfast” isn’t a solid excuse in any universe.

“Bucky’s looking for a friend of his,” Superman explains. “A guy that got pulled through a wormhole by some sentient vines.”

“Ah,” Green Arrow says, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He gives their waitress an appreciative wink as she moves on to the next table. “Bats.”

“And associates,” Superman says, and Bucky wonders if glaring at them harder will make his vigilante acquaintances any more coherent. Instead, Green Arrow just knocks their shoulders together.

“Aw, look. He’s pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” Bucky says, but his voice sounds pissy even to him. He grits his teeth as Green Arrow knocks their shoulders together again. “I’d just like to find my teammate as quickly as possible, and I don’t see how cheeseburgers will accomplish this.”

“If your teammate is half as good in a fight as you are, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky says. He’s seen Clint MacGyver a semi-functional bow and arrow out of paperclips and pocket lint when faced with the alternative of actually paying attention in a debrief. He’s pretty sure Clint would find a way to survive in the vacuum of space with just the clothes on his back if he had to. It still doesn’t change the nerves that have been buzzing in his stomach ever since he watched Clint tumble into the black void. “I’d still prefer it if I could see him for myself.”

“Two’s a couple,” Superman says. Bucky blinks, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

“What?”

“Two’s a couple, not a team. How many more ‘teammates’ do you have?”

Oh.

“Two on the other side of the portal. More could get called in, I guess.”

“But just you went through after him?”

“It was a tactical decision,” Bucky snaps. He’s not sure why he feels so defensive. He’d probably be asking the same questions if the roles were reversed, and not nearly as politely.

“I think it was a good call,” Green Arrow interrupts, not even being subtle about defusing the situation. “You got me out of a pickle, anyways.”

“I’ve faced worse than Deathstroke in my sleep,” Bucky says, still more aggressive than he should be towards his gracious interdimensional hosts. Green Arrow opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a loud tap on the diner window.

There’s a girl standing outside, knocking impatiently on the glass. She has loose blonde hair and an outfit that looks like the skimpy Halloween store version of Superman’s onesie. Bucky would peg her for a fangirl, but Superman just raises an eyebrow at her through the glass.

“Kara?” he says, at a normal volume.

“You aren’t busy, are you?” The fact that there’s an external wall between her and Superman doesn’t seem to be bothering Kara at all. Bucky can just make out her voice through the glass, but the way Green Arrow is rolling his eyes tells Bucky he’s not in the enhanced hearing club. “There’s trouble on Stryker’s Island.”

“Luthor?” Superman asks. Kara shakes her head.

“Not exactly. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Wait,” Bucky says, because he’s not wasting any more time on his mission. Especially not alone with Green Arrow. “What about finding Clint?” Superman looks apologetic, and Bucky’s stomach drops.

“I can take him,” Green Arrow says, and if the stakes were any lower, Bucky would just resign himself to a couple more hours sitting right here in the diner. “I’ll call in the gang. I haven’t been to Gotham in a while.”

“Great!” Superman says, clapping his hands together like that settles it. Bucky buries his face in his hands.

“We can take the Arrowcar!” Green Arrow says, and Bucky spreads his fingers apart enough to glare at Superman.

“I want you to know that you’ve made an interdimensional enemy today.”

>>==========>

Clint wakes up in a bed.

It’s a very comfy bed, and he almost considers rolling over and going right back to sleep. Something’s nagging at the back of his brain, though, telling him there are things that need doing and the bed must be left to do them.

He cracks his eyes open, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. There’s a girl sitting on the end of his bed, crouched like a cat. Or a gargoyle.

“Hi,” Clint croaks. His voice sounds like sandpaper, and he wonders how long he’s been out. She tilts her head, short black hair falling in front of her eyes. She doesn’t seem to blink quite enough for a normal human being, and Clint squirms a little under her gaze. Is she a ghost? Batman seems like the kind of guy who would live in a haunted mansion.

“You haven’t missed waffles yet,” she says finally, and Clint’s stomach growls as if on command. There’s something a little odd about the way the girl speaks. It’s not an accent Clint’s ever heard. He’s actually not sure if it’s an accent at all. Clint realizes that whoever brought him to the bed didn’t take out his aids. His ears feel a little gummy from sleeping with them in, but he’ll be damned if he takes his aids out when there are undead spirits on the loose.

The girl gets up, apparently done with the conversation, and heads for the door. Clint allows himself a groan as he rolls out of bed. His head is pounding, but there’s an unfinished cup of coffee in the kitchen with his name on it, and a minor concussion has never come between him and his caffeine before.

The girl drifts through the halls, not bothering to check if Clint is following or not. She probably hears him plodding along behind her, anyway. The place is about as creaky as an old haunted mansion should be, and each squeaky floorboard Clint steps on makes her silent glide all the more impressive. Either that, or it just further supports his hypothesis that she’s actually a phantom.

The mansion is kind of enormous, even now that morning light is creeping through the blinds and banishing whatever lurks in the shadows. Clint never quite got the difference between old money and new. To him, a big fancy house was a big fancy house, nevermind what Tony or Kate said. Now, though, stepping across carpet that seems like it belongs in a museum and eyeing floor-to-ceiling portraits that might actually predate the fall of Rome, Clint thinks he’s starting to get it. Bruce’s mansion feels like a different world, made for the dinner parties of elite secret societies, and full of rooms where men in tuxedos puff cigars in wealthy silence. This is not the lodgings of an ex-carnie thief with a shaky grasp on the timeline of the Roman Empire.

“When do we get to the family crypt?” Clint asks, because if the basement of the manor is just a neverending cavern, he shudders to imagine where Batman’s ancestors have been laid to rest. The phantom doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even turn around. “Are you going to kill me? Where are we going?” Still no answer. They pass another gilded frame, and Clint almost reaches out to run his hands over the placard before thinking better of it. That’s how you turn your peaceful ghost guide into a poltergeist. Clint wishes the carpet was dustier so he could check if she’s leaving footprints.

Ghost or not, their final destination turns out to be the kitchen. Clint can smell waffles and bacon from the other end of the hallway, and he hears voices as they get closer.

Bruce and Dick are still seated, chatting amiably as Alfred works the waffle iron. Clint’s coffee is gone, but Alfred places a fresh mug in front of him as soon as he settles down at the kitchen island. He nods his thanks, taking a sip as Bruce turns to him.

“Feeling better?”

Clint hums an affirmative. It’s not the first time he’s blacked out mid-conversation, and it sure as fuck won’t be the last.

“How long was I out?”

“Only a couple hours,” Dick says. “Alfred decided to turn breakfast into brunch so you wouldn’t miss out.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s been a long night.” Dick nods, offering Clint a look of sympathy.

“That’s sort of how we operate.”

As if on cue, a teenage boy looking approximately like death stumbles into the kitchen, shuffling immediately towards the coffee machine. Dick blinks at him, like this is a surprise, although both Alfred and Bruce pointedly continue on with their mornings.

“Why are you here?” Dick asks, and the kid spends about a minute stabbing his finger ineffectually at the coffee machine’s touch display before he mumbles out an answer.

“‘M’not,” he says, but only once Alfred has come to his aid and gotten the machine going again. “I’m at Travis Lee’s house. Working on a class project.”

“Oh really?” Dick’s voice is all amusement.

“As far as any commercial phone tracking software can tell,” the kid says, like that’s a normal sentence people can string together while looking like a sleep-deprived zombie. He finally cracks his eyes open long enough to acknowledge Clint’s presence. “Who are you?”

“Clint,” Clint says. He doubts the guy is in any state to handle the full story right now. “Are you guys all… cousins?” He can’t really work the age differences out in his head, but the kid has the same black hair and blue eyes as Bruce and Dick. Bruce and Dick, who both chuckle at the question like it’s a ridiculous idea.

“You should take that as a compliment, Tim,” Dick says, and Tim ignores him in favor of inhaling the scent of coffee wafting from his new cup. “No,” he turns to Clint then, still looking entertained by the concept. “We’re definitely not related.”

“Oh,” Clint says, because that doesn’t sound right. He wonders if everyone in this universe just looks vaguely similar. He tries to remember if any of the gangsters were blond. Is he just a freak of nature here? Should he dye his hair to fit the noir color scheme?

“When’s Steph coming down?” Tim asks. He’s downed half his mug of coffee and looks marginally more alive.

“Steph’s here?” Dick asks, and Clint has to wonder what life must be like living in a house so big you can miss your own family members. Or, whatever these guys are. Tim shrugs.

“Alfred’s making waffles, so I figured. He only does that when Steph’s here.”

“Alfred can make waffles for lots of reasons. He could be making them because I’m here.” There’s a note of hurt in Dick’s voice.

“Nah,” Tim says.

“These are waffles for Steph,” Ghost girl confirms. She’s perched on the counter next to Alfred, sneaking pieces of food every time his back is turned. Tim aims a nod of acknowledgment at her.

“Cass gets it. Steph is his new favorite child, right Alfred?”

“The identity of my favorite child is between me and Miss Stephanie,” Alfred says, and if this isn’t sibling banter, Clint’s really not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I knew it!” someone shouts from the doorway, and Clint turns to watch dramatic entrance number four make her way into the kitchen. Steph is considerably brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than her non-siblings, and Clint notes with relief that she is very blonde.

“Batman,” Clint stage whispers as Alfred starts to serve breakfast. “Why are there so many children in your house?” Cass follows Alfred dutifully, her arms stacked high with plates that she has no qualms stealing from. Clint carefully relieves her of an untouched stack of waffles.

“Careful,” Bruce answers, winking conspiratorially. “These children could beat you in a fight on your best day.” Clint snorts.

“Doubtful.” Something about Bruce’s words catches in Clint’s head. “Wait,” He says as a thought clicks into place. “Do these children fight crime?” Bruce blinks at him.

“We’re not children,” Steph says defensively. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’re all of legal drinking age. You want more syrup for your waffles?” he pushes the syrup towards her plate. Steph glares at him but picks up the bottle anyways.

“I do want more syrup for my waffles, but that doesn’t mean you have a valid point.”

“They’re skilled fighters, and they understand the risks of the job,” Bruce says, staring at Clint. There’s a heavy finality to his words, like that should be the end of the conversation.

“They’re children.”

“They’re still in the room,” Tim adds, stealing a bite of Steph’s waffles. Cass is staring at Clint in her solemn, unblinking way, so he turns to her instead.

“Okay, you understand the risks, then. Sure. What are the risks?”

“Death,” Cass says simply, which, yeah.

“We all face risks, Clint,” Bruce says. “What do you do with the younger people that want to follow in your footsteps? Turn them away? Ground them? Kids are stubborn. You can’t talk them down from something unless they let you. They’ll always fight their own battles. You might as well give them the tools to win.”

“Nobody wins in a war that children have to fight,” Clint says, and he’s outnumbered here but something about the condescension in Bruce’s voice has set his blood boiling. “You risk a lot worse than just death.”

“The world’s falling apart,” Tim chimes in again. “Kids live in it too. Why should adults be the only ones allowed to save it?”

“Because kids are who we’re saving it for,” Clint says, and he knows it’s a losing battle. “Knowing the risks is nothing next to experiencing them.”

“There are no younger sidekicks in your universe?” Batman asks. “No protégés? No trainees?”

“Not ones that are children. Or, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Not a single one?”

“There was one, sure,” Clint spits out. Bruce waves his hand, like his point is proven. End of discussion, but Clint’s not going to leave it at that. “I said was. Bucky Barnes, heroic teen sidekick to Captain America himself. They fought side by side through World War II. Led us to victory and everything.”

“And I’m sure the death of one soldier didn’t outweigh the people he saved.”

“Oh, I never said he died.” There’s an uncomfortable hush falling over the room, but Clint plows right through it. “He was blown up, kidnapped, tortured, mind-controlled. Forced to kill for the side he always fought against. They stripped him down to nothing, kept him on ice in between missions so he couldn’t rebuild his humanity in the downtime. He spent seventy years as a puppet. He was a trained dog they sicced on anyone they wanted. We only got him back when they made the mistake of sending him to kill Captain America himself. If there’s one hill Steve Rogers will die on, it’s that no single person should have to be sacrificed for the good of everyone else.” There’s actually a lot of hills Steve Rogers will die on. Clint could name a whole mountain range after Steve Rogers’ opinions, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that. “If kids fight so often in this universe, I’m sure they die often, too. You’re telling me there’s not a single one you would save if you could? You can’t think of one kid who you would’ve turned away if you knew what their fate would be?”

Clint can feel it when he strikes a nerve, the air in the kitchen turning like a flash freeze. Tim suddenly looks wide awake, and Bruce’s jaw is set. Dick looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Clint feels his words hanging heavy in the air, and suddenly the waffles don’t seem worth finishing.

“I’m, uh. I’m going to get some air.”

#winterhawk #buckyclint #my fics #Rated: T #this is just the chapter where i love all the robins #i wanted to put jason in here #i think hell show up later though

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herroyalhighnessqueenmomo · 6 years ago

Text

Comic Strip (Peter Parker x Reader) Pt.1

Summary: You live in the real world as a journalist in New York. On the side, you'd love to be an actress but you've been struggling. You live with your best friend. One day you were in trouble and was all of a sudden saved by Spiderman. You think its just a guy in a costume but it's actually him. You end up having to go on an adventure of a lifetime to an alternate universe where comics actually exist.

Your alarm woke you up. You groaned getting up. You turned it off and went to the bathroom. You did the routine of using the bathroom and brushing your teeth. As soon as you finished you got dressed. You wore a white button down shirt, black dress pants, a black blazer, and black flats for now. Heels usually hurt your feet a lot so you only put them on when you got to work. You were currently a web intern at a magazine company. That meant you always had to look your best to impress. It was a very difficult job if you couldn't keep up. After your internship your goal was to become a print journalist. This meant you'd be writing a lot of articles and giving interviews. Being an unpaid intern is very difficult in New York while you were in college. Luckily your best friend was helping to support you. Both of you went to NYU. She was offered a side job in modeling that paid her well. Whenever she could she'd help you with anything you were behind on in your classes.

So far the both of you were pretty successful but you had to admit you lived a very stressful life with little to no time to relax.

You soon finished your nude glam makeup look. Afterwards you put on your accessories. You hated going out without proper accessories. You even had a motto. 'Accesorize or the outfit dies.' You soon exited your room and smelled coffee. You went to the kitchen to see your best friend Maia serve you some coffee in your traveling mug.

"Thanks." You said as you put creamer and sugar substitute. You stirred the mix with a spoon. Once you finished you put the cap on.

Maia then handed you a paper bag. "Whole grain banana nut muffin."

"I hope it tastes good still after it got tortured by whole grain." You stated.

She rolled her eyes. "As long as we're living together I'm not letting you eat trash. That's the deal remember? I support us and you eat healthier."

"Unfortunately. But my internship is almost over and I will get a job and then I will eat a Big Mac." You stated threateningly.

She shook her head in disappointment. "That's.not.food. that will kill you."

"At least I'll die happy."You stated and grabbed your set of apartment keys. You grabbed your coat and purse then walked out.

Maia would always try and get you to eat better. In a way you really appreciated her trying to take care of your well being but some of the stuff just didn't taste all that good. Maia did however try and do her best to make the food taste better because she knew you hated healthy food due to the lack of dazzling flavor. You actually were doing better with your food habits and you did feel better about yourself. Your hair and skin looked much better. You wouldn't admit it but you might try and stick to more healthy foods after your internship.

You got to the subway station and went on the train to the city. On the train you started eating your muffin. It actually tasted similar to a regular banana but muffin, which you were thankful for. You drank some coffee while you opened your issue of a Spiderman comic that was in your purse.

As surprising as it may seem to outsiders that a grown professional woman still read comic books, you didn't give a rat's ass. You loved reading them. Your two favorites were Deadpool and Spiderman. You had a huge crush on Tom Holland, the actor of Spiderman.

The train finally stopped at your station. You got out coffee in hand. You put your comic back and drank your coffee on the way to the building that you worked at. You had finally arrived and quickly got to working. You were writing down interview questions for the next guest your company would have. Personally you were hoping that your boss would let you be the one to interview them. By the time you finished and sent it to your boss she gave you a new task.

"Um, Ms. Elliot, this errand will clash with the time of the interview." You stated.

She had turned around with a toss of her dyed deep red hair. "I'm aware of that. What is the problem?" She gave you a blank stare.

Your confidence that you mustered up was quickly leaving your body. "Um, well I figured that since I have been working for this company for a while and I've been working really hard lately, I was hoping that I-"

"Come on spit it out. Time is being wasted."

"I was hoping that could be the one to do the interview." You finally finished with your heart in your throat.

She began to laugh. "Sweetheart, you're just the intern. You don't get to do interviews, you get the chance to get the hell out of here and do I what I asked while you still have a job."

"Sorry."

You ran off and out the building. Turns out you needed to pick up something from an address. You used the GPS on your phone. It led you to a conspicuous and cliche alley way. This made you very uncomfortable. All of a sudden a group of guys burst through a door and grab you. You let out the loudest scream you could. You weren't planning on going down without a fight. You kicked and screamed and ended up getting thrown on the floor. You hit your head pretty hard. You expected to be killed but for some reason the guys ended up getting thrown off of you. You looked to see a flash of red.

You watched the scene unravel in confusion. Your vision was a little blurry because of how hard by hit your head but the guys were getting tied up with what looked like webs from a spider. Your eyes traveled to a man dressed in a red suit. It was unmistakably the suit of Spiderman.

The man turned to you. "Hey, are you okay?" The voice was almost boyish. It sounded cute but familiar.

"I-I'm fine, um thanks. You're Spiderman?" You asked not fully gaining any form of understanding.

He nodded. "Yes, I am. This might sound weird, but you're going to have to come with me."

You scrunched up your brows in even more confusion. "I don't even know who you are."

"Yes you do, I am Spiderman. You just said so." He stated.

You shook your head. "Well, I meant you're dressed like him. You can't actually be Spiderman. Superheroes aren't real."

He sighed. "The doctor said this wouldn't be easy." He muttered. "Alright if I take off my mask and reveal my secret identity would you come with me?"

You looked at him as if he was either crazy or perhaps stupid. "What secret identity? Everyone knows that Spiderman's real name is Peter Parker."

He ran and shushed you. "Don't say it so loud."

"Say what so loud?" You really didn't understand what was wrong with him. "You're a comic book character. It's common knowledge!"

He was extremely silent. You groaned and pulled out your comic book and pointed at the cover. It was of Spiderman swinging from a building. He grabbed the comic book. Peter was scrambling through the pages frantically.

"Hey watch it! I just got that issue. You're gonna rip it." You warned him.

He looked up at you. "So you're telling me that I'm not real? I'm just a character? Dr. Strange didn't tell me much about you. He just said we needed you to fight Thanos."

You had a look of confusion. "How am I gonna fight him? I am powerless, I don't know how to fight, I'm not even smart enough to create tech." You reasoned.

"Well you are Y/N Y/L/N, right?" He asked you.

You gave a nod. "Even if you were the real Spiderman where would you take me?"

"Back to my world." He replied.

You scrunched your brows. "Take off your mask."

"But I-"

"If you take it off I'll go with you." You offered.

He hesitated but decided to reach for the top of his head and began pulling. As soon as you saw his face you almost fainted.

"You're Tom Holland."

He looked confused. "Tom who?"

"So this isn't a publicity stunt? You're actually spiderman?" You asked not believing it.

He nodded.

You squinted. "Fine, I'll go with you, but my best friend is coming with me."

You went to your apartment and called Maia. You told her it was an emergency. She came to the apartment as fast as possible. However,while you waited for her you began to pack yours and her bags.

"What's wrong? What's the emergency?" She asked as she entered the apartment. Her voice revealing her concern.

You pointed to Peter. Her eyes went over to him and confusion quickly made its way on her face.

"Why the hell is spiderman in our apartment?" She asked.

"Apparently he's taking us to his world to help him defeat Thanos." You answered.

"Is this a joke?"

"Nope."

She shook her head. "Well I'm not going anywhere with a complete stranger."

You turned to Peter. "Take off your mask."

As soon as he did Maia's jaw dropped. "Okay is this a dream? What's happening?"

"I don't have much time to explain. Dr. Strange is supposed to be opening up a portal soon we have to be able to leave." He replied putting his mask back on.

"Okay but I have to pack my bags." She said.

"Already did."

"You did?"

You nodded and handed her, her suitcase. All of a sudden the three of you see a spark in the we middle of the air that expanded into a circle. In the center of the circle you saw what you recognized was the building Dr. Strange usually was in. You and Maia exchanged glances of pure shock.

"Come on we don't have all day." You heard a voice say from the other side of the portal. You recognized that it was Dr. Strange's.

Peter walked in first. You and Maia were both nervous. You had your bags in one hand and each others hands in the other. The both f you counted to three and walked through.

As soon as you entered, the portal disappeared behind you two. The both of you looked around in astonishment until you were hit with a pounding headache.

"Strange what's happening to her?"Peter asked.

Dr. Strange walked up to you. His hands sparked up into round runes. "We had to bring her into this world because she is a mutant. Her genes were dormant in her world. She lived in a world where there are no powers. In this world her powers are one of the strongest. Everyone get down."

They all looked confused but got down Your headache was beginning to be too much. You let out a scream that took out the power in the building. Everything was getting thrown around. Your headache finally subsided and you passed out.

When you woke up you saw a paper lantern hovering over your head. You thought it was all a dream but now you had no idea where you were.

#spiderman x reader #marvelfandom #peter parker x reader #marvelfics #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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spideymahn · 7 years ago

Text

Fix You (Peter Parker X Reader)

Requested by: @deadpools-wife

Request: Hi Can I request a Peter Parker fanfic The reader had a crush on an asshole This guy was a liar and broke her heart One day she got angry with him and put something on IG about him Then some mutual friends decided to attack her on IG Then he DMed her telling her to grow up and that he never liked her or her company So the following week she had been really quiet Peter notices that she isn't as talkative as usual so he goes to cheer her up If you want more to details to write about the guy DM me.

Warnings: i wrote this + slight fluff+ mild swearing- actually, a lot of swearing. these are high schoolers we’re talking about.

Movie/book: Spider-man: Homecoming

Word Count: 1416

A/N: I know that I haven’t updated in a long, long time, guys, and that I’ve got so many requests to finish. My exams are coming up in November and I badly have to study.

I am so fucking sorry I am a piece of shit I legit kept this request hanging forever.

You dumped the groceries onto the kitchen counter and rushed to your room, flopping onto your bed. You unlocked your phone and scrolled through Instagram. You scrolled rapidly fast until you stopped short when a post caught your eye.

It was Nate, with his sandy hair flopped over his left eyebrow, smiling at the camera as his girlfriend kissed his jaw, her arms wrapped around his muscular body as if he belonged to her.

He did belong to the girl.

That thought sent made your heart beat painfully as you remembered what he’d said to you that morning after History.

“Y/N,” He said slowly, grabbing you by the shoulders as if he were explaining this to a five-year-old, “I’m sorry if I was leading you on, okay? I have a girlfriend.”

“B-but you asked me t-to hang out,” You whispered, tears threatening to escape your eyes.

“Yeah, only ‘cause I took pity on you. And,” He said, his tone growing more menacing by each syllable, “I was tired of you ogling at me like a creep,”

Your eyes widened. All the times you thought he hadn’t noticed you staring, he had. Nate must have seen the horrified look on your face because he nodded.

“Yes,” He said, releasing her and stepping back, “Everyone knows you stalk me,”

Her throat hurt as she tried to suppress the emotions. Her head pounded. Nathaniel Hawkins, the boy she thought she loved, and who she thought liked her back, was nothing but a shallow asshole.

“Right,” She gulped, backing away, her nails digging into her palms.

And then she’d cried in the girls’ washroom. Cried till no more tears came and all the bitterness of such a cruel rejection flowed out.

A surge of anger coursed through your veins, and jealousy tinged your vision green. You opened a new post, selecting a picture of you and Nate from the time they went to Starbucks together.

‘Don’t go near fire, baby, plastic melts :) #FakeFriends’, you typed in the caption, your eyes avoiding the happy picture where he had his arms around you, his tongue stuck out at you like a puppy. You didn’t hesitate before tapping the ‘post’ button, satisfaction hitting you.

You were just studying for your Chemistry quiz which was due the next day when a series of ‘ping’s distracted you. Picking up your phone, you saw that Ashley Jefferson, the girl in the picture with Nate had commented on your post. You hadn’t even realised that she had been following you.

‘Bitch,’ The comment said, ‘Die. How fucking dare you insult him. Just because he took crap like you under his wing doesn’t mean that you can go on insulting him all you want’

Another comment by Jesse Cole, her lab partner read: ‘Back off, loser’

Another said: ‘You’ve got guts, posting shit about Nathaniel. Attention-seeking whore’

A comment by his best friend, James Dirkson said: ‘Hoe what you tryna prove? Congratu-fucking-lations on knowing someone popular.’

There were tons of other hateful comments, threatening to report you and abusing you. Many of the high-schoolers had also posted hateful things about you. Tears filled your eyes as you deleted the post with shaking hands. Hot tears escaped your eyes as you curled up in bed, thinking why you were so stupid as to even think Nathaniel could like you.

Peter’s POV

Peter didn’t know what was going on. One day, Y/N was completely fine and the other day she was avoiding everyone, eating lunch alone and barely talking. Ned and he had been observing her for the past three days and she was no longer her sassy, snarky self: she had morphed into someone timid, quiet and sad. He didn’t know what was bothering her because she would barely talk to her friends.

“Y/N?” Peter said, trying to stimulate a conversation for the third time in the day as she opened the locker door to separate them. “Tell me what’s up with you,”

“Maybe we could go to the movies after this? Or...we could watch Empire Strikes Back?” He tried.

She slammed her locker shut, looking at him dully. “That movie’s old. Besides, I’m busy.”

“That movie’s old?” Peter said. Hurt flashed in his eyes. “That was our movie.”

“Funny how you use the word ‘was’,” She said, walking past him.

“What are you so busy doing, anyway?” He demanded.

“Biology pop quiz is tomorrow,” she said. “I saw it on Miss Fletcher’s table,”

“Maybe we could study together?” He asked hopefully. He was really, really trying to make her feel better. Having a mammoth crush on her was hard when she gave Peter the ‘cold shoulder’.

Before she could reply, Flash stopped two metres ahead of them, chucking a paper ball at Y/N. She flinched, but pursed her lips, spun around and started walking in the other direction. A few other kids pelted her with empty pens, snack wrappers and failed test papers.

Peter grabbed hold of her arm and turned around. He went over to Flash and paused, ready to take him by surprise by punching him.

“Defending your girlfriend, Parker? Don’t get too attached to her- she’s a real slut,” Nathaniel commented at Flash’s left. Peter turned away from Flash, facing Nathaniel. In a split second, he raised his left fist and brought it down. It connected with Nate’s jaw and he staggered back, clutching it.

“What the actual fuck, Parker?” He hissed, letting go of his jaw and standing straight. He pushed Peter, who miraculously stayed stoic. The crowd gasped as Peter struck again, at the same spot. The crowd gasped again. Nathaniel had fire in his eyes. He strode forward, grabbing Peter by his collar. He raised his fist, but before he could do anything, Y/N pushed him back, causing him to let go of Peter.

“You fucking stay away from me,” Nate told Y/N angrily.

“Wasn’t planning to- you always smell of bullshit,” She snapped. The crowd ‘oohed’. Nathaniel turned around, walking off with his ever faithful gang.

She grabbed Peter’s hand, taking him away from the scene in the space between the wall and the lockers.

“You could have been suspended! What were you thinking?” She demanded, waving her hands dramatically. He rolled his eyes.

“Care to explain why everyone hates you all of a sudden?” He asked, crossing his arms.

Y/N sighed, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way home.”

And so she did.

Your POV

You regretted ever telling Peter what happened. Sure, it made you feel lighter but now Peter was making constant efforts to cheer you up. Sometimes you had a feeling that you had a crush on him. But that would be crazy, right? Sure, he was smart, cute, funny, dorky and crazy hot without a shirt, but...

Okay. Maybe you did like him.

And now he was in your living room with you, trying to cheer you up with ice-cream and Empire Strikes Back. Han and Leia were close to kissing and when they did, they were interrupted by C-3PO. Peter gave a hoot of laughter, his ice-cream tub almost falling out of his hands. “Never fails to get me, this scene,”

You shook your head and smiled, trying to get a spoonful of chocolate-chip ice-cream from his tub. He noticed, smiling playfully, “Want it? Get it,”

You reached out with your spoon but he raised his hand which had the tub til it was out of your reach. You stood on your knees on your couch and tried to reach the tub, accidentally falling on him.

His eyes were locked in a gaze with yours. Your faces were inches apart which was extremely awkward for two friends watching a PG-rated movie. His eyes darted to your lips. A loud crash from the kitchen made you both jump away from each other, causing you to scramble up on your feet and hurry up to the kitchen. It was the neighbours’ cat that had gotten in through your window again.

“I’ll, um, leave,” He said awkwardly, backing away. The ice-cream tub lay forgotten on the floor as he packed his DVD and zipped up his jacket. “I hope we can do our payback thing soon,” He grinned.

You smiled. Peter never failed at making you feel better. “Same,”

As he was about to leave, you stopped him. “Peter?”

“Yeah,”

“I’ll be at your house with my biology textbooks in five,” You said.

You didn’t catch his smile as he exited through the door.

A/N: I really hope I made it up to you guys :(

#peter parker #spiderman homecoming #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker imagines #spiderman imagines #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland imagines #peter parker imagine #tom holland imagine #spiderman imagine #Spiderman: Homecoming #spiderman #tom holland as spiderman #I HAVE EXAMS GUYS DON'T HURT ME

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vvatchword · 7 years ago

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A Summer for Saya, Chapter 4: Northampton

We crawled across the country, only stopping when we needed gas. I wish I could say that Dad punched the pedal to the floor, that we had roared up to Northampton like the devil himself pursued us, but he had to take several breaks a day, and he had to sleep all night. His color was terrible, and when he got tired he started weaving. We couldn’t afford to get pulled over.

His paranoia finally got the best of him somewhere near Chicago, and we stole the plates off of a parked car to replace our Florida ones. Now we were an Illinois vehicle, complete with Lincoln’s disembodied head. We stopped by a ravine to dispose of our old plates. I skipped the dust-dimmed double oranges into the brush.

The flat plains began to roll, and the corn and wheat gave way to hills of bushy trees and pasturage. Lakes and rivers glinted like silver between hills. The further north we went, the more peaked the roofs grew, the better to shrug off snow. Dad changed the route on the GPS several times so that we would keep off of the larger highways where the police and our pursuers were more likely to keep watch. When we grew tired, we pulled off behind abandoned buildings and slept. Once we stopped by a river for a quick bath. We needed it; we stank like death.

We didn’t talk all that much. Dad listened to the radio most of the time—classical music when he was feeling well, Top 40 when he needed help staying alert. At first, I didn’t mind. During the quick clean-up, I had found a few scuffed-up paperbacks beneath my seat—a collection of short stories about a barbarian and three dog-eared Deadpool trades.

But eventually I was sick of the books and I’d seen everything of humanity that I’d cared to, and the truth of our journey started settling in the pit of my stomach. I started seeing images of Mom in my head: Mom striding down the street in her sunglasses, tall and straight and indomitable. Mom reclining in a witness stand as elegantly as a queen on her throne, somehow larger than the judge beside her. Mom at the end of a table in a board meeting, her lackeys bent around her, her eyes blazing down at the photographer.

And then I imagined the scene back at the rest stop, but instead of the PI bleeding out beneath me, it was Mom with her tigress eyes. My knife was in her throat, and my hand held her down, and her blood pooled around us as she gasped for breath. Sick, empty horror tightened in my stomach. I twisted around in my seat, thrust my knuckles into my mouth, and stared at my reflection in the window. It was with a start that I realized I had the curve of her jaw and her high cheekbones.

Only a second afterward, it occurred to me that she was no doughy private eye to roll over in shock, that I might not even have the chance to draw a knife before she had thrown me or broken my back or thrust some hidden blade through my throat. That way she lounged in pictures, perfectly poised—that was no mistake. And the suits around her… all Elites, I realized, with weapons and skills of their own. Somehow I would have to pass through a wall of Elites and then best her own formidable skills.

I gnawed my knuckles until I tasted blood. The only way, perhaps, was to be captured. And then I would have to get close, earn her trust. And if you get close, you get emotionally compromised, and when you start feeling companionship, you can’t follow through, and when you can’t follow through, you are the one who dies. There’s a reason Dad told me not to look at my opponents in the face when I killed them.

The miles and the hours ticked by, the sun and the moon sweeping overhead in eternal pursuit. Signs and cars and signs and cars, a hundred little identical towns where normal people crept and slept. I went through one thousand murders in my head, and died horribly in all of them.

It couldn’t have been more than four days later that I looked up and saw the exit sign for Northampton. Down a winding set of roads, into and out of deep, green copses, over fairytale stone bridges and plashing brooks, the ground freckled with gold, the undergrowth so thick with ferns, saplings, and bushes that you couldn’t see five feet in. I pressed my nose against the window and became hyperaware of my own heartbeat.

At last, Dad began to slow down, peering into the underbrush. Traffic wasn’t too heavy, but cars tailgated us, their drivers making faces and mouthing oaths; when they were finally able to pass, they roared past us in a huff. Dad didn’t seem to see them.

He finally pulled off onto a gravel drive, overgrown with weeds. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the property, some of the posts broken in half. A faded sign proclaimed, “Private Property: No Trespassing.” There was a lopsided gate hanging on one hinge, and a leaning mailbox that looked like it had been struck by a bat. The drive wound off between the elms and disappeared in a riot of greenery. Even through the window, I could hear the buzz of cicadas and the chattering of birds.

I was just unlocking the door when I heard a rustle of fabric. Dad was pulling Raph’s leather jacket carefully over his wounded arm.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. “I can get it.”

“Donatello wouldn’t recognize you,” he said, wiggling into his pants and boots, “and he’s probably got a camera trained on us right now.” He grabbed a ball-cap and pulled it low over his head, then stepped out slowly and limped to the gate. He left the door open.

I jumped out anyway and trotted alongside him.

“You should get back in the car,” Dad whispered.

“You might need help lifting the gate,” I said. “You’re still hurt.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder.

We had just grabbed and lifted the gate when a voice crackled out of the bushes.

“I know exactly who you are,” the voice said, “and unless you are bringing good news, such as the obituary of a particular crime lord, I suggest turning around directly and driving right back to wherever you came from.”

“I’m bringing something like good news,” Dad said. “If you’d care to listen.”

“And that would be…?”

“I am going to kill her, and I need all of the help I can get,” he said.

Silence.

“That,” said the voice, “will be one hell of a job. Come on in.”

A pneumatic pump hissed, and with a plaintive squeal, the gate lifted up out of our hands and swung wide.

“Quickly!” the voice snapped.

We jumped into the car and drove beneath the arms of the trees, the gate swinging shut behind us. We curved through golden pools of light, and then the edges of the woods bent away and we broke into a clearing.

There was the farmhouse and the barn, just as I had imagined them—peaked roofs, peeling paint, the weather vane topped with a rusty rooster. A battered windmill creaked in the breeze. The lawn was a riot of weeds—hadn’t been mowed in weeks. I could barely see the twinkle of the pond behind the house for the overgrowth of bramble bushes. If someone had told me that the place had been abandoned, I would have believed them.

The barn door opened by itself, and Dad pulled in. I gaped. The walls were hung with tools. Bins heaped with mechanical parts squeezed up against the walls, and a rack of servers blinked beneath an industrial fan. Standing at the end of the building was a mutant turtle in a tattered trench coat and welder’s gloves, a bo staff strapped to his back. One touch on his phone and the barn doors groaned shut, cutting out the sunlight.

Dad turned off the car, took a deep breath, and stepped out. For the first time in my life, I felt like shrinking beneath the dashboard. I was suddenly a little too aware of my shell and half-baked plastron.

“Greetings to the prodigal son,” said Donatello, slipping the phone into his pocket. “I had a feeling you’d come back someday.” His eye fell on me.

“So there’s our little biological anomaly!” he said. “Come on out—don’t be afraid. I’m not going to dissect you.” He laughed like he had told a joke.

Dad frowned, but gestured at me anyway. I slid out of the door, books crushed against my chest like a breastplate.

“Adorable!” Donatello said. “You have matching contusions.”

“Yes,” Dad said shortly. “Thank you for letting us in. Do you know where Mike is?”

“That I do,” said Donatello, kneeling and lifting a trapdoor. “As luck would have it, he’s here, as are April and Shadow. You should feel grateful that Casey is traveling. He would crucify you on the lawn.”

“Ah,” Dad said.

“Well, if the social niceties have been concluded, I suggest we leave this place,” Donatello said, patting the trapdoor. “Follow me.” He dropped beneath the floorboards. Dad and I followed.

We descended into a humid cement tunnel lit with faint yellow LED lamps, and the trapdoor clapped shut above us with a note of finality. Several passages weaved away from our own, but Donatello’s step never faltered. I swallowed. The walls were folding over me like clenching fingers.

“I built this back when the farm was more exposed to the road,” Donatello said, rubbing his hands together. “Never would have thought it would come in so handy. A little skullduggery for power and internet access, a few alterations on our public records, and whallah! Our own personal fort. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but we could hold off a dozen attackers, easily. I haven’t set traps—much more likely to harm us than the Foot, alas—but I’ve got the whole place bugged. I know when so much as a grasshopper steps on a leaf.”

“Good,” Dad said. “By the way, I see you have your bo. Have you been practicing?”

“Dusk and dawn, every day, even when it’s raining,” Donatello said, flicking the staff. He turned to grin at Dad. “Mike is another story.”

Dad grimaced.

“He’s more of a peacenik these days,” Donatello said, shrugging. “You don’t need to be fit and trim to publish books, anyway.”

“Really?” Dad’s face lit up.

“Really. Hit the bestseller list six months ago and they’re already making a movie. We’ve practically been living off of the guy. Shadow’s the one who’s been taking all the credit—you know, because April and Casey would be recognized in a heartbeat.”

“Wait. How old is she again?” Dad asked.

“Fifteen. Girl wonder.” Donatello swept his hand in a broad arc, making a dramatic face. “But she doesn’t go by Shadow in public, naturally. She goes by Evelyn G. Winslow. She wanted to be ‘Gabriella,’ but we had to nix that idea.”

“Does she… leave the farm often?”

“Oh, all the time. Don’t worry. It’s a calculated risk.” Don stopped at a ladder and pointed up, toward another trapdoor. “After you.”

Dad and I took it three rungs at a time, and Don followed. We rolled out into a linoleum-tiled kitchen. Ragged shades drooped in the windows. On the wall was a whiteboard with a grid drawn on it, the days of the week on the top row and names on the left: Donatello and April switched out cooking and laundry, Mike and Shadow alternated on dusting and vacuuming, and everyone took turns on the dishes. At the very bottom was a blank row labeled “Casey.” Someone had written there in broken capital letters: “See you in August, chumps!” Just below that line was another sentence in different handwriting, this neat, and in cursive: “We saved the lawn for you! Happy birthday.”

I took a deep breath: air conditioning. The hum of a refrigerator. The smell of disinfectant. Clean, orderly. My eyes lit on a bowl of fruit sitting on the table.

“Where’s April?” Dad asked.

“She went shopping,” Donatello said. “She’s grabbing a few necessities in town. But she should be back late tonight, maybe around… whoah, kid, wait, wait!”

He lunged for me. Too late. I had grabbed an apple and stuffed it into my mouth. But the texture was all wrong and the taste was vile. One crunch and I was spitting plastic pieces on the floor. Donatello laughed and gently wiped my mouth off with the heel of his glove. It was rough and smelled like motor oil.

“Never seen fake fruit before, have you?” he said, and slapped me on the back. “Here, let me get you some real food. Sit down. Take a load off. Leo, do you need anything?” He sniffed. “Do you have an infection?”

“I may have gotten river water into a wound,” Dad said. He was swaying on his feet.

“Well, go get a shower, then. Nothing’s changed—towels are where they were last time, all of our medical supplies are in the cabinet, blah, blah, blah. We’ll talk murder once you get back.” Donatello threw his arm around Dad’s shoulder and pushed him, and then Dad was hobbling out of the room. Suddenly he was gone, and I was alone.

Donatello threw his gloves beside the trapdoor. “Now,” he said. “How about some sustenance, eh?”

“You sounded so much meaner over the intercom,” I said, setting my books on the table.

“I thought I was angry,” he said. “But I can’t stay that way. It’s a curse.” He opened the refrigerator and whipped out a real apple, tossing it to me. I snatched it out of the air and brushed it with my lips before biting down. It was real this time: wrinkly, juicy, and sweet.

“So tell me,” he said, ducking into a cabinet. “What made you two decide to come this way?”

“I’m tired of running,” I said, crunching.

“And Leo?”

“I think he’s tired, too. He hasn’t been right since we fought Raphael.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Donatello pulled out a pan. “I can’t believe he beat him. Ah… did he beat him?”

“We sort of… didn’t fight him head on.”

“Good strategy. Raphael whipped us all at once one day and that was when we were all at peak form.” He stood over the stove, matches in hand. “So… he’s still working for the Foot?”

“Yes. He was going to return me so the Foot would leave you all alone.”

Donatello struck a match and lit the burner. I wished I could see his expression. He still had his back to me. It occurred to me that if anyone had something to gain by turning me in, it was him.

Don blew out the match. “That wouldn’t happen.”

I lowered my apple. “What?”

“Forgiveness. Karai is not known for her magnanimity, let’s just say that.”

“Mag… mag what?”

“Her kindness.” Donatello laughed. “She forgave us once, but she was out of her mind with grief about the murder of her daughter, and her position with the New York Foot wasn’t completely solid. Now? She’ll murder the hell out of us the first chance she gets.” Donatello grinned at me as he cracked open a can of tomato soup. “Therefore, Karai’s assassination might be the best answer. This is her personal vendetta, not a company-wide one.”

“Can I ask you a weird question?” I asked.

“Weird is my specialty,” he said.

“Do… do you know why she would make me?” I asked.

“Ah. Well, I know the official reason,” Donatello said. “It was our ability to heal. The ooze that transformed us had some nice side effects, one of which is that we recover quickly from wounds and illness, including those that would kill lesser men. Specifically, you're closer to a human than we are, so it's easier to use your biology as a way to piggyback to a healing serum—perhaps one for a specific person who you're directly related to." He laughed humorlessly. "Guess who."

"Mom," I whispered.

"You'll figure out eventually that humans can't fight constantly," Don said. "They wear out. Their joints go to hell. Before you were born, Karai was limping around with a cane. She had at least a dozen surgeries during the time I knew her. Then bam. Overnight, she could bounce around like she was 20 again."

I thought of Dad lying against the wall, then rising as though from the dead.

Don looked over his shoulder with a grimace. "Well, that was the official explanation, anyway. I always figured she wanted a kid who could take a couple of knife-thrusts. Sort of useful in her occupation.”

“She could’ve just gotten some ooze. Would've been simpler.”

“I don’t think the Utroms are just handing that out,” Donatello said, stirring. “They left Earth a long time ago. Besides, I think the two idiots, ah… had plans long-term. For example, before everything went wrong, Leo dropped some hints about going to Japan for a few years. ‘For training,’ he said. ‘To get closer to our roots.’ We joked with him about stowing away in crates with wild animals, but I suppose Karai would have taken him in her jet.”

“You mean he could’ve lied?” I asked. “He could’ve been planning something with her?”

Donatello looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “What’d he tell you?”

“That M… Karai didn’t tell him anything about me.”

“She may not have,” he said. “Something went catastrophically wrong near the end. I couldn’t get Leo to tell me what it was, but…” He whistled. “Let’s just say that it makes sense to me that you would have been conceived sometime before everything imploded.”

“Like a surprise.” I swallowed.

“Maybe so. Your parents genuinely liked each other and, dare I say it? They were a good match, if you look at personality, background, personal philosophy. For a while there, they were practically attached at the hip.” Donatello’s grin became furtive and he hurriedly began stirring at the soup. “Uh, that is, they were in similar positions and had similar views.”

I groaned. “Similar views! That’s all? Really?”

“What do you think makes people like each other? Fireworks? Dramatic music? Scenic backdrops?” Donatello raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to understand something about your father: he doesn’t feel like he can open up to anyone. He never has. If he’s got a personal problem, he’ll die before he’ll tell you what it is. Karai is similar, although for different reasons—she’s surrounded by cutthroats. She can’t afford to admit anything that could be construed as weakness. Well, from I’ve been able to infer, they turned into confidantes and honest friends, and then everything went downhill after that. Once we had to go on a mission with Karai—she was undercover and we didn’t really understand why she would come personally at the time—and we were waiting for a target and had a little downtime. My god. Those two talked about hypothetical battles for three hours straight. I thought Raphael was going to shove them both off of the roof.”

“Dad never talks that long to me,” I said, sitting back in my chair.

“He’s obviously depressed.” Rapid stirring. “Ah, I can’t stay mad at the guy. God knows I should be; he erred spectacularly enough.” He started laughing. “Leo, a Romeo! Can’t say I saw it coming, no, no. Michelangelo, probably. Raphael, maybe. Leo? I voted him most likely to become a celibate old hermit. Ah, well. It makes me sad, honestly. In some other life, underneath other circumstances, they might’ve made it.”

I pressed my hands against my eyes. I tried to imagine Mom and Dad lounging across the table from each other and I couldn’t do it.

“You know what?” Donatello said softly. “I honestly don’t think that Karai wanted to send Leo away. I think someone caught their affair and that she was trying to save her position in the Foot.”

“But… she said she wanted to take off my shell.”

“To protect you, probably. Have her cake and eat it, too.” He leaned over the stovetop, clinking the spoon against the counter. Bright red slashes on the white countertop. “She couldn’t have him, but she could have you.”

I sagged against the back of the chair.

“Please keep in mind that this is just a hypothesis,” Donatello said. “There could be other factors that I am unaware of.” He lifted the spoon, dripping red, and stuck it in his mouth.

Donatello had just handed me the bowl of soup with saltine crackers when a tousle-headed girl slouched into the kitchen and ducked into the refrigerator. She was wearing pajama pants and a tank top, and her hair was snipped short and dyed black. There was a hoop in her nose and glinting studs running up the ridges of her ears. I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth, and my eyes flew to Donatello’s. His eyebrows waggled.

“Good morning, milady,” Donatello said. “Do you want some lunch? I’m making grilled cheese.”

“That sounds good,” the girl said. Her voice was thick from sleep. She pushed out of the refrigerator, carton of orange juice in hand, and turned to the table. Her eyes flew open when she saw me.

“Oh my god!” she said.

The carton slipped out of her hand, but before it could hit the ground, Donatello swung his leg out and caught it in the crook of his foot.

“Here, Shadow,” Don said, handing it back to her. “You dropped this.”

She grabbed at it numbly, her eyes still fastened on my face. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

I stabbed the spoon into my mouth very deliberately.

Donatello hissed and slapped her on the back. “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s my niece.”

“Ohhh.” Shadow looked back at him, then at me. “Then… you’re Leonardo’s little girl. That means…”

“Leonardo’s back, yes. Do you want any lunchmeat on your grilled cheese?”

“Sure, ham, whatever,” she said, and flopped into the chair across from me. “I never thought I’d actually see you.” She extended a hand. “My name is Shadow.”

I touched the tips of her fingers and swiftly withdrew. “I’m Saya.”

She smiled and leaned over the table. “What are you doing here?”

Donatello busily pushed between us, setting two glasses on the table. “We’re going on an excursion to the city soon,” he said.

“What for?” Shadow asked. “The minute the Foot know you’re in town, you’ll be walking pincushions.”

“We’re going to assassinate Karai,” Donatello said. “Leonardo’s idea.”

I did not dare meet his eyes.

Shadow whistled. “One of the most powerful people in the Foot? Isn’t she surrounded by an army?”

“Most indubitably.”

“Good luck getting Mikey to come with,” said Shadow. “He’s under a deadline. Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s not in the attic?”

“No.”

There was a loud shout from the back of the house, then a gale of laughter, and someone talking rapidly. I caught a word that sounded like “finally.”

Donatello nodded sagely. “Ah, he found Leo.”

“Wow. We’ve nearly got the whole gang here.” Shadow took a long swig of orange juice. "What if Raphael shows up?”

“We pretend Leo and Saya aren’t here,” said Donatello. “And hopefully the Foot don’t follow him.”

“I feel like I should be angry, but at this point I’m too tired to care.” Shadow slumped onto her elbows. Her eyes rose to mine. “You’re awfully quiet. Is it about your mom?”

I glanced up from licking my soup bowl. “No,” I said. “I just don’t feel like talking right now, that’s all.”

“Damn, you’re intense for a kid,” Shadow said.

“I’m not a kid,” I snapped.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not trying to insult you or anything,” Shadow said. “I just got up and I am so incredibly stupid right now.” She rubbed her eyes. “Uh… so, you’ve been traveling, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“So… a lot of sightseeing?”

I shrugged and looked at my lap.

“Have any hobbies? Any favorite cartoons, video games?”

“I like to read. I do katas.” I set the bowl down and wracked my brain. There was a long and uncomfortable silence.

Don slipped two plates in front of us. “Bon appétit, miladies.”

Shadow picked up her grilled cheese. “Reading and katas? That’s all?”

“She is her father’s child,” Donatello said from the cabinets.

“I… like food, I guess,” I said. “And… and baths.”

The silence was really uncomfortable now. I clamped my lips together. Donatello was looking at me with a crooked smile, something like pity in his face. Shadow’s brows were beetling. For once, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t even know what to feel. So instead of looking at Shadow or Don, I stuffed the grilled cheese in my mouth and concentrated on chewing it as long as I possibly could.

“Okay, today is officially Mission: Fun,” Shadow said, sitting straight up. “I’m going to show Saya the Xbox.”

“Maybe electronics are her preference,” said Donatello, sliding a chair up to the table and sitting between us. “Or mathematics.” His eyes lit up. “I have some old breadboards in the back.”

Shadow laughed and rapped her knuckles on his temple. “I said ‘fun,’ genius.”

I glanced at both of the visible doorways and wondered how quickly I could flee. Before I could move, there was a burst of laughter from the living room. A turtle with a fat, jolly face like a Buddha’s trotted into the kitchen. A bright green plastic flash drive dangled around his neck, and an artist’s smock splashed with paint was tied ‘round his ample waist. Dad was limping behind him, freshly wrapped in bandages and stinking of antiseptic, and to my shock, there was a grin on his face. An honest-to-god grin!

This should have made me happy, but for some reason, it completely unsettled me. Somehow, suddenly, and without warning, I was an outsider looking in.

“There she is!” Michelangelo said—for it had to be Michelangelo—and without a word of warning he swept down and threw his arms around me. He smelled like acrylic paint and mothballs. I stiffened like someone had thrown spiders on me, my eyes bugging out. It felt like every muscle in my body had been replaced with wet cement.

Shadow grimaced and mouthed, “Sorry.”

“Long time no see,” Mike said, standing back and grinning at me. “Last time I saw you, you were just a little burrito.”

I glanced wordlessly at Dad. Oh, please, get me out of here.

Dad’s smile fell. “Ah, Saya. Do you need to use the shower?” he said. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is.”

I pushed the chair back and rushed to his side, chin on my chest.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Mike said. “Did I scare her?”

“No, no, you’re fine!” Dad said. “She’s just overwhelmed. We’ve had a long day.”

We slipped into the living room just in time. Tears started pouring. I couldn’t stop them, and god, did I try. I held my breath, I pressed my fists against my eyes, I tried every single psychological trick I knew. I only sobbed louder and harder. I didn’t want the people in the kitchen to hear me and yet there was no way they couldn’t have. I thrust my arm through Dad’s, and he curled his hand protectively around my head and let me cry into his side. When had I last cried like that? When Dad was teaching me how to kill rabbits? I had to practically be a baby.

When we stopped at the bathroom door, he knelt in front of me.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked. “They didn’t say anything to hurt you, did they?”

“N-no!” I tried to think of Dad’s photo, the four brothers laughing knee-to-knee, and suddenly the memory of it was terrible. They were too close. They were way too close. There needed to be a room’s length between all of them.

He drew me into a hug and I buried my face into his throat. The sound of his heartbeat was comforting.

“Look,” he said. “We don’t have to do this. We can leave if you want.”

“It’s not that!” I said.

“Then what is it?”

“There’s too many people!” I said. “And… and I feel stupid.”

“Stupid?” He rocked back on his heels. “Why?”

I rubbed furiously at my face. “I don’t know!”

He sucked on the insides of his cheeks a moment, then stood.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Get cleaned up. I can wash your clothes for you. Just set them outside of the door.”

I slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. The air was still moist and warm from Dad’s shower, and golden motes of light danced at the high-set window. I turned the water on full blast, the better to cut myself off from the rest of the house, and stood beneath the showerhead scowling as old blood swirled down the drain.

← Chapter 3: Killing Mom || A Summer for Saya Hub || Chapter 5: →

AO3 || Fanfiction.net || deviantArt

#leorai #tmnt #fanfiction #leonardo #donatello #michelangelo #sand arrow #the cheese #shadow #summer for saya

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homeplanetreviews · 7 years ago

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Atomic Blonde (2017) Movie Review by: Will Whalen

She has arrived and is here to kick some ass. Atomic Blonde stars Charlize Theron, James McAvoy, John Goodman, Eddie Marsan, and Sofia Boutella among others. It is about an undercover agent who is sent to Berlin during the 1980’s Cold War to investigate a murder of a fellow agent. She also teams up with McAvoy to try and locate a missing list of all the double agents of MI6.

Atomic Blonde comes from David Leitch who was one of the directors of John Wick and the director of the upcoming Deadpool 2. When I first saw the trailer for this, I was blown away with immediate anticipation. We saw what the other director of John Wick could do by himself with John Wick 2 but what David Leitch did with Atomic Blonde, was a monster of its own and probably even better than Chad Staheliski. There's few movies that I would say that are filmed to perfection but Atomic Blonde was damn sure close. Every scene was shining in gorgeous neon lights and imagery and stunning camera work. Every frame was just about as perfect as a shot could get and centered to perfection. Let me tell you, this film is jam packed with gorgeous shots. But let's not take away from the cinematographer here, Jonathan Sela, who was the cinematographer for John Wick. He actually outdoes himself in this film than any other film he has been the DOP of. The words in this review fail in comparison to what Leitch actually accomplishes in Atomic Blonde. The action scenes are beautifully brutal, violent and also beautifully choreographed. Again, a lot has to do with Leitch and hats off to the incredible stunt work here. During Atomic Blonde’s two hour runtime, 15 minutes of it (give or take) is of a one shot action scene that had me absolutely floored, jaw on the floor and gripped into my chair. Although there are a few hidden cuts, as most one shot scenes do have, it doesn't take away from how absolutely white knuckled it is and how enthralling it is to watch. It is truly a spectacle to behold.

However, all of these amazing actions scenes and amazing shots would be nothing without the woman herself, the Atomic Blonde, Charlize Theron. I loved Charlize Theron before this and she has proven herself to be an absolute badass before but she kicked my face clean off in this film. There was no better choice for her character and she kicked more ass than most movie characters ever have in this film. For me, and most will think I'm crazy, but she puts John Wick to shame. May not rack up as many headshots but she sure as hell makes up for it. She's smart, sexy, violent and an all around blast to watch on screen here and plays it off so sly. I just can't get over how badass she was in this film and every scene she was in accompanied by every line that she said. Sofia Boutella was in this film and there's a scene with her and Charlize Theron that was, to say the least, absolutely amazing and had me melting in my chair. It’s almost better than the 15 minute oner... almost. One of my favorite actors, James McAvoy, was also in this and any time he's in a film, I get ten times more excited. He is always awesome and it was no surprise to see him kick ass in this too. That being said, he’s definitely of a supporting role here but nonetheless, steals the show every time he’s on the screen.

Besides the amazing direction, cinematography, performances and action, the love doesn't stop there. The overall look and feel for the film of the 1980’s Cold War setting and the Berlin Wall, were just more things that make this film pop. I have a big interest for the time period of the 80’s and it was just yet another thing that I loved here and thought was captured so vibrantly. The score was entrancing and the music was also a delight. There's definitely some odd choices of music here but they work. From some of the best known tunes of the 80’s from David Bowie and The Clash and even some under the radar cuts, this soundtrack and the score boosted this film even further. I will definitely be purchasing this soundtrack when it goes on sale. As far as the feel of the film is, the use of lights in this are just hypnotizing. There's a lot of use of neon red and blue lights that made each frame drip with ecstasy. Not to mention the themes of espionage and spy plots that fill this film and make it what it is. I'm a huge fan of the genre and a good spy plot anyway but Atomic Blonde was everything I could want in a badass spy/action film.

There is a very small problem I did have with Atomic Blonde however, and is one that a lot of critics seem to have the most problem with. And that would be narrative and the storytelling. At times, it does kind of get a tad confusing as to what is happening and trying to piece things together that don't always make a lot of sense. However, it does all come full circle and end up making sense. It's just that it may not make sense at the time and I feel like most aren't exactly getting that or that they feel there's some out of place scenes. For me, it works completely and I loved every single second of it and it's sometimes confusing narrative. Which is something I would typically have a problem with if it were to be an issue but it works for the film and it does come full circle like I said.

Look, I absolutely loved Atomic Blonde and everything about it. It was probably one of the most fun times I've had at the theater all year. It does seem like some do have problems with the film but I had next to none. David Leitch has created a gorgeous and badass action film and I think Deadpool 2 is definitely in good hands. It is filled with breathtaking shots, white knuckled action and was brutally badass, sexy, gorgeous and electrifying. Charlize Theron is a powerhouse here and I can't wait to see it again and can only hope for a possible sequel. I think I’ll most definitely be in the minority as far as my rating goes. Typically, I’m usually pretty to par with what most critics think of it but this time, I think most are wrong.

I’m going to give Atomic Blonde...

5 out of 5 stars!

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bughead-bound-blog · 8 years ago

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Softening the Edges - Betty/Jughead

AO3: Prologue (Ch 1) Ch 2: Childhood Reflections Ch 3: Liking “Like That” Ch 4: Navigating Choppy Seas Chapter 5: To Smithereens

(Warning: This is a very dark chapter.)

I saw your picture It made me sorry For all the things I never said It seems that you Have cause to worry It seems that you Don't wish me well

---

Archie had found out about the chaos and agony of the past two days from Betty via telephone, mercifully. Jughead was actually relieved he would not have to go through the painstaking ordeal of revisiting everything that had happened on that fetid Friday evening. His red-headed friend had rushed out of his house on Sunday afternoon to meet him on the sidewalk when he showed up in front of Archie's house. His friend collapsed into him with arms wide, face blotched with tears and snot bubbling.

"Oh my God Jughead, I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I'm so sorry." He clasped Jughead as if gravity no longer applied and if he let go his best friend would float into the void of the heavens. Although embarrassed and self-conscious by this open display of affection, it touched Jughead deeply to know the depth of his best friend's care. It was nice to know that you were loved, even if the whole neighbourhood did, too.

"Sorry, I'm --" Archie stood back, swiping at the mess of his face with his sweater sleeves as his jaw trembled. "I just can't believe how much stuff changed in a weekend. I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I never even got to say bye to Hot Dog."

Jughead felt that damn lump threatening to claw it's way up his throat.

"Don't feel bad about it Arch. I never got to either."

This caused his friend to erupt into a fresh batch of sobs, holding him again on the curb of the sidewalk. One thing could be said readily about Archie: he was never very good at hiding how he felt. This made him an excellent best friend because he withheld very little and when he did he was a terrible liar about it.

Jughead both admired and envied this about Archie. Fred Andrews had instilled such virtuous and genuine traits in his son. Jughead had unfortunately inherited the broken gifts of evasion and concealment from his own dad, his emotions constantly protected by a barb-sharp wit and a talent for deflection. Like the jagged edge of a broken bottle, he tended to prick those who dared to attempt to reach in and seek the truth about his feelings. Not Archie. His best friend was open and wholesome, healthy and adjusted in his capacity for expression. Archie finally sucked in a few steadying breaths and released him. Out of the corner of his eye Jughead glanced the shift of curtain in the window of Betty's room. She hadn't come down yet and he concluded that she would keep her distance after being so present with him over the weekend. She would give the boys their space to go over the tumultuous events of the past few days, and as much as he appreciated her respecting their time together, he missed her company already.

"I don't know how I'm ever going to make it up to you for this." Archie said thickly, wiping at the now damp fabric of Jughead's left shoulder. Jug mustered a weak smile and shook his head.

"There's nothing to make up, Arch. You went to see your mom."

"But still." He sniffled. "I feel awful. Listen Jug, today is going to be your day. I have the whole thing planned out. Dad's going to have a barbeque, his homemade cheeseburgers -- your favorite! Dad even let me get the new Mortal Kombat game for us to play after supper. We stopped by the comic shop and picked us both up a copy of the new Deadpool Volume 4 so we’ll have lots to talk about in the tree house tonight."

"You guys really didn't have to do all that-"

"Yes, we did." Fred Andrews walked down from the patio steps to grasp Jughead in a one armed embrace, bringing him against his side. "Anything to make my pseudo-son's day after one hell of a weekend -- even if it means buying an M rated game just this once." Fred then put his hands on Jughead's shoulders and gave him a studying gaze. "This goes without saying Jug, but mi casa es tu casa. I know things are difficult at home and I want you to know that you're welcome here as long as you want, any time. Even if Archie's not here. You're the son I chose, remember? Don't you forget it."

Jughead ‘s vision blurred and the tears that accumulated there threatened to overflow under that stern, loving gaze. Fred had always said that to him growing up, and the reminder now hit home more than ever. All he could do was nod gratefully, trying not to cry under the weight of all of this genuine love. It was one of the few sources of it that he had in the world. Fred gave his right shoulder a solid clap and began to lead him in, guiding Archie with his other hand.

"Alright boys let’s get to it, I don't want any burnt burgers on my hands and I need an honorary veggie cutter."

---

Behind the victim Behind the trouble Are all the things You've not expressed I see you standing behind your mother I see you hiding behind her dress

--- Time began bleeding together as Jughead found himself taking Fred up on his offer on the regular. Home life at the trailer was increasingly difficult and Jughead frequently found himself at the Andrews residence or the Cooper house with Jellybean. Betty had taken to his little sister, thrilling at the opportunity to experience the big sister life for herself, and Jellybean always looked forward to seeing her. Between the chaos of his own home and the normalcy experienced between Betty and Archie's houses, Jughead managed to quilt together a semi-normal existence for himself and Jellybean while his parent's marriage crumbled with increasing finality. Sure there were broken dishes, screaming matches, and bouts of peeling his blacked-out father off of the filthy floor of the trailer as his mother disappeared for days at a time, but there were also pool parties and treehouse sleepovers on the other side of town in his other world.

His friends knew his life and Jellybean's were coming apart at the seams in their Southside existence, so they attempted to compensate by fashioning a cozy and safe existence for the Jones children to run to. Betty developed a strong fondness for Jellybean and often pleaded to have permission for her to stay at her house, resulting in side-by-side sleepovers. Jellybean would be at Betty’s while Jughead camped out at Archie’s. But it was like wrapping a bandage around a festering wound; one could easily cover up the damage so that you would not have to look at it’s grotesqueness, but there was a deep infection underneath it all. Covering it up and ignoring it didn’t make it go away, and it became more difficult to hide from and ignore with each passing day.

The day arrived when it all came to a head, and there would be no bandage that could mask the pervasiveness of this wound. It promised to poison everyone involved deep within their very bones and blood.

Jughead was back at the trailer late in the evening with Jellybean in his arms, whimpering. She always ran to his room during the worst of it, seeking out some semblance of comfort. Although he had turned the TV on loudly in a piteous attempt to dampen the yelling it was failing miserably. The screaming was overpowering, then the sobbing, then worst of all, sudden silence. He perked his head up, Jellybean still snivelling with her face buried deep in his shirt. Suddenly he heard pounding steps coming toward his room with the echoes of his father’s pitiful voice, hoarse from crying, pleading in the background: “No Gladys please don’t. Just think about this for a minute--”

“Oh I’ve thought about this every night and morning I’m awake Forsythe for far longer than I should have.” His mother’s voice was nearer than expected and he braced himself as she charged into the room, thrumming with frantic energy.

“Kids, come out here please. We need to talk.”

That statement dropped like an anchor through Jughead’s insides. He knew rock bottom was upon them all.

“Gladys please just wait until morning. Lets sleep on it. At least give me a chance to sober up--”

“If I had to wait for you to sober up we’d never leave.” His mother snapped, leading them into the living room and guiding them toward the couch to sit down. Jellybean was already in tears, scared of their mother’s rattled disposition.

“Where are we going?” She moaned thickly, and Jughead hugged her close against his side.

“It’s OK JB, I’m here.” He soothed, rubbing a hand up and down her arm reassuringly, though he felt numb inside. His lips felt impossibly dry, tongue heavy as his mother paced before them. His father just sat in his arm chair, inebriated and weeping into his hands.

“I never wanted it to have to come to this.” She said finally, stopping before them. She looked impossibly exhausted. Her tired eyes found the terse forms of her children and immediately they began to fill with sadness. “I just can’t do this anymore.” Her voice broke, and she sank down in front of them, crouching like some small bird as she reached her quaking hands out to capture one of theirs. “I can’t live like this anymore, and I can’t bear watching either of you live like it either.” She sniffled, and Jughead felt as though he were having an out of body experience. He felt as if he were floating like some deity or spectre, seeing this unholy scene from the ceiling; this liquor soaked heap of sobs that was formerly known as a father, this frail, broken woman kneeling before two terrified and impossibly trapped children. He knew what was coming next, like an animal standing with a dull stare in the headlights of a train, helpless in the face of the oncoming force about to run him down. His life was running away from him like a petulant child and he was powerless to control it. He had no idea what turn this would take him in. “I’m leaving your father.” The words sucked the air from Jughead’s lungs, and his vision grew dim, as if watching this benignly through a foreign body.

“Why?!” Jellybean screamed next to him, angry and fearful.

“Because sweetheart, your father is sick. And it’s hurting all of us. He needs to get better, and until he does we need to be somewhere safe so he can focus on taking care of himself. Daddy needs to get stronger and he can’t do that if he has all of us to worry about and take care of. We need to do this for him” She cupped Jellybean’s face, sobbing, and FP wobbled to his feet seething.

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me, Gladys. You’re doing this to me. You think you can just up and leave? Take my whole family away from me and you think I’ll just stand here and watch?!”

“You’re not WELL!” Gladys spiraled around, rejuvenated with fresh adrenaline. “My God Forsythe, don’t you care what this does to them at all?! Seeing you like this every day?! We can’t afford to live like this, you’ve been fired and you’re not working anymore! You’re just drunk all the time and I can’t do this alone anymore. I’m going with the kids to mom’s house in Toledo. I’ll go back to school so I can get a better job. But we’re running out of money. Our children need a future and they’ll never get one like this. Don’t you even care?!”

“OF COURSE I CARE!!” FP screamed, eyes red and streaming. “Just don’t do this to me. Don’t take them away from me . . . if you take them I’ll --” He hiccuped, falling back into his arm chair haphazardly and shuddering with sobs. “I’ll have no reason left to live.”

“Oh my GOD Forsythe how dare you say these things in front of them!” Gladys gasped, spinning quickly to take each of her children by the wrists. “Grab your coats, now. We’re leaving. We’ll come back for our things in the morning.”

“But dad!--” Jughead managed to choke over the loud sounds of Jellybean’s wails. His mother had a vice-like grip on his wrist, dragging him toward the porch with a force he had never experienced from his mild-mannered mother.

“He was right -- he needs to sober up. And until he does we can’t be here anymore.”

“But mom he might--”

“This is not a debate.” His mother hissed, throwing his coat toward him. “Please, do you think this is easy for me to do? We’ll be back in the morning for our things. He’ll be sober and we can talk reasonably about this then. But for now my children are not spending another toxic minute in this hole.”

And somehow he was led into the night with the screams and cries of his sister muffled by the ringing in his ears, guided like a blind man into the back seat where Jellybean collapsed upon him like a deflated balloon. They drove in silence and darkness then, his sister slowly exhausting herself into a fitful sleep. They went through the motions of checking into a motel for the night, and they slept together in one bed -- or at least, Jellybean slept. All the while Jughead lay awake in the dark, staring at the bland ceiling as his mother silently sobbed beside him until the early morning light. He knew he should feel so many things -- fear, anxiety, suffocating sadness -- but he had felt so much that he simply felt emptied. He was a hollow existence that had replaced his living breathing self, so pummelled by the toxicity of his home life that he had nothing left to feel. Press down and B: he had become the statue. He contemplated his future with a grim finality, foreseeing no feasibly hopeful outcome.

---

So don't make me sad I couldn't stand to watch you fall 'cause everybody has a tender heart Remember this I didn't mean to break it down to smithereens

---

In the morning the statue persisted; he was passing through time in a deadened haze. He felt as if he had dramatically aged overnight; he felt so much older than he did yesterday. It was his sister who stuck by his side as they went through the morning routine in the motel bathroom. He even faintly remembered her brushing his hair. She took him by the hand and guided them back to the car as they moved closer and closer to the end of their established life in the Southside as they knew it.

When they got to the house they found FP face down on the floor, and Jughead felt sensation rush back into each fibre of his nerves as the horror took over.

“Oh Forsythe . . .” His terrified mother breathed, grasping for Jellybean with one hand as the other flew to her mouth. Jellybean was screaming out for her dad as Jughead immediately rushed to his father, the fear of the worst seizing his mind.

“DAD!!” He yelled, grasping the collar of FP’s plaid shirt as the fingers of his other hand sought out a pulse at the neck like he’d seen them do so many times on television. Never in his young life had he thought he would ever need to use that. Please, please don’t be--

His father suddenly groaned and shifted, groggily starting to move his limbs like a drugged animal. Slowly he pushed himself onto all fours and clasped his throbbing head. He moved to sit on the floor dazedly, still attempting to return to reality and awaken from the shroud his mind was in. He felt Jughead there, whose emotions had finally rushed forward through the crack in the fortress he had sealed himself away in from last night. He sobbed as he engulfed his dad in his arms, his shuddering heaves taking over as everything spilled out. He didn’t know how long he sat there on that floor, and during that time his father’s arms had found their way around him, cradling him close as they shared in this grief.

“I thought you were dead.” He barely managed to get out after some time, still consumed by all he felt from the shock of that moment, from the events of last night . . .

“I ain’t gone yet.” His dad whispered, reaching up and stroking the wet streaks of ebony curls clinging around his son’s damp and blotched face. Jughead could dimly hear his mother finishing a conversation on the phone in the adjacent room, then her speaking in comforting tones to Jellybean. The both of them came back out into the living room and his mother was looking at the two of them there on the floor pitifully.

“I was just talking to mom.” She said hoarsely. “She’s put some money in my bank account to help us out with the travel expenses. I’ve packed most of my things and Jellybean’s. We’re just taking what we need.” She turned from FP to address her son. “Jug, I have most of your clothes packed up too but I wanted to leave your personal things to you, so please come and--”

“No.” Jughead said quietly, swiping an arm across his wet lashes. When he glanced back up his mother looked positively stricken. “No, mom.”

“What? Sweetheart--”

“I’ve made up my mind and I’m not leaving dad.” He stood up and now by the look on her face he could tell that his mother was panicking. She started shaking her head and came toward him as if through a fog. She pawed at his chest in a desperate bid to smooth some reason into him.

“Jughead no. You can’t make that kind of decision, this isn’t safe, you--”

“I’m not. Leaving. Dad.” He said in a stern tone with finality, pulling back from her.

“You don’t get to make that choice, now go gather your things.”

“I already have. And if anything happens to dad, I’ll never forgive you or myself. I’m not going.”

“JUGHEAD--”

“HE’LL DIE! Is that what you want?!” It exploded out of him before he could hold it back, and he was crying again. “If we just abandon him he’s going to die here. It’s not fair for you to ask me to do that, mom. I won’t.” She recoiled from him, his words stinging her like the lash of a whip. His gaze softened, but his stance remained firm. “Look. I know that you have to go and do this. I’m not angry at you for it, but don’t ask me to do this. Jellybean needs to go with you. You’re right, it isn’t safe for her to be here growing up in this. But someone needs to be here with him to take care of him. I understand if you can’t do it anymore, but I can and I will. Don’t try to change my mind -- I won’t. I’m staying with dad.”

“Oh my God.” Gladys whispered, and then bawled a fist and held it to her face, pinched with agony and littered with tears. “You can’t expect me to just leave you here with him--”

“You can’t expect me to abandon my dad. It’s done. Take Jellybean and go. I’m staying and that’s final.”

He was sure that he had broken his mother when she went down, sobbing as she held his knees.

“No, please no . . . my baby . . .” she quivered in a thin voice “not my baby . . .”

“Mom . . .” Jellybean whined fearfully, tugging at her shirt from behind. Jughead took his mother by the shoulders and stared her down levelly.

“I’m not a baby anymore, mom. I know that you have to do this for all of us. But someone has to look after dad. I’ll never be happy in Toledo knowing that we did this to him. Please let me do this.” The silence stretched out dreadfully before them until at long last a gentle, tentative nod was his answer.

“OK.” She whimpered, meeting his eyes with trembling lips. She smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead before holding his head in her hands, entirely heartbroken. “OK sweetheart. I trust you. I’m just going to miss you so much.” And she collapsed into his arms on the precipice of the complete destruction of their family unit. When they had regained enough composure to separate and move about Jughead got to work helping his mother pack Jellybean’s things.

---

I heard you crying I learned the story I saw the shadows behind the past They fall behind you And creep up slowly We're only human Behind the mask

---

It was in his little sister's bedroom that she decided to confront him about his decision, and of everything he had to endure in those twenty four hours, this was the worst moment of all.

“You’ve gotta come with us.” She said in the tiniest voice to his back, and for a moment he could not even bear to turn around and see that devastated little face.

“Someone has to watch dad, JB--”

“But I need you.” She sniffled. “I’ll miss you too much. I don’t know how to be without you.”

“You’ll have to be strong.” He struggled to speak.

“I don’t want to!” She shouted tearfully. “I want you!” She stomped her foot angrily. “You’re being stupid!”

“Jellybean--”

“I don’t wanna move to a new place without you!” She bawled. “I had to lose Hot Dog and now I gotta leave my friends and Betty and I can’t lose you, too!”

“Please listen to me--”

“NO!” She screamed. “You know you’re supposed to be with me! Polly wouldn’t leave Betty like this. Why are you doing this Juggie?!”

He spun around to face her and it was worse than he could have imagined. Just the splintered sight of her was enough to run him through to his very core. It killed any words that had been sitting on his tongue. It seized his very being with guilt and searing shame. He would never, ever forget how she had looked at him that day.

“If Betty were here she would tell you the right things and you would come with me. C’mon, let’s go talk to her, she’ll know what to do--” “JB stop. This is hard enough as it is we can’t just--”

“I’m not leaving town without you and I’m not leaving without seeing Betty.” She broke down again, her little frame jolting with sobs. “I WANNA SEE BETTY!!!” She screamed, slamming the door in his face as she ran from the room. He chased after her, stumbling out into the hall as the front door ricocheted loudly in it’s frame. He ran out onto the lawn just in time to see her pedalling away on her bike. His mother followed him out and clasped him by the shoulder.

“It’ll be good for her to see Betty before we go.” She said quietly, utterly defeated. “Come inside, you can help me finish packing.”

--- So don't take me down I couldn't stand to watch you fall 'cause everybody has a broken heart Remember this I couldn't stand to break it down to smithereens

---

Smithereens Lyrics by Annie Lennox

---

This was a very difficult chapter to write, to say the least. We all know that what happened in Jughead's past was devastating enough to shatter his family as well as his ability to love and trust wholly. I have had the misfortune of seeing what thing kind of upbringing can do to people firsthand. For those of you who might be going though something similar, please know that my inbox is always open to you. <3 Let me know your thoughts, updating again soon!

#riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fanfic #bughead #jughead jones #fp jones #gladys jones #jellybean jones #riverdale fanfic #bughead fanfiction #betty x jughead #betty cooper #betty/jughead #angst #archie andrews #fred andrews

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