#humming at the exact pitch of the wind and cars below

[frownyalfred]

every now and then, Bruce "I hate magic so much I pretend it doesn't exist" Wayne gets a little too in-tune with his city and freaks out everyone around him with minor, brief instances of eldritchy-ness.

except his kids. they do it too.

[nbrook29]

Lmao I don’t know how this happened 😆

***

June 26th 2021, Saturday

When Sander wakes up, it’s to the early morning June sunlight hitting him straight in the face. There’s a vague smell of alcohol lingering in the air, and he groans pitifully when he remembers the amount of beer he drank last night; well, it wasn’t that much per se, but for his not-usually-drinking self it was a bit much, which would explain the sour taste in his mouth. He could be beating himself up for letting a little too much loose and messing up his rather strict rules, but it’s finally summertime and he was feeling so happy and free. Exams are done and over with, bigger gatherings are allowed again, and most importantly, the love of his life has just graduated high school and-

Wait. 

He blinks his eyes open, arm reaching to the other side of the bed expecting a warm body, but it’s met with cold sheets instead. 

Where did that love of his life go? 

Bones cracking when he sits up on the bed, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes like a little boy, looking around the room, a twinge of worry in his mind. Robbe was way more drunk than him yesterday, being a giggly, inebriated, lovely, messy mess that was barely standing when the party came to an end. Sander had to practically carry him to their cabin, with Robbe wrapped like a koala around his back, holding tight as he mumbled love declarations into Sander’s hair until he fell asleep, arm looped around his head and cheek resting on top of it. It was unbearably cute, but it was also a miracle Sander’s legs didn’t give out because as small as Robbe is, carrying his dead weight on his back is a challenge.

For a second, a dark scenario enters his mind, and he’s working himself up over Robbe maybe getting up at some point to throw up and being so drunk he choked in the bathroom (yes, he’s a tad dramatic), but then a scrap of paper lying on the makeshift bedside table that is his backpack catches his sight and relief washes over him. 

It’s clearly torned out from his sketchbook and he smiles before he even reaches for it.

Come and find me when you wake up x

Little hearts were added all around for good measure and then there’s another message below.

P.S. You’re so fucking hot xxxxx

Snorting, Sander thinks back to yesterday’s afternoon when he showed up to pick Robbe up with his dad’s car so they could meet everyone in Ostend. The way his jaw dropped wide open seeing his brand new look makes him feel very smug at the mere memory.

Right next to the note there’s that piece of confetti he put in Robbe’s long hair at the party, his boyfriend blushing so prettily when Sander told him he couldn’t find a flower as beautiful as him around so the confetti had to do for the time being. 

That’s Sander’s favorite activity: pulling a blush out of him with his sappy lines. Well, maybe after getting lost in their out of this world kisses. Or making love to him, slow and sweet or fast and dirty, Sander’s not picky.

5 minutes and he’s out the door after the quickest shower of his life, minty fresh and ready for a quest to find his other half. It’s still very early, the clock showing a few minutes past eight, and to be honest, Sander wonders how on earth is Robbe up and about already. He was fully preparing for a morning full of Robbe’s moans (not the good kind), cursing him for letting him drink so much and swearing on his life that he’ll never touch alcohol again.

The beach is almost empty, barely a few people lounging on the sand, and it takes him no time to spot longish brown curls flying with the force of the wind. Robbe looks lost to the world around him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back onto his arms, face turned to the sun to catch the early morning rays. A soft smile is dancing on his lips as he takes in the sight of the calm sea stretching till the horizon to the sound of whatever is playing in his headphones (probably Bowie because Robbe has a Master’s degree in his music now, courtesy of Sander Driesen) and he looks the most relaxed Sander has seen him in weeks. He looks beautiful.

And Sander is so so in love with him it hurts.

The boy must’ve sensed his presence because he turns around just when he’s a few meters away, his smile growing wide at the sight of him, squinting a little and wow, how does he look so good after a night like that? Sander wonders whether it’s his lovesick devotion that makes him see Robbe through a filter or if sleep did its job marvellously this time.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Robbe pulls at his jean jacket to sit him right next to himself and wastes no time before looping his arms around his neck, peppering his lips with good morning kisses.

“Hey, drunkie,” Sander teases once Robbe gets his fit, earning a half-hearted glare and a soft scoff.

“I was not that drunk.”

“You fell asleep on my head while I was carrying your butt to bed.”

“Well your head is very comfy,” Robbe states matter-of-factly, leaving no room for further discussion because he shuts up any snarky comment Sander may have had with another kiss. That’s a-okay with him, and he tangles his hand in Robbe’s gorgeous locks that he will worship till the day he dies, never missing an occasion to bury his fingers in the tangled strands. The other hand joins in the fun, tugging playfully at the earring he’s also a tiny bit too obsessed with and delighting in the high-pitched sound it pulls out of Robbe.

“What are you doing here so early? I thought you’d be dead to the world till at least noon.” Sander makes himself comfy in Robbe’s embrace, leaning against him and playing with Robbe’s long fingers that are resting on his stomach.

The boy huffs a quiet laugh, a warm puff of air tickling Sander’s neck. “I think it’s the sea breeze making me sober up quicker than normally,” he pauses, hand nudging lightly at Sander’s chin to make him lift his head back and meet his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he continues. “That and also I think that I was less drunk on alcohol and more drunk on love.”

Sander may be the king of sappy lines, but Robbe has a few of his own up in his sleeve, and everytime he pulls one out, it makes him melt into a pile of goo. Sander crashes their lips together in a kiss that’s a little too heavy for a morning in a public space, but hey, they’re drunk on love and he doesn’t care, Robbe doesn’t care either, and there aren’t many people around them anyway so fuck it. He hums into the kiss, Robbe’s tongue grazing the roof of his mouth almost as by accident, and it’s so good, it always is.

“Last night, it felt so... life-changing, you know? And I don’t know why cause not that much is changing, really.”

“You’re graduating high school, it feels big.”

“Yeah, but I’m staying here for uni, I’m not moving or anything. I don’t know, I think I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately.” Robbe shrugs like he doesn’t really understand it, but doesn’t want to dwell on it either. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows though so Sander reaches to smooth it out with his thumb.

Then, something comes to his mind. “Maybe it’s because of us?”

Robbe’s frown gets deeper. “What do you mean?”

Sander turns around in his arms, nodding at the surroundings, voice laced with excitement. “You know this is the first time we have been at the beach since we met?”

Brown eyes blink at him in confusion, but then they light up and match Sander’s excitement.

“Oh my god, you’re right! Fuck, it feels like a different lifetime.”

A very miserable, shitty lifetime if you ask Sander. For both of them.

“I was so lonely back then,” Robbe sighs.

Sander notices a tiny shadow of sadness fogging Robbe’s eyes, like it always happens when he thinks back to that period of his life. Some wounds were cut too deep to fully heal, but Sander’s always there to bring him back to the present.

Tugging lightly on his hair to make him look back at him, Sander gives him a lopsided grin.

“Not gonna lie, I’m very pleased this time around the only person that’s allowed to kiss you is me.”

Robbe hums, a smirk brewing on his lips. “Hmm, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss from Jens I think.”

And Sander knows he’s doing it on purpose, absolutely loves to rile him up and play the “Jens” card when he wants to be snogged into submission. Robbe learned early on that even though Sander’s aware he’s just joking, his possessive streak always comes out in situations like this, making their kisses extra good and their sex extra hot.

“Careful now,” Sander breathes against his mouth, the pent up tension that accumulated last night and wasn’t relieved because Robbe was too drunk hitting him hard. It seems to be mutual because Robbe bites his lip seductively, impish smile letting Sander know that he’s getting the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna carry you to bed the way I did last night, but the finale will be a little different.”

Suddenly, Robbe’s smile turns softer, the gear change leaving Sander a bit confused, but he welcomes it with a chuckle when Robbe snuggles close to him, nuzzling into his neck and letting out a content sigh.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs sweetly against his skin, breaking and healing Sander’s heart all at once. 

“I love you too, cutie. In elk universum.” 

A giggle erupts from Robbe at the universe line. “It’s been a while since you said that.”

Sander presses a kiss to his temple. “I think I'm feeling a bit nostalgic too.” 

***

The beach is slowly starting to fill out with people and bursting their little bubble so they get up reluctantly to the sounds of their grumbling stomachs that demand late breakfast. They notice their friends in the distance, spreading a huge blanket on the sand and carrying armfulls of food, and they walk over to them slowly, smiling goofily at each other and swaying their joined hands, paying no mind to people around. 

“Hey, Sander?” Robbe says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna be dating a college boy now,” Robbe announces, and he sounds so proud and so adorable that Sander has to tease him a little.

He sighs, putting an extra edge of sorrow into it. “I think you’re getting too old for me, Robin.” A choked-off sound of pain follows, Robbe’s mellowy state not stopping him from jabbing his elbow in Sander’s ribs when he’s being a cheeky little shit. He should’ve known better by now - Robbe’s elbows are merciless. 

They arrive at the spot shoving each other playfully until Zoe yells at them to behave and sit their butts down like good boys to eat their food. They dig in without needing to be asked twice, their previous bickering forgotten as Robbe feeds him sandwiches, pretending they’re airplanes and making Sander and everyone around laugh hard.

This, today, yesterday, is a new memory. One that wipes away the angst he used to associate sea and beach with after enviously watching Robbe in the arms of someone else. 

This time, Robbe’s smiles are directed at him, his eyes are constantly seeking out him, hand slides surreptitiously into his hand, and Sander’s heart is bursting with happiness.

They’re going on a roadtrip this summer, just him and his favorite skater boy, and Sander cannot fucking wait. Just like he can’t wait for their future together.

And if there’s a ring sitting in his bottom drawer nobody needs to know for now. 

Robbe will find out in 55 days.

[myelocin]

home is along the sky, because you are the sun

synopsis: “if i ask you the question about what you wanna ask from life and how you’ll feel if you let go, how would you answer?”

characters: hirugami sachiro, you, hanamaki takahiro

genre/warnings: fluff, domestic!au, poly(?) relationship [or friendship idk it really depends on how u], baker!makki, aspiringphilosopher!sachiro, just fluff rlly

wc: 2,400+

a/n: wow, how where do i even go from here. this is for you, @strawbericream, the person who created a safe space for me to find home in even before i started this blog (also the inspiration why i started this blog in the first place). all my love and good wishes for you & the path you take. continue to see the beautiful parts in life, teresa :)

-

Hirugami Sachiro asks you to watch the stars with him one day and the story begins like that.

“Do you even know anything about the constellations?” you ask, leaning back and watching the midnight blue unfold. From your peripheral vision, you see him shake his head. He was probably smiling at your question too. You don’t turn your head to confirm; it’s safe to say you know him well enough to be certain of that.

“I don’t,” he replies, traces of mirth swaying in the tone as he cranes his head to face you.  “I just like to watch when the world is still and pretty.”

“Poetic,” you comment, then later chuckle when he knocks his shoulder against yours. Sachiro had a habit to be soft in both his actions and words—something you adored, you decided.

“I try to be,” he admits with a sigh, hands raised in mock surrender. He sounds a little dreamy, you think; fitting for someone like him.

Despite the occasional sound of the cars zooming past your building in the streets below coupled with the constant buzzing of your phone against the plastic Tupperware next to you, the moment you stayed in silence with him felt almost dream like. The good kind, too.

Because at 23:11 in an open rooftop of the apartment complex you’ve been living in, you stare up and render yourself speechless when the milky way above you begins to dance in the sky.

Slow swirls, twinkling stars, and wisps of something you don’t know but think is beautiful anyway. It’s much like life and the world, you suppose. Just filled with moments of things that pass your eye every day, but only truly see its beauty when you clear your mind and just look.

You look at Sachiro beside you, looking like he’s within the clouds and smile.

“What do you think about when you see the world?” you ask him.

“I just try to observe and not really think,” he replies, and you nod because he says it in a tone that makes sense.

There are too many hours within the day where all that consumes your thoughts are questions of whether you’re taking two steps forward or four steps back. In a sense, Sachiro’s words hold a semblance of truth to them because sometimes what you really need to do is just look at the world as you allow it to just be.

Where you don’t question why the sun rises, sets, or moves with a pattern in the sky every day. Why the moon is the reason for the push and pull of the waves that also happened to be the representation of the desire to be “free”.

Of what makes the blood in the veins flow and represent life even if the sight of it could also mean the loss of life.

In the irony of things, your thoughts spiral after Sachiro beside you tells you to do the exact opposite of that.

So you look up.

The stars above look like splattered dots as some merely blink, while others twinkle. You can’t decide which one you prefer; they all connect to you in a way. And as you keep staring, you come to realize that the night isn’t pitch black, but rather a dull gray—because when the clouds of a deeper hue roll in sight, their colors are vibrant.

The wind says hello and you shiver in time with the ruffle of Sachiro’s hair. It looks soft, you muse. You know it’ll feel like it too.

“If I ask you the question about what you wanna ask from life and how you’ll feel if you let go, how would you answer?” he asks, turning to face you.

You look at him, taking note of the expression on his face that sort of borders the edge between teasing and genuine curiosity and sigh—pondering about his question.

Life is well, too unpredictable to ever commit your heart a hundred percent to one stationary thing and expect life to deliver it. Even though there are some things you want, at the same time, asking life to deliver the specifics would be like trying to balance on water.

And as for letting go, well, you turn your face away from him and look up into the sky again. At the clouds looking like heavy cotton on a blank canvas. You can still feel Sachiro’s stare at your profile when you exhale and sigh, “I don’t think there’s answer; just live life and let the current flow I guess.”

He smiles; Sachiro knows you got his message.

“It’s gonna rain,” you comment, breaking the silence again as the wind picks up and the blinking stars hide behind the clouds aching to weep,

Beside you, Sachiro hums.

“We’re not gonna get up are we?” you add with a laugh, realizing his intention.

He laughs, eyes meeting yours in the middle when you crane your neck and do the same. Even under the dim lights, you could still make out the hue of a soft walnut.

The color of warmth—promising. And it was fitting, because you always found that Sachiro’s words were rather nurturing.

“Why don’t we just let the world be,” is what he says as the two of you lack back down and face the sky, basking in the world and letting the current be, as the raindrops begin to fall.

-

You consider Hanamaki Takahiro as the being that’s heaven sent because two days after letting the world “be” and laying in the pavement, drenched in the rain with Sachiro, you’re at home with your head held in between your hands and a sniffle to remind you of the cold you’re braving through.

“On a scale of one to ten how much do you regret laying in the rain and pretending to be in a music video for fun?” Takahiro laughs as he plops down on the seat next to you.

Sniffling, you roll your eyes and grab the mug he held out to you.

The mug in your hands felt warm, and when you inhaled you smiled—Takahiro was quiet in many ways about his affections, always preferring to mix his comments into bouts of humor, but he was always the one to remember the little things.

You recall that you’ve only mentioned your favorite kind of tea once as a passing comment when you were at a grocery store together some years ago, but every time you’re at his apartment, you always smile when you see the familiar packet tucked into the corner of the pantry next to the mug he knows you like the best.

“What were you even talking about?” he asks again, shuffling closer to pull the blanket closer around your frame.

“He said some poetic shit again and I got carried away, so look at what happened,” you pout as Takahiro’s own expression lights up in mirth in front of you.

“Did you learn something, though?”

“I always do,” you answer him with a soft sigh, bringing the mug closer to your lips.

“So am I the dumb friend that only gives you tea while Sachiro’s the one that gives you life changing advice?” Takahiro huffs, expression one of mock offense as he leans against the seat.

Smiling, you close the gap in between the two of you as you sit next to him and drop your head on his shoulder.

“No, you’re the one that always grounds me back to earth and make me feel like the ugly world is okay,” you confess, craning your head up and pressing a kiss on his jaw.

Takahiro hums, stretches one hand over your shoulder as he brings you closer to him while his head drops on top of yours.

“Warm,” you murmur, your mug of tea set on the table but hands still warm against Takahiro’s palm.

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? How do you feel?” he whispers, his hand rubbing your shoulders and chest rising and falling in time with his breaths. You can still taste the lingering flavor of the tea on your lips, and the low rumble of Takahiro talking about nothings in the room vibrates your cheek pressed against his chest.

“I feel warm,” you murmur again, then smile when his other arm comes around and secures you in a solid embrace. He smells faintly like pine; and for a second you slip into the thought that it’s winter outside, and you’re under your covers while the world outside swirls with the current.

“Of course you do,” Takahiro laughs, then presses his face against the crown of your hair.

You fall in to slumber with the thought of home the only thing in your mind.

-

When you wake up, you’re in bed facing the window. You’re left feeling a little groggy for a few moments as you sit up and rub your eyes, thoughts a haze as you gradually allow reality to trickle in your senses.

The blinds are shut and the blankets pooling in your lap still feels warm. Warm like sleep.

Like the mug of tea cradled between your hands earlier.

Warm like Takahiro’s chest as the scent of pine and spring lulled you to sleep of what you could guess to be just hours ago.

It’s already 12:03 am, you realize when you open the door and take slow steps into the hallway, your slippers making light noises over the wooden floor. Blinking away the lingering remnants of sleep, you peer into the hallway, faded light trickling from the kitchen into the area where the hallway opened into the living room.

Then, when the haze in your thoughts clear, you blink and scrunch your nose when you realize the room smells faintly like strawberries. Bunching up your blanket and draping it over the back of the couch next to you, you walk towards the kitchen in curiosity.

The room around you feels warm; like the kind of warm that lingers in the room when you’ve been cooking all day.

“There she is,” you hear a voice to call as you round the corner and enter the room.  It’s Sachiro, you notice. He’s leaning against the counter to your far left as Takahiro next to him stands with a bowl of something whipped balanced in his hand. You have half the mind to ask you why they’re at your apartment instead of at home, but you suppose that because their presence is always welcome, at the moment you don’t really seem to mind.

“Morning,” Takahiro greets as he turns his head to look at you.

“It’s midnight,” you comment as you take a seat in the table on the side that faces the two of them.

“It’s also your birthday,” Sachiro laughs as he carries the rack of what you assumed to be cooling layers of cake and takes the seat opposite to yours.

You scrunch up your nose and fold your arms over one another as you lay your head and face him. He smiles, in the way that’s gentle and patient before reaching over and booping the tip of your nose.

“You forgot about it didn’t you?” Takahiro adds with a laugh as walks over and takes a seat in the side between the two of you.

“It’s still night in my book, so I’ll feel like it’s my birthday when we hit tomorrow,” you yawn, feeling your eyelids grow a little heavy. “Why are you two baking a cake?”

“Because we know your schedule’s only gonna pile up from now,” Sachiro says in a matter-of-fact­ tone.

“And because it’s your birthday,” Takahiro points out, scooping a dollop of the cream into the first half of the cake.

At the sight, you perk up and scoop a little of the excess on the side of the bowl, plopping it into your mouth. You brighten up, smiling as you recognize the taste.

“Strawberry cream?” you grin at Takahiro.

“It’s your favorite isn’t it?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“Happy birthday,” Sachiro greets in a sing-songey voice, leaning his body forward and grabbing your hands in his. He stares at you, smiling eyes and all as the warmth in his voice ricochets in the quiet room.

“You excited to start this new arc?” Takahiro asks, taking a break and facing you with his head propped up by the palms of his hand.

“I am,” you reply softly.

“Issei, Tooru, and Hajime texted early saying congratulations,” he adds and you beam at the mental image of them. They always did bring you smiles, you realize.

“We’re proud of you,” Sachiro says, squeezing your hands.

You smile, thinking back to his question that night. Of what you wanted to ask of life, and you realize that instead of asking it for something you want to say thank you instead. For the good parts, good memories—lasting memories and connections you’ve made.

In reality, the current you’re on still flows without assurance towards any direction, but for now, you realize—in this room, in this moment, the waters are nothing but calm.

You hear Takahiro scoop another dollop of the strawberry cream into the second layer of the cake as you listen to Sachiro pose another question where you know would let your thoughts drift into unknown waters again.

But in the moment, because you’re home, you smile and tell life thank you.

Takahiro and Sachiro look at you as you stare at them, a dreamy look in your eye that only tells them you’re drifting somewhere good.

The two share a look and laugh softly.

It’s a little past 12:40 in the morning when the streetlight visible down the street from your apartment window flickers like it’s going to go out anytime soon, and Takahiro’s finished crumb coating the cake, that the three of you finally snap back to the present and share a smile towards each other.

Your schedule with the unmarked checkboxes lay next to your laptop at your desk while the plans for tomorrow piece themselves together at the back of your head. Wherever the current takes me, you think.

“Thank you,” Takahiro says, and beside him Sachiro’s smile mirrors his.

“For?” you laugh.

“Just cause,” Sachiro laughs and intertwines your hands with his once more.

When you smile at them, they catch themselves a little blinded.

They’ve always thought that you’ve belonged with the sun. 

-

Thank you for the stories and smiles, Teresa. Here’s our wishes to your future! May you always always tread in the beautiful parts of life. <3

[lazywriter7]

Starkquill Rave - Fic time!

Awhile ago, I’d offered to write one from three Starkquill prompts as a thank you to all the people who’d offered such amazing support to my writing - see post here . 

The people have spoken and the results are in: with no trouble whatsoever, the musical soulmates AU has emerged victorious! A giant Thank You to all the people who voted and reblogged, I love you and I hope you get what you came for ;) The plot ballooned up, hence the lateness - but here’s part one: Prompt:  “soulmate au where no one hears music until they fall in love” HIT READ MORE

1986

 The Chevy’s wheels sizzle on the asphalt, gravel flying off the highway to clatter on its undersides. The windshield is hazy under the glare of the high noon sun. The window panes are half rolled-down, heat streaming into the car under the guise of wind. Poles and railings and the odd warehouse – all flit by in an unending blur, melding into the landscape of the Great American Countryside stretching about him.

Sweat is beginning to collect under his fingertips; he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. It leads to his back losing contact with the sticky leather of the seat, t-shirt parting with his skin to let through a small draught of coolness. The Chevy Camaro IROC-Z probably wasn’t built for a sixteen-year-old driver, though he doubts he’s ever going to grow taller. His legs are over-extended as is, feet half-skimming the gas and brake pedals. He should’ve pulled over and moved the seat up a long time ago, but he hasn’t been able to make himself slow down. The road feels distant, at this speed. Like he’s barely touching the ground, like these straight grey lines are mere guidelines rather than boundaries he can’t cross over.

Something vibrates on the dash – he looks over, sees a flashing screen. In a move that barely registers in his head as careless, he reaches over till his belly skims the bottom of the steering wheel, fingers extending for the scorching chrome-and-plastic of his phone. He hits receive and speaker in quick succession, settles back into the damp groove his weight has created in the seat.

“Tony.”

The word is almost lost as the Chevy speeds under and past a flyover – Tony’s breath leaves his chest slowly. “Hey pumpkin.”

Rhodey’s tone is even, well-controlled. “Where are you? The campus police have been looking for hours–”

“Not on campus.” Tony speaks lightly. The wind is rippling past the hairs on the back of his neck, the ones on his sweat-sodden, taut arms. It’s been two years since they grew in, and they still feel vaguely foreign on his skin.

“…how far?”

“Exact coordinates are a bit of a bust.” He knuckles at the sweat collecting over his upper lip – it’s still faintly tender from the shave earlier this morning. “I’m guessing somewhere in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri.”

“Missou–” The composure drains out of Rhodey’s voice in a hot second – word sawed off at the end in an effort to bank the panic. “How did you… how?”

“You know, the usual. Bought a plane ticket. And a car.” Tony keeps a hand on the wheel, stretches the other one out the window to be buffeted by the wind. Trails a fingertip ever-so-lightly over the window frame, smoothing over the vermilion-red finish. “The transmission is gorgeous, Rhodes. She handles like a dream.”

The frustration comes through easily over the silence on the line, Rhodey picking and discarding words and trying not too breathe too heavily. Tony waits him out, and sure enough, “You don’t have a license.”

“The showroom owners didn’t seem to mind.” The sky stripping over his head is heat-pale, blue fading away under the encroaching brightness of the sun. “Then again, I left my credit card with them so they probably wouldn’t have minded if I burned the place down.”

Nothing but the white noise of the highway. Tony half-thinks the line has gone dead, the click of the call ending lost somewhere between exits 43 and 44 – it doesn’t even sting that much. His heart kicks up a notch when words come through again, concern softening the syllables. “Media’s flocking the campus. Everyone wants to talk to the youngest ever winner of the 2.007 MIT Robot Design award.”

“How exciting for them.” He doesn’t mean to glance to the left, but the trophy still glints at the corner of his vision – knocked over on its side, cradled in the crease of the front seat. The burnished plaque at the bottom gleams dully: mens et manus. Mind and hand. There’s a name below the inscribed motto, three words long, that’s mostly been scratched out.

Tony looks straight ahead and drives.

“Your.” He doesn’t have to wonder too long to know what’s at the end of that uncharacteristic stutter. “Your dad gave an interview.”

“That’s good, I’m sure he needs the exposure.” The wheel creaks under his grip; Tony loosens it inch by inch, every motion tight and deliberate. “Next time, I’ll make sure to get a journalist pass before expecting him to come see me.”

An exhale. “Tony–”

“Sorry, gas station up ahead. Gotta fill up, talk to you later.”

The brake moves down sharply under his foot, tires squealing as he swerves violently to the right. He barely makes the turn, phone flying off the dashboard to clatter noisily to the floor.

The car lurches into the driveway, fender scraping past the pole of an unlit neon sign. It trundles through, passing under the broad shadow of the station’s concrete canopy. Rolling to a stop beside a self-serve console, Tony leaves the keys in the ignition and kicks the door open.

The gravel crackles under his soles. The air is hot and still. He flicks his eyes towards the fuel gauge – barely an inch below full.

The air whispers listlessly past his lips, skin dry and beginning to crack. His hands are still shaking.

For the lack of anything better to do, he flicks the radio on. Static, static, static… his fingers catch and turn the dial, degree by degree. And then–

 –leave me be

Taking everything in my stride

Don't need reason, don't need rhyme

Ain't nothing I would rather do

Tony’s lips curve, quick and bittersweet. He pulls his legs back into the car, shifts back till the scalding leather of the headrest presses into his hair. Closes his eyes.

Going down, party time

My friends are gonna be there too

I'm on the highway to hell

 Somewhere under the spectacular guitar riffs, he can hear another car pull into the station. The near-inaudible squeal of the engine coming to a stop, the click of a door swinging open. A few seconds, and then footsteps crunching over gravelly concrete, growing more and more distant.

Tony opens his eyes. Through the windshield, he can glimpse the back of a man (judging by the balding pate) in his sixties, disappearing through the glass doors of the attached convenience store. In idle curiosity, he glances over to the neighbouring console. Typical grey Ford Escort – 1981? 82? Whichever, it’s a boring car either way – bumpers turned dusty and brownish courtesy of the road. Both the front doors are thrown open, the driver’s seat desolate.

A flicker of movement – Tony’s eyes move towards the hood, where something…no wait, someone is blocking the view of the front tire.

Wow, that is one tiny human. Even from this distance, he can see the wide eyes, the slightly agape jaw. One tiny human staring at Tony’s car.

He’s clambering out of the Chevy Camaro before he’s fully aware, gangly limbs unfolding and his knees poking out through ripped denim. The boy – it seems like a boy, what with the crazy tufts of hair and general scruffiness – gazes at him for a while, before those eyes whip back to the car.

 Hey Satan, paid my dues

Playing in a rocking band

Hey mama, look at me

I'm on my way to the promised land

 “Bitchin’ ride, huh?” Tony reflects on the wisdom of using slang in front of an impressionable child, before kicking the thought to the back of his head. “You like it?”

The kid stays mute. Tony comes round the hood of the Chevy – the kid somehow looks even more rundown at this angle. Pale, drawn face, eyebags.

Tony reaches through the other window of his car, till his fingers wrap around the warmed metal of the trophy. Pulls it out and turns around to see the kid nervously gnawing at his lip, chin tilted high.

“I. I’m not supposed to be talking to strangers.” Nervous lip gnawing or not, the boy still meets Tony’s eyes, a pale and bloodshot gaze. His voice is slightly deeper than expected, somehow stripped of the traditional lilting tones of a child.

“I promise this isn’t made of candy.” Fingers uncurling, Tony lets the trophy roll slowly out of his hand – the boy’s eyes widen, before his hands dart to scoop it out of the air in an impressive show of reflexes.

Tony can feel his lips stretch out on either side of his cheeks – it doesn’t feel halfway fake. He pulls the Chevy’s door open on the passenger side, ducks in and shimmies over to the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder, he can still see the boy staring at his – dash? stereo? – pallid fingers loosely clasped around the base of the MIT prize.

Tony wraps steady fingers around the sweat-sticky wheel, chest rising and falling calmly. Starts up the engine, a smooth and pitch-perfect purr. Glances left for the last time, curl of the mouth punctuated by a wink. “Stay rad, kid.”

This time, he turns the Chevy with considerably more grace – wheels skimming on the concrete before dismounting onto highway asphalt. His seat is still too far back, but he doesn’t feel half as strenuously stretched out.

The sky sprawls on ahead. Tony hums.

 And I'm going down

All the way

I'm on the highway to hell.

  ~

  “I don’ get it.”

Peter can feel his nose scrunching, which he smoothens immediately.

Too late. “What don’t you get, bunny?”

He shudders. Yeah, not one of his favourite nicknames. “It doesn’ even – okay, listen, here it comes again–”

He-ell

(He-ell)

What’s the matter with your he-ad

“See?” Peter wants to shake the radio a little, but then it might fall off the sill again and Mom hadn’t liked that. “It doesn’ even rhyme.”

“It doesn’t have to rhyme, sweetie.” Mom plucks at the plastic tube going into her hand, almost like she’s strumming. “One of the gifts of modernism.”

“Whazzat?”

“No clue.” Mom smiles a little fuzzily, letting the tube jerk back into place. It looks almost invisible against her hand. “Your smarty-pants cousin used to say it.”

Peter wants to protest the smarty-pants status of Mara – she calls him a dum-dum, and he doesn’t think that’s a very smart insult at all – but then the chorus starts. It sounds, like all music does, like words awkwardly strung one after the other, missing something called the melody. And Mom says that’s the most important bit.

Come and get your love

Come and get your lo-ove

“But.” And Peter can feel his nostrils flaring up again, even though he’s trying really hard to understand, “Don’ you just…have love? Why’d you have to go get it? Did you leave it somewhere?”

Mom laughs – which Peter loves, even if it makes his chest puff out further in indignation. “You’ll understand when you hear it, honey.”

But I am hearing it. He’s hearing the guy say the words, even if they’re pitched weirdly. But Mom, and the world, says that he can’t Really hear music until he falls in love, and that won’t happen until a few more years ‘at least’.

The hospital bedsheet scrunches under Peter’s fingers, stiff and starchy. The nurses still haven’t opened up the windows, and the air smells dead.

He doesn’t want to wait a few more years. He needs to understand what’s making Mom smile now.

He wants to climb up on the bed, tuck his knees under her sides. But Mom doesn’t look up to it, so he just crosses his arms and tries to keep the whining to a minimum. “What if I don’t fall in love till I’m like… twenty.”

“Then you’ll be wiser than any teenager that ever lived.” Mom smirks like she made a really good joke. Peter resists the urge to sigh, Gramps-style.

“What if I can’t hear music even after I fall in love.”

“That means you’re waiting for your soulmate.” Mom’s teeth click together on the ‘t’, eyes creased like paper. “It’s the best reason of all.”

“Dierdre says,” He pronounces it like dray-dray, because no eight year old needed to have that complicated a name. “That soulmates are shi – stuff that’re made up for people who’re too selfish to love anyone.”

“I think it’s kinda romantic.” Mom says, still all wrinkly-eyed. “Your brain deciding to hold off one of the best experiences of life, just to share it with someone important.”

“What if,” And who cares if he’s mumbling a little, toes wriggling in his shoes, “they’ve already experienced it?”

“Then they’ll still value the moments they share with you, Pete.” Mom’s fingers dance across the bedspread, white on white, a delicate tap-tap. “There’s nothing in the world quite like having a tune in your ear. A chorus kicking into full swing. And looking around you, and realising that everyone around you is feeling the exact same thing.”

“You’ll remember the songs you listen to. The songs you sing.” And then, like magic, her spindle-like fingers find his – scrunched tight against the sheets. Coax them loose, encase them in her hand with a gentleness that comes so easy. “It doesn’t matter, if they’re the first ones or the last. What matters is that you remember, and hold them dear.”

The people or the songs, he wants to ask – but the answer’s there, in the shine of Mom’s eyes.

It doesn’t matter. When it’s the right person, the right song. The answer is one and the same.

 ~

 2012

 Peter’s borne several names through his lifetime.

Some he’s clung to with mulish bloody-mindedness – light of my life. My precious son. My little Starlord. Some he hears with such repetitive frequency that the effect’s gotten somewhat stale. Terran. Criminal. Dick.

And some that he would happily do with never having to hear ever again. Presenting to you: man who has lain with an A'askavariian.

Not that he resents being framed as the James Bond type. O-ho no, he is quite satisfied with tales of his exploits being spread throughout the galaxy. Except when they involve tentacles. And teeth.

Not that Rill isn’t an entirely delightful… entity. But they never anything-ed. At all. Remotely. Shy’la ‘caught’ them together, but he was only ever trying to get some info out of her on the Nova archives. Which is why he resents being summoned here by her in some Rigellian dive bar and have people eye him like… it’s goddamn middle school all over again, the time it’d got out that he pecked Molly Sheridan on the cheek. The same surveying with interest. That Shi’ar by the corner doesn’t even have limbs, for heaven’s sake.

“Pew-ter.”

Oh wonderful.

Peter plasters a smile on his face – more rictus-y than usual, but it’s not like these jackasses are gonna be able to tell – and turns around. There, under the Karona lights by the bar. Should’ve figured.

Rill is occupying three of the bar stools, mandibles long and dangling over her lower lip. Her neon-pink skin positively hurts to look at under the lighting. Her voice is garbled, but infinitely pleased. “Pew-ter.”

Peter manoeuvres between the tables till he’s reached the bar, turning in place to cock a hip against the counter. A pink tentacle goes slithering off the stool next to him, leaving behind a slime trail that smells faintly of lavender.

Rill smiles down at him benevolently – Peter keeps his own grin through a valiant struggle. “Standing is fine, thank you.”

It’s difficult to understand her response through all the chirruping; she either says so polite or hubba hubba. Peter tries not to dwell on it. “So you. Erm. Said you found something of potential interest to me?”

“So I did.” Rill strokes her own temple with a proboscis. “My feeder crafts came across–”

“Whoa, whoa. Shouldn’t we be talking about this in a,” He clears his throat significantly, “ore-may ivate-pray…ocation-lay?”

A'askavariians don’t have eyelids – otherwise he gets the impression there would be a lot of blank blinking going on right now.

“What?” Okay, he’s sounding a bit defensive, sue him if Toby McIntosh only explained the rules of pug latin to him once. “Did I not do it right?”

“I would be better able to inform you,” Rill informs him gravely, mandibles wobbling, “if I knew what you were trying to do.”

Maybe A'askavariians don’t have pugs either. Good for them, Peter doesn’t know why you’d want to talk to those wrinkly-looking bastards anyway.

“We are having a secret deal.” He’s doing the whisper-and-lean now, which is super obvious, but What Can You Do. “Shouldn’t we be doing this in a, yanno. Private location?” He’s feeling a little awkward about explaining ‘them rules’ to a mafia lord, but maybe the other mafia lords never told Rill about them. Sexist jerks.

“Oh no.” Rill chirps back cheerily. “Any spy in this bar would be confirmedly strong-bowelled.”

“Nice.” A pause. “What’s that?”

“We strangle them with our tentacles.” Rill demonstrates with a little wave-y motion. Peter waves back at the tentacle faintly. “And then disembowel them with our teeth.”

“Very nice.” Peter realises he’s been nodding for at least three seconds too long, before stilling his head with a jerk. “So, uh. Matter of interest?”

“As I was saying, my feeder crafts came across a decimated Chew-tari mothership–”

“Chitauri?” Peter usually doesn’t like giving away his cards that quickly, but holy shit. Fuck no. He straightens up immediately, ankle knocking into a barstool leg, “Man are you barking up the wrong tree, I want nothing to do with those lackeys or their boss–”

“–in addition to picking up some strange readings. Scans confirm recently lapsed warp-time behaviour, as well as particles from your corner of the universe.”

“Knowhere?” Peter scoffs quietly, but Rill’s beady eyes are twinkling under the lights and– “You mean Terra.”

Rill gathers her tentacles about herself, almost primly. “Have I got the right tree yet?”

Peter… doesn’t really have the brain space to deal with that question, to be honest. His mind is jittering back and forth in part-surprised, part-panicked strains, “Did they…was there… did they attack Terra?”

“I cannot confirm that.” There’s a part of his head still, that lives in a Joplin two-bedroom flat with a radio on the kitchen sill – a part that flinches at these words. “The ship was unsalvageable. We found only one lifesign for several systems, and it wasn’t Chew-tari.”

Peter’s lips part to speak on reflex, before pressing shut – words stilling in their tracks. It’s an age-old instinct that’s served him well over the years, the little voice of self-preservation that’s saved his hide time and again. You sure that stripper is legit, Pete? That’s a whole lotta guns for a lap dance routine. Yeah, that’s your Uncle Bill, but he’s also a Ravager and looks genuinely disappointed every time Yondu postpones Eat-The-Terran day. That slime looks like bad news, do not lick it.

Then again, he didn’t become a magnificent outlaw by not doing anything risky and immensely stupid. This is just a business deal. And he’s managed to walk out every single time, with few scars and fewer blaster burns on his jacket. He can back out before getting in too deep.

(He has to. He’s ridiculously in debt to the seamstress guild on Xandar, and they’re notoriously vicious when it comes to collection. Needles-in-bits vicious.)

Rill ahems politely, mandibles quivering. Peter is reminded that he’s keeping a mafia lord waiting, soft spot for him or no.

Fuck it. He smiles, broad and assured. “I’m interested. Show me what you found.”

 ~

 When Tony comes to, he hits his head on the inside of the helmet.

Clanggggg. His eyes only water slightly – this is far from the worst he’s ever had in the suit. He’s not plummeting to a fiery death, or freezing solid in the stratosphere, or even catapulting to crash against the workshop ceiling. This is good. This is manageable.

Sure, he can’t rub at the bump on his forehead because the suit is dead, but that’s cool. It is. They let him keep his suit in hell, which seems like a cheatcode if there ever is one.

“J? You there?” His lips barely move, but that shouldn’t be an impediment if JARVIS is still functional. The ensuing silence is answer enough.

This is fine. I’m fine. If the suit’s a cheatcode, then JARVIS would’ve been a goddamn walkthrough. If Dante is to be believed, then this level isn’t so easy to cross.

“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip.”

Tony opens his eyes.

Hell has an… interesting aesthetic. There’s a lot more neon-coloured lighting than the average person would expect, though Tony’s always believed Vegas to be an approximation of the netherworld. It’s more cavern than room; curved walls and no furniture, just oddly-shaped blocks that wouldn’t be out of place in a modern art exhibit. He can’t see any doors either, though his peripheral vision is fuck-all at this point.

Still, he’s got just enough leeway to crane his chin downwards – which confirms what he was already suspecting. He’s suspended in mid-air, his boots at least six inches clear off the ground. It’s like he’s been pinned in place by some kind of maglev effect, but he can’t fathom any present tech that would have the strength to hol–

No. No. Not tech. His heartbeat is beginning to skitter in his chest, pulse rapidly at the base of his neck. He would rather be dead and at the mercy of crazy Hades voodoo than be… lost in some speck of the universe. He refuses.

In typical fashion, the universe chooses that moment to slide open a section of the wall. What proceeds to come in appears to be closer to tentacle-alien than Fury-from-hell, but Tony is prepared to grant some artistic liberties.

Of course, all that is blown out of water when a Han Solo type swaggers in just after.

Maybe I made it to heaven. He’s being over-generous, but there’s something to be said for the clear-eyed, glinting regard of the man who’s just walked in.  There’s the getup, obviously – the jacket, the weapon holstered ever-so-carelessly on the hip, the fleet-fingered tap tap of his nails on his thigh suggesting anything but a lack of care. But what really sticks is the stare: hazel eyes, honest in their shade and undeniably mercenary in intention.

The fantasy comes to a screeching halt when the man actually opens his mouth. “I’d have to sell it off piece by piece, but I can get a good price.”

How dare.

Tony likes to think the suit comes alive through the power of his sheer indignation – but truth be told, he just kicked back his right heel and activated the emergency power supply. The repulsors whine to partial strength – he doesn’t do anything too fancy, just swivels his right gauntlet to point straight at his target.

And imparts devastating words that may or may not make it through his external speakers. “Sell this, you scummy Jawa.”

The repulsors fire, which is good. The man’s irises begin to glow, which is decidedly not.

The impact ripples out from the centre of collision like a shockwave – it catches Tony in the chest, wrenches him free of the maglev hold. It’s like being hooked and pulled backwards, very suddenly; the wall hits his back and he crumples, pain jangling in his senses like a livewire. His vision’s starting to go out.

Through it all, there’s space for one last, resentful thought.

Superpowers. Fuck me.

 -to be continued

[jilliancares]

Cat and Mouse: Chapter 1

Summary: Dan Howell is the Panther. He's evil, nefarious, ingenious, and good at coming up with adjectives for himself. The Raven is a nuisance, but he's definitely the most fun part when it comes to being a villain. As a child, Dan had been scared of his powers. He'd been weak. He'd become strong, though. Strong enough to torment the city; strong enough to annoy the Raven with every opportunity he got. 

Phil Lester only had one goal these days. To become strong enough to defeat the Panther.

Word Count: 3.4k

TW: there’s a kind of hinting towards depression/suicidal thoughts, v p subtle though

you can also read this on ao3 and wattpad!

next chapter

CHAPTER ONE: 

Dan picked fastidiously at his nail, barely bothering to glance up and survey his surroundings. The waiting part was definitely less entertaining, and he was disappointed to say that this was taking longer than usual. With a sigh, he settled onto the edge of the roof, letting his legs dangle precariously over the edge. He leaned back on one hand, using the other to rub at the skin of his cheek just under his mask—sometimes the fabric scratched his cheeks and left red marks behind, which wasn't really good for helping to keep his identity hidden.

With an annoyed huff, Dan leaned further over the edge of the building, letting his weight carry him further and further, until he was just barely balancing on the edge. He briefly entertained the thought of letting himself fall—and with it, the thought of not activating his gear—but refrained from doing so. He had more entertaining evening plans.

Far below, a man loitered in front of the building, occasionally pacing a few steps in one direction and then another. He tapped his foot, appearing impatient. Dan couldn't help it—sometimes his own emotions interfered. And he did feel impatient; he'd been waiting for almost ten minutes now.

Almost as soon as he thought this, there was a change in the atmosphere. It was subtle, and Dan doubted whether anyone besides himself would've noticed it, but it was definitely there. Dan blinked slowly, his contacts settling easily into place and changing the outlook of his entire surroundings. They were nifty things, able to make him see in the dark as easily as if he were a cat—which was kind of the point. And it was only due to his aesthetic that he'd made them look like cat eyes as well, the pupils thin and slitted.

With them, everything was focused into a much sharper clarity, and Dan almost wished it was a new moon tonight. There was nothing so great as being able to see all of his surroundings while the Raven stumbled to and fro, unable to see so much as Dan's fist connecting with his face.

By closing his eyes, Dan's sense of hearing intensified, everything around him becoming sharp points of focus. It was thanks to his mask, and the enhanced features the cat ears contained, but it felt as much apart of him that Dan felt an acute sense of loss when he wasn't wearing it, when he couldn't comfortably hear what was happening on the other side of the room.

Now, he heard the soft murmur of voices on the street below, and the thrum of cars passing by. Far away, a car honked, and another one returned the greeting, its sound higher pitched. Closer, Dan could hear a rodent of some kind—how it got onto the roof of the building, Dan didn't want to know—scuffling over the metal of the roof, its nails clicking distinctly. Finally, he focused on what was really drawing his attention, what he'd deliberately saved for last. Carefully, quietly—though not quite enough—two human sized feet eased their way across the roof, coming closer and closer to Dan.

Finally, he thought irritably. Took you fucking long enough.

The careful footsteps continued on their way, and Dan let them. Though really, hadn't Raven's mother ever told him it wasn't polite to sneak up on your arch nemesis?

"You should be thanking me," Raven's voice drawled, and Dan felt his lips pull into a smirk. He'd been waiting for this. It was as if his body finally activated when Raven was around, his blood pumping, his senses coming alive.

"And why is that?" Dan drawled. He leaned back on his hands again now, tipping his head backward to look at the other man. He was taller than Dan, that was for sure—not that it was a difficult feat. Dan had long since become acquainted with his height, however, and it only helped his image. The Panther, he thought. Small. Lithe. Unarguably evil.

Raven looked as angry and righteous as ever. Dan knew that his blatant refusal to get angry, to ever appear like he was trying, infuriated the Raven to no end. And so Dan amped up his act, especially for him. Dan imagined he would do anything for the Raven; anything to keep him coming back, anyway. He was dressed in his signature outfit, his mask slightly pointed, as if to imitate a beak. He might as well have gone all the way, like Dan had. Cat ears and everything!

Raven's cape sufficed as wings, Dan knew, invented by the very man who wore it. He was beyond creative, Dan had to give it to him—and a genius too. He was always creating gadgets to fuck up Dan's plans.

"Because I could've kicked you off the roof," Raven finally answered, and Dan raised an eyebrow, though the expression was obscured by his mask.

"Doesn't that go against all your like, superhero morals?" Dan questioned. "Besides, I would've been fine." It was true, Dan's own outfit was made of a special kind of material that assured he wouldn’t be harmed, even if he were to fall a very, very long way. More important though was its ability to make him land on his feet—and from there he could start running.

"You're incredibly lax for a villain," Raven commented. This idle chit-chat was fine with Dan. In fact, he was depending on it.

"Am I?"

"You didn't even know I was here," the Raven said confidently. See, that's where you’re wrong.

Dan hummed. "Well, yes, that's what you think."

Raven scoffed. "You're just trying to cover up for your own inattentiveness."

"Perhaps," Dan answered. "Or perhaps I knew you were here the second your rubber-soled shoes squeaked onto the roof. Perhaps I knew exactly where you would stand. Perhaps it'd be a good idea for you to not stand where you are for much longer."

Dan closed his eyes, a feral grin gracing his lips as he heard Raven's heart pounding away. Typical.

Move, Raven, he urged silently. Move. Move.

He felt his connection with one of the men below the building tugging at him. Whilst the Raven had chattered away, more of Dan's subjects had gathered beneath the building. Now, he suspected, they weren't waiting around impatiently. They probably looked excited, maybe mischievous. Maybe murderous.

"Press it at 9:30,” Dan had instructed, pressing a small button into the man's hands. His eyes had glossed over slightly—he'd looked dazed—but he'd nodded obediently. "And stand below the building on the corner of Marx's Street," he'd added. And then tilted his head slightly. "Actually, press it at a quarter til. The Raven had a knack for being late."

Move, Raven, Dan thought. Or it'll be too late.

He knew already that if the Raven didn't move he'd be forced to save him. Most of Dan's fun originated from the Raven, and Dan didn't quite know what his purpose would be without the other man.

He lifted his wrist up before his eyes, staring at the face of his watch. It was black with silver lines along the side to mark the hours. 9:44. In the watch, he looked at the reflection of Raven, stood still with indecision. He'd already wasted an entire minute trying to decide whether Dan was bluffing.

Dan watched as the seconds ticked away on his watch. He glared. Was he really going to have to save Raven?

As the seconds eased down to five, Dan tensed, ready to spring to his feet and shove the Raven out of the way.

Suddenly, Raven sprang, leaping into the air and taking a quick step towards Dan, before perching on the ledge beside him, the wind making his cape billow out over the lengthy drop. And not a moment too soon.

Just then, in the exact spot the Raven had been standing (which had taken a lot of calculations and guesswork on Dan's part), the flooring disappeared, falling, Dan knew, for several stories. That part of the roof was located directly overtop a large stairwell, and he would've fallen the whole way down, his cape-wings too large to expand in that small space.

"See, Raven?" Dan said, and he glanced up at the Raven with a soft smile. "Don't say I never warn you."

The Raven's mouth was pulled into a sharp line, his displeasure evident through that facial feature alone. Dan didn't blame him. His mind was probably whirring, trying desperately to understand how Dan could've planned that out ahead of time. In reality it was probably just hard for Raven to believe that anyone might possibly be as smart as he was. Sure, Dan wasn't quite as skilled at inventing things, but he was great at plans. He'd gotten straight A's his entire school career, even when it had begun to merge with his more nefarious activities.

"So," Dan said, "shall we get started then?"

—

Dan groaned, loud and long, as he stumbled into his apartment. He was bruised all over, though he supposed he had some salve somewhere that would help with that. His head felt infinitely lighter now that his connection with all those men below that building had been severed.

He closed and locked the door of his apartment behind him, giving his shoulders an experimental roll and wincing when something in his back twinged. Yes, the Raven seemed to have kicked him there, at some point. Dan suspected he deserved it, having forced several civilians to blow up that building. It'd been empty though, Dan had made sure of that. Still, the boss of that corporation probably wouldn't be too happy to see his building reduced to rubble, but that's what he got for rejecting Dan's application. Being a super-villain didn't pay much, after all, and it was a bit exhausting to have to steal his way through all his groceries.

Dan suspected he also deserved to be captured and unmasked for all his other crimes, but that had still yet to happen. The Raven was good, yes, but he wasn't good enough to capture him. To prevent some of his more dastardly plans, yes. To get Dan bound in ropes and his mask ripped from his face? Nope.

With a long-suffering sigh Dan stripped off his clothes, struggling out of the layers of latex and carefully folding his mask into a small square that could fit into his pocket. Practical and compact, his gadgets were. Not to mention fashionable.

He coughed, and his lungs burned in protest. It probably wasn't a good idea to breathe in so much smoke, but his favorite part about blowing things up was watching it. The smoke that billowed away was just part of the added fun. The Raven had been properly peeved to see that Dan had gotten away with his plans. He succeeded just as often as he failed, all depending on which one of them had shown up more prepared.

Still, Dan knew he wasn't properly evil. He wasn't torturing innocent civilians, wasn't shooting down crowds of people. He was just having a bit of fun, sometimes righteous fun, at that. Just last week he'd hunted down and castrated a serial rapist—he should be thanked for some of his deeds! (Some, though definitely not at all. Dan knew he wasn’t likely to get thanked for, say, bewitching the mayor, but still.)

Plus, having been born with his powers, wasn't it only Dan's right to put them to use? His divine right, perhaps?

His powers were easy, and once he'd actually embraced them, they'd been simple to control as well. All he had to do was give someone a command with a bit of intent behind it, and they'd do it. It wasn't anything like hypnosis, it wasn't some kind of trick. He could make anyone do anything he wanted, anything under the sun. He could even make them rip off their own dick (which he'd learned just last week).

Limping into his bathroom, Dan turned the knob of the shower and watched it sputter to life. He'd at least returned a few of the more vicious injuries the Raven had given to him.

He closed his eyes as he slipped into the shower, remembering the events of the night.

—

"No time, Panther," Raven said, standing tall over Dan. He looked powerful, although he always did. "Today's the day you're getting captured."

Dan threw himself back against the roof, groaning loudly into the night air. If he were any less skilled of a villain he wouldn't be so ballsy as to do something like that. He supposed he was putting himself in danger whenever the Raven was around—making himself vulnerable to capture, or perhaps death, if the Raven could bring himself to do that. But Dan was faster than the Raven, stealthier too. By the time the Raven could take a step, Dan would be on the other side of the roof.

"You're no fun, Raven," Dan complained, and he looked up at the dark figure with a frown. "Don't you even want to hear my monologue? My tragic backstory? I prepared one like all the proper villains in the movies."

"You're not funny," Raven replied. True, his mouth didn't curl in amusement, though Dan didn't doubt his own sense of humor. The Raven was too serious for his own good.

"Besides," Dan continued. "You've never caught me before. What makes you think today's any different?"

"This." Dan hadn't, of course, been prepared for Raven's new invention. He was always coming up with new things like that, trying to trip Dan up. And it worked. Dan was left gasping and in pain as currents of electricity coursed through his body, until he finally managed to pull himself out of the pain and launch himself away from his opponent, ripping off the bugs that had attached to him with the Raven's attack. They appeared to be some sort of projectiles, ones that latched onto Dan's clothes and released an electric current in response.

"Good God," Dan muttered, breathing hard. "That fucking sucked."

"I thought it would," the Raven replied snarkily. And then Dan grinned. Raven grew visibly angrier, which only made Dan more excited. Fighting the Raven made him feel alive.

The fight was brief but brutal, quick, vicious exchanges that left their skin and muscles throbbing in complaint. At the end of it all, having been electrocuted twice more, Dan was forced to bring it to an end.

"As fun as this has been," he panted, clutching his side. "I've really got to go."

"But you haven't done anything yet," the Raven had pointed out.

"How kind of you to remind me." Again, the Raven had a lot to learn. He wasn't the only smart person out there, after all. Usually, Dan persuaded people on the spot, right in front of the Raven. He enjoyed the disgusted downturn the hero's mouth took. But Dan could persuade them in advance too, and he could command them to respond to certain signals as well.

With a sarcastic salute to the Raven, Dan brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly into the night. The first rumbles of the explosion were echoing underneath them as Dan launched himself off the building, watching as the Raven sprang up into the air in flight, surprised. By the time Dan landed (on his feet, as usual), Raven was a speck in the sky, and glass was shooting from the windows of the building into the surrounding area, right before an explosion sounded below them. That’ll be the basement level.

Dan then set off with a run, years of practice under his belt, making something like running the easiest task in the world. He was quick. He was fast, just as fast as the Raven was, flying. Police sirens echoed all around, threatening to give Dan a headache. He sprinted on.

The damned Raven was following him from above, as Dan knew he would, and he giggled to himself as he sidestepped into a random alley and pressed himself against the wall. Suspecting trickery, Raven circled above him a few times, before deciding Dan had probably escaped into one of the surrounding buildings, and landed at the entrance of the alley. Dan stayed pressed against the wall. The art of melting into the shadows was as easy as breathing to him, and he stepped out of hiding when Raven was close enough.

The other man’s breath hitched quietly, just enough to let Dan know he’d truly surprised him, and then Dan pressed him against the brick wall with his body. He was strong for his size, he knew that, and it was all thanks to the muscle he’d built with his years of being the Panther. Raven was new to the equation, after all, but Dan was happier now than he’d been for a long while.

“Following me into a dark alley, Raven?” Dan whispered. He placed his hand on the exposed skin of Raven’s jaw, and the other man’s hand shot up to grip Dan’s wrist with the strength of iron. Dan concealed his wince—that was sure to bruise. He could feel the Raven’s body pressed against his, could feel him panting, due to all the rapid movement he’d been doing. “Don’t you know bad guys lurk here?”

“I could fucking electrocute you right now,” the Raven threatened. It was a bluff. If he could, he would’ve done it already, but Dan knew now, as he had suspected back on the roof, that Raven had used his last little electrocution bugs already. He was out of them.

“But you won’t,” Dan said sensually, and then he leaned up and whispered into Raven’s ear, “because you’re as turned on as I am?” The Raven made a choked sound, and he moved, just barely, likely about to deploy another hidden weapon. Dan wasn’t about to find out what other tricks he’d kept up his sleeve, and he leapt backwards, agilely perching on the ledge of a windowsill, several feet above the Raven’s head. This ability was another gadget installed in his costume—his shoes could propel him the length of two men into the air.

“You’re disgusting,” Raven snapped. Dan pouted.

“You’re homophobic,” he countered childishly, settling on the windowsill and dangling his feet below himself. Try to grab them, Raven, he silently urged. I dare you. “What a hero! A heterosexual hero. You wouldn’t save a queer, would you?”

The Raven growled, and he launched himself into the air, reaching for Dan’s feet. Dan laughed giddily, and he slammed the heel of his foot into Raven’s chest when he was close enough, delighting in the choked sound he made. Raven collapsed back onto the floor of the alley, and Dan jumped back down to squat beside him, breath knocked out and struggling to regain it.

“We really do have fun together,” Dan commented, and he cocked his head, staring down into Raven’s blue eyes. “We should do this again sometime! Maybe next week? I was thinking I might do something with the public library.”

Raven’s eyes filled with rage, and he bared his teeth. Soon enough, the air would flood back into his lungs, and he’d be diving to catch Dan. He stood, laughing as he stared down at Raven. He wasn’t quite at Dan’s level yet, but Dan was waiting anxiously for the day it came, for the day when it was actually hard, the day he could barely scrape a win. He was at quite the disadvantage, however. Raven was willing to do anything to capture Dan, but Dan would always let him go. After all, how else could he assure that Raven would come back?

“Don’t worry so much, Raven,” Dan said, and he jumped onto the window’s ledge again, and then another. “My plans are actually quite tame. I was thinking I might steal a book!” He was unable to keep himself from laughing in pure delight, at that, and he peered down from the roof of the building now, where below the Raven was struggling to his feet. Dan waved, and then he was running along the tops of buildings. After all, he had a microwaveable meal to get to.

~~

next chapter

for anyone who doesn’t know, i update every saturday! :]