#i do think it oiled some clockwork that was already ticking though

[dominote]

i think light yagami is "socially adept" in terms of being able to reason out relatively well what to say and do to come off as a harmless and good and polite young man who is likeable to be around. however i do not think "socially adept" (or "neurotypical") typically comes with having to preface every other normal-passing action and statement with a minor crisis of "ah shit. quick, what would i say/do in response to this if i was light yagami, a normal and nice and respectable young man?"

everyone likes to talk about him talking about kira in third person but can we acknowledge that he also talks about LIGHT in third person. i'm not adding manga panels at 3:57am but y'all know exactly which ones i mean

[waspenned]

scenes from an italian restaurant • part two • peter parker

okay, so maybe peter wasn’t as bad as you thought - that doesn’t mean he’s any less annoying. then he just has to go and ask you about fucking spider-man. • 5k

warnings: swearing, allusions to fire, sexual innuendo but no actual explicit content, talking about smoking.

now playing: movin’ out (anthony’s song) by billy joel

part one / next

a/n: ARE YOU FROM NEW YORK EVEN.... insert schmidt new girl long island rant here... anyway here's some more of my diner kids doing their horrible little hospitality jobs !! pls feel free to request anything you like in my ask box - as well as joining my taglist if you would like to know when I post new stuff :)

Actually, Peter turned out to be alright.

You didn’t manage to keep your name a secret for that long - it had been barked at you the second you’d stepped foot back into the kitchen, and Peter had been incredibly annoying about it; repeating it to himself, letting it roll around on his tongue like he was testing it, shaping it with his lips and teeth. Then, he’d spent the rest of the week saying it as much as possible, after every damn sentence, until you threatened him with a pizza wheel to the throat and revoked his first name privileges. And then, he’d taken to cycling through odd nicknames until he found one that stuck.

“I think I’m calling you Pineapples today.”

“You already used that two weeks ago, mister.”

“I’m running out.”

“Then shut up.” He throws you a sarcastic salute, and then he’s off to ask the regular on table three if she’s ready to order for the fourth time, even though she always gets the same thing, like clockwork.

Peter’s fallen into the routine quite well, you think. He’s stayed quiet about your little breaks, and in return you let him accompany you, lending him a cigarette and your lighter every other hour, soaking in the fresh air - though he’s usually just pleased to smell something that isn't oil or tomato-adjacent. He’d even started contributing a few dollars to the week’s rations of cigs like you’re some sort of tobacco-based landlord; which he really didn’t need to, but you’re not going to stop him. You like his quiet, you like his odd combinations of fountain sodas that hurt like needles and taste like battery acid, and you can tolerate his company.

It’s been a few months or so, but you still haven’t quite figured out what makes him tick, why he hasn’t been battered down by the industry yet. Your first month at Joe’s was spent weeping in the cleaning closet like a minimum-wage Cinderella, after getting yelled at for the tenth time in the space of two hours. There had been countless cuts on your fingers and burns on your arms, but Peter seemed to be taking it all in his stride.

Stupidly optimistic. Stupidly cheerful. Stupidly nice - in the worst way.

Niceness didn’t get you far nowadays. You didn’t think he’d make it, but he’s done pretty well - no snapping or crying or threatening to quit, before remembering rent is due next week and there’s no groceries in whatever tin can is serving as your fridge. That was one of your favourites.

Yeah, he was late to the odd shift, turning up sweaty (and once, bloody), but he’s the only one who can lift the grill to clean it on his own, so Sal refuses to fire him. He just claps Peter on the back, nearly sending him across the room, and tells the same stupid joke about daylight savings being over for the year. No one really gets it, but he’s the boss, so you all laugh anyway.

You liked him - correction, you just liked him more than other new hires, you were otherwise indifferent to him. But, you liked him enough to get Sal to reprint his nametag, even though he became quite fond of being called Peber. He wasn’t entirely incompetent at his job either; he didn’t slack off like the high schoolers that came and went every summer, but he didn’t take himself too seriously, like the randoms that would treat the diner like the US Navy boot camp. A week or so ago, management (not Sal, one of the big bosses) had tried to make one of the servers get rid of her acrylics, so he ran to the CVS on his break and bought some ugly nail polish. Then he’d spent half of his break painting his - then your - nails in solidarity. You didn’t even like her that much, you just happened to hate management more. The rest of your shift was spent accidentally smudging neon blue on your uniforms and the register until your manager relented, and let Trisha keep her nails.

“What would I do without this thrilling hijinkery? This tomfoolery?” He’d mused to you, fumbling with the cotton rounds and acetone they’d given you to take the polish off. It had come out of his paycheck, but he didn’t seem to mind, just enjoying the company.

“Keel over,” You had answered, grabbing at his hands to help him, the polish coming off in one fell swoop, “hopefully.”

It wasn’t like you were talking outside of work like heathens, though, you didn’t even have each other’s numbers; as it should be. Mixing work with your personal life was a dangerous game and you took it very seriously, it had taken weeks of asking until Sal even knew your second name. It was a pain in the ass; people get too close, and then they start bugging you in your free time when you don’t get paid to deal with their bullshit. Absolutely not. Peter was annoying, and he’d probably be even more annoying over the phone, sending smiley faces and punctuating his texts like a weirdo.

It’s a sleepy midday in Joe’s, and the regular brunch rush has slowed to a trickle, the last few stragglers dotted around the tables. In the corner, some college students are frantically flicking through battered copies of Pride and Prejudice, while another one snoozes in the beams of light that spear through the front windows, head pressed to the glass as his coffee grows cold.

You’re leaning against the counter, chin in hand, watching the students panic as one of them drops their notes into the pool of grease that their pizza swims in, when there’s a sudden hand on your shoulder that startles you.

“Stuck again?”

“Just thinking, man, give me a minute.”

You’d been poring over the New York Times crossword during the lull and Peter has apparently come to help, popping his tawny brown head over your shoulder to give your answers a once over. For a while, you’d shoo him away, until you realised he was good at them. Now, your mornings were often spent trying to get an answer out of him, while still maintaining the illusion that you didn’t need his help.

“Cough cough, ‘blew’, cough cough,” Peter mumbles under his breath, pointing to thirteen across as he sweeps past, his back pressing to yours as Angela charges through in the opposite direction; a tray of stained and chipped coffee mugs in one hand, and a pitcher in the other. She gives you a Look, one you’d been seeing fairly recently as of late. She’d been swearing up and down that Peter had a crush on you, that he didn’t stop talking about you, blah blah blah - but you’d only been shooting her down. Peter didn’t like you, you were just friends. His hands on your shoulders didn’t mean anything, he was just affectionate. There weren’t feelings involved, you were just close in age and got on well, that was all.

That was all. Seriously. The guy drove you nuts.

“As in the colour of the sky?” You barely look up from the newspaper, left there by some guy who did nothing more than seemingly use it as a coaster, the tip of your pencil caught between your teeth. Peter is at your shoulder again, on the other side, drying a plate, and when you look up at him he’s staring at your mouth, watching.

“As in ‘went down on.’” It tumbles out of his mouth absentmindedly, before his eyes widen and he jolts away from you faster than you’ve seen him move before - even though you’d once seen him catch a fly between his fingers, inches away from landing on some poor kid’s spaghetti. His face is bright red, and you can practically hear the wires in his brain frying as he’s trying to string together whatever words he remembers into an apology. It wouldn’t matter anyway, you can barely hear him over your own cackling.

“Oh- Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Oh my God.”

“Jesus Christ, Parker.”

“It just came out, I’m sorry-!” He’s slumping on the counter, covering his head with those long forearms of his, groaning so loud you can hear it over the clatter of Angela dumping the dirty cutlery in the sink. She’s pulling The Face again, through the service window, and you wave her away, frowning at her. Peter sinks into a ball on the floor, face hidden behind his hands, but you can still see the burning red flush along his hairline, spreading to his ears. The college kids in the corner haven’t noticed the commotion, demolishing the pizza in record speed, but you’ve disturbed Sleeping Beauty by the window, rousing him with your merciless teasing. Peter seems to be re-embarrassing himself with every passing second.

“Oh my God. I’m gonna walk into traffic. It just keeps replaying in my head. Make it stop.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way about drying the dishes, Peter, if you want me to leave you alone-”

“Stop!”

Teasing him felt like a reward for all of his annoying parts; the awful attempts at banter, the way he was so content at work, how he didn’t harbour any resentment to the unsuspecting public of New York. Maybe you were envious of him, how he could just brush everything off, and that nothing phased him - Sal thought you were jealous because Peter was overtaking you as his favourite, but not a single word of that sentence was true. It was a well-known fact that Sal’s favourite was whoever was standing in front of him at any given moment.

Some part of you, buried deep, deep down inside, liked messing with him because you got to hear him laugh about it later. You started actually looking forward to work, hoping he’d be there in his stupid little apron, stupid little sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his stupid little notebook at the ready to take orders. Since the second you’d been forced into it, you’d thought the Joe’s uniform was hideous and unflattering, but then Peter came along and wore it surprisingly well. It fit with the rest of him; taking a bad thing and making the best of it.

Your smile falters, and you turn away from him before he starts to ask questions. Fuck’s sake.

Some voice in the back of your mind (perhaps belonging to Angela, but sounding more like your own with every painful second) swears up and down that Peter likes you. Like, likes likes you, and this was just grease on the fire. The way he was looking at you, like you hung the moon and stars, you knew it all too well. That would be fine on its own - people had crushed on you before, it was no big deal - it was the other voice in the back of your mind that really bothered you. The one that wanted to tell him how nice his new haircut suited his jawline, the one that wanted to wax lyrical about the one time you caught a glimpse of him making the pizza dough with Sal, flour streaked across his browbone, hands kneading and pulling and stretching. Even now, you can’t help your gaze lingering on his knicked-up fingers, rubbing at his mapled eyes and pulling his hair over his face. He's looking up at you from the floor now, all pitiful and pink, trying his best to hold back his own laughter.

Whatever diner-based deity looking over you decides to be ever so merciful, and you’re called away by a customer who is apparently upset you’ve given him an ‘americay-no’ when they asked for a black coffee. Never change, New York.

It’s nearly an hour before you see him again, thanks to both the lunch crowd and The Mysterious Sticky Substance making another appearance from the back drainpipe. You were camped out in the store cupboard, elbow-deep in a shelf that was pretty much all cheese when he walks in, toting what must have been a litre of pizza sauce. The air becomes thick, and you’re not sure if things are just gonna be weird between you for a bit, or if you’re just reading into things. You’re too old for silly crushes, for fuck’s sake, you can at least talk to him like an adult.

“Hey, Parker.” Perfect. Short, sweet, casual but not too casual.

“Ahoy, Captain.” Even better. The vice on your chest loosens a little.

The dusty box television in the top corner of the diner squeals to life outside the pantry, crackling with static as it attempts to find its tuning. It’s been Sal’s routine since long before you started to watch the news on his break after the lunch rush, leaving flour and tomato stains all over the freshly-cleared tables and chairs, that you inevitably had to clean up. There’s some news story about a deli robbery on the corner of Broadway and West 40th blaring out of the speakers as Sal fiddles with the remote, trying to find a volume he’s happy with - which usually ends up being entirely too fucking loud.

“Hey, look!” Sal calls your name over the noise, and you pop your head out of the cupboard to see him pointing the chunky remote at the screen, waving it around like it had suddenly become a laser pointer. You can feel Peter moving beside you as he slides the pizza sauce onto the shelving, your shirts brushing together, the starched fabric rustling loudly. “It’s your best pal.”

You’re confused until you see a familiar blur of red and blue, and then you’re rolling your eyes as Spider-Man zips in to stop the robbery, webs flying like streamers - though that could just be the television distorting the image. It was probably older than you, knowing Joe’s.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Sal.”

Peter looks more awkward than usual as you retreat back into the cupboard, stood there like a wooden board, watching you rolling up your sleeves in preparation for tackling the pasta shelf. You’d forgotten to get a pack of cigarettes on your way into work - you’d been going through them faster thanks to Peter - but you’d hidden a carton in here a while back in case of an emergency, though you can’t quite remember where. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet as you slide your hand between the tagliatelle and fusilli, waving it around behind the containers before removing it and repeating with the penne and farfalle.

“Do you- Do you not like Spider-Man?” He asks, tentatively, and you freeze. You were hoping it would be a little longer before you’d have to talk about Spider-Man, if at all, but fate seemed to think otherwise. Apparently, it was a very polarising topic, one that the entire staff disagreed with you on - to the extent that they’d started calling you J. Jonah Jameson, and ribbing you at any mention of him. Once, on your day off, he’d swung by the diner in pursuit of a speeding truck, and you’d not heard the end of it for weeks; the whole diner talking about how you probably would have heckled him from the sidewalk.

“It’s not like I hate him. I just don’t idolise him.” You answer, scrabbling around in the dark for the fold-up stepstool that’s usually in the corner, a flashlight held between your teeth and illuminating the way with its lacklustre beam, muffling your speech. “Apparently that’s a controversial opinion. Can you get the light?”

“You think people idolise him?” Peter understands you well enough and flicks the light on, the bulb sparking to life and flooding the room with a grim wash of colour. You both squint, adjusting to the fluorescence before you resume your hunt. The stool is nowhere to be found. “What are we looking for?”

“Cigarettes.” You answer, squatting down to the dusty floor to continue your search under the shelves. All you see is a glimpse of an old mouse trap before you’re getting back up, deciding that you don’t get paid enough to deal with it. Peter is poking around too, rearranging jars and crates of vegetables in search of your emergency cigs. “I think people pin too much hope on him. It’s all well and good he helps people, but they expect him to be able to help everyone.”

Peter hums, and you hesitate for a moment, pursing your lips together before you decide to carry on.

“It’s unrealistic. You can’t expect so much from just one guy who probably has his own problems to deal with.”

“You think Spider-Man has problems? He’s a superhero.”

“He’s just a guy, Parker.” You turn to face him, and he’s balancing a whole forest’s worth of seasoning jars under his chin, some odd expression on his face. The same one as when Sal makes him a sub when he didn��t have time to eat after class, or when you got him an iced coffee from the bodega before a particularly long shift. It was something akin to shock, eyes all round, like he wasn’t used to being looked at and acknowledged. “What? He is. He doesn’t sound much older than us, really.”

Peter seems to get defensive, ducking his head. “I thought he sounded older. He was always Spider-Man, not Spider-Boy.”

“Well, he was clearly a kid when he started. I just thought he was my age.” You’d been around sixteen when all that Spider-Man stuff started kicking off - you didn’t pay much attention at the time, but looking back it was alarming how young he sounded. There was the odd crack and squeak in his voice every now and then, muffled behind the mask, and always accompanied by an awkward, throaty cough as he forced his pitch into a deeper register. It made you angry, that some poor teenager was out in Manhattan in the dead of night, putting himself into these risky situations so people would be safe. High school was enough of a hellscape on its own - he didn’t need all that superpower shit on top of his SATs. It made you angrier to think about how people just let him help without thinking about him as a kid. Encouraged him. Relied on him.

“It’s too much pressure on him to have to look out for everyone. And unreliable. What if you’re getting mugged in West Village, and Spider-Man is way uptown, taking his midterms? Or in Spanish class? Or in Brooklyn? People just expect him to be there when he can’t. It’s impossible.” It seems the footstool isn’t hiding in the vegetables, so you check the sturdiness of the bottom shelf, then step onto it, and then the next one, using the shelves as a ladder. Peter’s watching you, eyebrows all in a nervous tangle, worrying at his bottom lip - though you’re not sure if he’s more concerned with your safety, or your opinions on a guy in spandex.

“Are you okay up there?”

“I’m fine, dude, it’s only a few feet up. I’m not made of glass.” Jesus, it’s dusty on the top shelf, a thick layer of grey fuzz across the lacquered wood you daren’t touch. There mustn't be a single thing up here in date; surely this would be past you's best hiding spot. “I just think we shouldn’t put that much responsibility on a kid. He’d be in college now, probably. College is hard enough without having to babysit the whole of New York. It’s stupid.”

“I’ve never really thought about it like that.”

“Yeah, well. He’s never done much for me, so maybe I’m biased.”

“Really? Never? Feels like everyone has a Spider-Man story.” Peter says, almost absentmindedly, and there’s an odd pang in your chest. Ah, you’ve said too much. He picks up on the sudden change in mood, your sudden stillness, and he hesitates, watching the back of your head.

Three blocks away, you think you smell smoke. You always think you’re smelling smoke.

“Well, uh, there was a fire in the kitchen. A while before you started. Kinda bad.” The whole ordeal was simultaneously the foggiest, and the clearest memory you had, everything morphing into a blur of heat and ash. You’d been at your usual spot on the back step, sleeves bunched up as far as they went in the June city heat, letting a cig burn between your fingers. It was a quiet day, one of the last school days before Summer vacation, so there was this anticipatory feeling fogging the diner, like some unspoken, evil creature lurking in the corner. You thought it was just the dread of three-thirty, when the kids would be let out of school and become menaces for pizza, crowding the diner with their backpacks and school books and what-not.

Then Sal had called for you - some problem in the walk-in fridge - and you’d left your cigarette on the doorstep, nipping into the break room to grab a toolbox. After that, it was all just smoke and the roar of fire, everywhere. Somewhere, your brain remembers the texture of old tablecloths as you stuff them along the bottom of the door to stop the smoke getting in, how glass sounds when you pound your fists against it, how your throat ached for days afterwards from the screaming and the burning air, but you don’t actually remember doing any of it. The sensation of it lingers, only just masking the terror that has stamped itself into your bones.

“Everyone managed to get out fine but I got stuck in the break room. I just had to sit there and hope it didn’t get through the door.” You bury your head in the shelves again, avoiding the inevitable look of pity, the tuts and sighs, the usual shit. After your third empty and awkward apology for something that was nothing to do with them, every reaction seems to hurt just that little bit more.

“Oh.” Oh. ‘Oh’ was probably the best thing he could possibly say. ‘Oh’ is everything you need and more.

You can’t recall who you had been screaming for. It must have started as for Sal, then Angela when you realised Sal wasn’t coming, then just for help from anyone - anybody - until you gave up and saved your breath, crouching low to the floor where the air didn’t scratch at your lungs and make you wheeze.

It was only once, once, but you’d called for Spider-Man, and you’d spent the rest of your time stuck in there berating yourself for giving in to the fantasy of it - that some guy in a morph suit would break the door down and get you to safety.

Your chest tightens, a vice around your ribs, squeezing until you swear you feel them crack. In your head, you’re wracking your brain, trying to remember if you put your cigarette out that day, or left it burning. The pounding in your chest is cold, cold like your smoking spot had been in the summer, cast in the shadow of the high-rise next door.

No. You’re not doing this at work. Peter’s looking at you. Not in front of Peter.

“When they put it out, there were all these people. Firefighters and coworkers and even a fucking camera crew. You know who wasn’t there? Spider-Man.” Your searching has become almost aggressive, an attempt to distract yourself from the faint stench of soot that had suddenly cropped up, even though you’re sure you washed the odour out of your uniform ages ago. Smoke follows you around in thick puffs, appearing out of thin air when Sal sparks the cookers to life in the morning, flooding the kitchen - only to vanish when you blink. It scalds your eyes, cakes in your hair. It lingers like tobacco on your fingertips. “They- They had to replace everything.”

“Well-”

“Stuff just happens, and it will happen whether Spider-Man is there to save you or not. Spider-Man is maybe there, six times out of ten, if you’re lucky. And even then, he’s just some guy with his own life. Spider-Man can’t do shit, dude. The only person you can really rely on is yourself.” Your eyes are stinging now, but you can’t tell if it’s from the dust, or from the hot ball of panic that sits on its haunches in the back of your throat, humming through your nervous system, holding tension. You sniff, pawing at your face, and there’s that acrid smell again; you swear you see it in the shadows - thick, dark plumes of smoke.

Where’s it coming from? Was it you? Where’s Peter?

“What’s with all this goddamn smoke-”

“What smoke?”

“Don’t lie to me, man, it’s not fucking funny, there’s-”

You’re panicking, turning, and a jar slips from the shelf, knocked out of place by your elbow. The bulb glares at you, the light reflecting from the glass in thick, blinding stripes, and your foot slips, your grasp on the shelf’s edge wavering in the confusion.

“Fuck-” Someone gasps - maybe you - as your hands scrabble for something to hold onto, to stop the movement, the room lurching around you. the shelf unit wobbles, pulling away from the wall, and slowly tips forwards, taking you with it. Further, further, further.

Then you’re still. Waiting for the smashing of glass. For the crack of your skull on the floor, your eyes screwed up. There’s no air in your lungs, - it’s been forced out of you with the impact of landing on something; a vice across your stomach, like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. There’s the hollow tinker of plastic on the floor as the shelf’s contents rush past you, toppling off of the upper rows.

“Holy shit - I’m sorry!” There’s a voice miles away, your body is moving again, turning slower now, but your feet aren’t touching the floor. Someone must have caught you. When you open your eyes, there’s an arm around your body, holding you. It’s slight, but pins you into another body with a surprising strength. The other one is raised above you, holding the shelving unit up at an angle, an old burn scar licked across the underneath of it. The same arms you saw lift the cookers and kegs of oil, the same hands you saw kneading pizza dough, caked in flour.

“Shit.” You manage to wheeze out, as Peter pushes the shelf back into place and sets you down on the floor. Lowering you until you’re in a heap on the lino, he kneels in front of you, looking increasingly panicked. Your breath is rattling as you gasp for air, your voice coming out taut and reedy. “What did you do to me?”

“I must have winded you, I’m sorry! Uh - shit, um-!” He has the jar in his hand - how the fuck did he manage to catch that? - and he sets it down, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “It’s- It’s when the diaphragm gets a sudden impact and spasms, and-”

“I know what it fucking is!”

“Just, uh- deep breaths!”

“I’m trying!”

Peter seems to sit with you on the floor for a year or two, grimacing sheepishly as you try and ease the pain in your sternum, gulping as much air down as you can in between coughs and splutters. After a while, the squeezing in your sternum subsides, and then you’re just sat together on the dirty floor, among the dust and stray fusilli twirls. The shelf must have held more seasonings, because you’re surrounded by plastic tubs of them, scrawled with Italian in black sharpie.

“That was so embarrassing for me.”

“How? It was an accident! If anything, I should be embarrassed that I-”

“If you apologise again, I will hit you.”

“Sor-” His mouth snaps closed, chin tucked to his chest as you glare at him. “...Okay.”

“That’s better.” You watch him nod, but his face is still in the same pained expression, guilted and grimaced. From the diner, Sal is borderline oblivious, the television’s blaring finally coming to a stop as he returns to the kitchen to press pizza bases. Peter dusts off his trousers, then helps you to your feet by your elbows. He lifts you almost effortlessly - not surprising, considering how easily he can carry other things - but you jolt with his touch, wriggling out of his grasp.

The warmth of his hands lingers on your skin, seeping through your uniform and burying itself into your bones. One of them reaches out to you, and then brushes a few stray hairs from your face, the heat of him blooming along your cheek and ear. You stare at each other for a moment, and you can see his eyes darting over your frame, analysing, checking you for injuries, before stilling on your face. His lips draw themselves into a thin line, a breath shuddering through him, the only movement in there.

Even under this awful, stark lighting, his eyes are warm and rich, the same tone as the hair that curls over his forehead, covering the freckles that dust the peaks of his skin. You’re almost frozen for a moment, just looking at each other, and then you force yourself to speak.

“Thanks, Peter.”

“It’s nothing.” He smiles, and it brightens up his face something stupid, clearly pleased that you called him by his first name - for once. You didn’t do it often, but it felt appropriate now, even though the intimacy of the whole thing made you want to throw up. You were co-workers, not friends, you shouldn’t be doing all this touchy-feely shit.

“I’ll clean this up, you go and get some water, or something-” Peter turns you towards the door, steering you by your shoulders, before bending down, a hand outstretched to the mess on the floor. You watch as you reach out to him, almost unconsciously, taking up a fistful of his shirt.

“No, I’ll do it, It’s fine.” You cut him off as he opens his mouth to protest, tugging him away from the shelf. “It’s my mess, let me sort it out or I’ll feel all weird and guilty about it.”

He debates with himself for a moment, and you can hear the gears ticking in his head as he looks you up and down, deciding what to do. You feel odd under the intensity of his stare, like you’re some specimen on a microscope slide in his lab class, or a statue at the MoMA he’s trying to figure out. Somewhere between examination and perhaps admiration, but that’s probably wishful thinking. Very wishful. You can’t stand yourself. Peter makes his choice before you can start spiralling again.

“I’ll get you the water then, it’s the least I can do.” Like he hadn’t just stopped you from breaking your neck like an idiot. Fuck, he was annoying. You’d give anything for him to be just a little more cynical, to make one bitchy comment about work, anything, instead of being the token happy-go-lucky pretty boy. Every day was spent silently begging him to be worse. Like you.

“No more climbing, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Maybe you have one more person to rely on now, hm?” There’s another small smile from him, and all of a sudden, you’re embarrassed about the rant you’d been in the middle of when you’d fallen. It was all incredibly cliche, now that you think about it, and you grimace.

“Maybe. You’re beating Spider-Man, at least.”

“Yeah?” Pete’s smile falters a little, his arm jerking at his side, before he places his hand on top of your head. It’s probably one of the most awkward interactions you’ve ever had, even though he was probably just trying to comfort you. Instead, you both cringe at each other, faces wrinkling uncomfortably.

“Dude.”

“Sorry, that was weird. I regretted it as soon as I did it.”

“Get out of here, you freak.”

Peter scarpers, head hidden in his hands once more, and you’re - quite frankly - glad to see the back of him. No more confusing feelings. Now, to deal with this mess. You start with the jar you knocked from the top shelf - some pickled onions that went bad in the nineties, from the looks of it.

There’s some sort of thick cobweb on it, different from the ones you normally see. It must be fresher, as it stuck to your hands and the glass like glue, a sinewy bundle across the label. You shudder at the idea of some huge, mutant spider lurking in the cupboards of Joe’s, with webs the size of bungee cords. Gross - someone should really clean up in here more.

Not you though, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

[fullsunalicia]

hiii! i just found your account and i’m so in love with everything you’ve written!!! can i request a johnny demigod au?

piece by piece — SYH

johnny would rather die than admit he’s not able to fix something. no matter what it is, he’s absolutely certain he can find a way to make it right. correct the clock’s tick. make the light bulb shine again. puzzle the pieces of your heart together. who else would, if not him?

son of hephaestus!johnny x daughter of dionysus!reader

of course you can! thank you for request love, i hope you enjoy! <3

Some people are born with a silver-spoon in their mouth. Johnny entered the world with mechanical tools and screwdrivers in his little hands. At least that’s what he keeps on telling others when they watch him build something.

He’s always had a knack for stuff like that. During experiments, it was always Johnny who got the thing up and working. He loves to create. There’s no better feeling than getting something to work again, like a broken clock, or a flickering light.

There’s only one exception. Johnny’s never tried to fix a heart before, but he’s willing to try.

A loud yelp escapes you as Johnny takes away the wine bottle you were clinging to. Is this your second or third one? Honestly, he doesn’t remember. He hasn’t been paying attention. The only thing that matters right now is getting you away from all the alcohol, and into a bed to sleep your rush off. Your eyes are stained red, rivalling those of a stoner. Your fix is free; it’s called ‘tears’. Truth be told, you’re an emotional mess, and everything spills over the second alcohol enters your bloodstream and chases away the deep-rooted pain inside your chest.

“You give that back right now, Seo.”

“Not a chance in hell,” he deadpans. The frat house is way too loud, overcrowded with people he’s never seen before, but you’re gonna have to deal with that if you’re going to sleep over tonight. Strong arms slide beneath your back and into the hollows of your knees, lifting you up as if you‘re the pound of feathers and not the pound of iron you feel like. It’s a familiar feeling, because Johnny always carries you to bed. It’s a tradition that’s slipped into your drunk habits aswell, since you tend to pass out in your intoxicated bliss instead of helping yourself to an appropiate sleeping place.

Johnny sets you down on a soft mattress, one you recognize too easily. His blankets are freshly washed, and you ignore the laughter falling from Johnny’s lips as you snuggle into them. You look like a toddler. “Aren’t you going to change, (y/n)?” he mumbles, fingertips brushing over your cheekbones. You’re like a sculpture - flawless marble, the perfect depiction of a Greek beauty. Venus de Milo is literally sprawled over his bed. Not many guys can say that. “That croptop must be kinda tight. Here, let me help you.”

“You think you’re funny?” you drawl out. Alcohol makes your tongue heavy, speaking is an effort. He’d never admit it out loud, but you’re rather adorable whenever you’ve had a sip too much. Johnny tucks you in, the soft, plushy blankets covering your entire body. Your eyes are already screwed shut. You’ve got a sharp tongue, but everybody knows how much you trust Johnny. More than anyone else in your life. He’s the one who looks past the drunk facade and sees the sorrow beneath it, the very same your father must have felt when Ariadne left him for eternity. Like an illness, your heart is rotting from an invisible wound, inflicted by someone who didn’t know how to treat you right.

Johnny would. He knows you deserve to be treated like a princess, not some prize. That’s why he broke that guy’s jaw with pure pleasure. The busted knuckles after that were beyond worth it, and the kiss you had left on them was just the cherry on top.

There’s nothing Johnny wouldn’t do for you. His head is filled with thoughts about you and you only, his entire existence revolves around protecting his tiny best friend. You’re his world, and Johnny’s the moon circling it. You just don’t know it yet. Maybe you don’t want him, reject him like Aphrodite did to his father. It doesn’t sound so bad when it means he can still baby you like this, fingers carding through your hair, listening to the appreciative hums you let out at that. When he lowers his head to sneak a kiss on your cheek, cheeky and daring, you don’t fulfill your threats to snap his neck. Drowsily, since you’re already slipping into slumber, you catch Johnny around the neck and pull him down to leave your own peck on his temple.

Whoever in Olymp is responsible for your behavior, whatever Fate had meddled with your creation - he’d sincerely like to thank them from the bottom of his heart for making you a clingy drunk.

Since the first day of college, Johnny has been taking care of you. He had helped you renovate your dorms since you are literally helpless when it comes to building cupboards and setting up some baseboards. Whenever you miss a lecture, you copy off his carefully written notes. And you can bet your sweet ass you’re the first one to take a sip of Johnny’s freshly brewed coffee. It’s not like he has it in himself to stop you - he’s the one who offers you the mug and scolds you for not taking care of yourself. He’s the one who wants to ease off some stress from your shoulders by helping you with your living quarters. He wants to make sure you get the correct notes so you don’t fail during an exam.

It’s only right he’s the one to solve the jigsaw puzzle that represents your heart.

❀ ❀ ❀

“Raise your hand if you think (y/n)’s an alcoholic.”

“Nakamoto, if you don’t shut up, I’ll seriously consider stuffing your mouth with a croissant.” Over the breakfast table, you throw an not-so-evil glare Yuta’s way, but the man only laughs and starts eating his cereal. You don’t really look threatening in your blanket cocoon; you had refused to part from them when Johnny had woken you up and dragged you out of his room. “Seo, put that hand down right now.”

“Lying is a sin, (y/n).” He catches the hand that tried to hit his chest, and you yelp loudly when he tugs you out of your safe space inside the blankets so you can sit on his lap. His frat brothers are staring, all of them aware about the feelings blossoming in Johnny’s chest for the alcoholic he managed to befriend. He doesn’t care, though. He’s too busy adoring the embarrassed blush on your cheeks, so distracted by the sight that he forgets you’re in attack mode. The flick to his forehead actually hurts. “Don’t make me throw you across the table, (y/n). You know I can do it.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you shoot back. Stubborn as always.

Johnny’s arm around your waist doesn’t seem to bother you. You actually continue your breakfast while he rests his head on your shoulder, lost in your natural fragrance. Of course you smell like grapes. The stench of alcohol. But he also picks up roses, the underlying notes of the perfume you had put on last night. According to you, he smells like burnt wood and oil. That doesn’t sound as pleasant as you do, but he’ll take what he can.

The gears are already set in motion. Without you knowing, Johnny plans to cure your broken heart. So when you set down the knife you used to cut open your croissant, Johnny asks you: “(y/n), wanna go on a date?”

You freeze on his lap. Your heartbeat thunders below his touch, like a clock ticking away. Hearts are nothing but clockwork, racing towards your death. The last hour of your life. Until your battery finally runs out. Johnny has a lot of mechanic jokes. “Excuse me? Are you still drunk?”

“You of all people are not allowed to ask me if I’m drunk.”

“Fair,” you mumble, almost offended. But the shock still lingers in your veins, painted on his friend’s face aswell. You turn in his hold to look Johnny in the eyes, the disbelief in yours driving a knife through his heart. “Is this a joke, Seo Youngho? I don’t particularly like to joke about this and you know that better than anyone else.”

“That’s exactly why I’m asking.” Johnny’s fingers tug at your shirt, desperate to feel what’s below. Is your skin as soft as it looks like? If he touches you here and there, what can he coax out of you? His thoughts run wild about you always; sometimes innocently, sometimes anything but. “I’m sick of watching you drink your problems away, (y/n). We all know you’ve gotten over him, you’re just afraid of facing the consequences of what he’s done to you. Let me help you. I can fix this.”

Your eyes are hypnotizing. Maybe this is what it looks like when maenads possess their victims, luring them in with the promise of a good time and better alcohol. You don’t offer him intoxication - you offer Johnny the entire galaxy, every solar system locked into your gaze, a kaleidoscope of human memories, desire, love. One look would make any man lightheaded.

Children of Hephaestus are fireproof. They’re supposed to be blacksmiths, working at any temperature. Only you manage to leave scorch markings where your fingertips meet his face, uncomfortably hot, and still irresistible. Second degree burns don’t sound so bad when you’re the one inflicting them.

“You can’t fix everything, Johnny,” you tell him. The sadness clinging to your voice is centuries old, older than time itself, the common tale of a heart broken that’s never going to be whole again. “No matter how hard you try.”

Johnny clings to you like a drowning man would to his life ring. “You wouldn’t know. You never let me try.”

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny doesn’t know where you start and he ends. Your relationship is blurred lines, interwoven red strings. There are pieces you’ve been given by him to make you complete, and parts you’ve given away to fulfill him. You give and give and give, never once thinking if it’s going to break you.

That’s why it’s so easy to love Johnny. A very long time ago, you’d already promised him your heart, long before it had been darkened by strangers who never learnt how to treat it. It’s his, in every sense of the word. Over the years, it has been fed with happy things. Johnny’s smile. The pride you feel whenever he wins an award for his experiments and ideas. The giddy feeling he sets off inside you when he lifts you off the ground to twirl you around like a princess. The many nights you used to stay up to listen to him and count the stars, naming them after you while you fell asleep to the sound of Johnny’s pulse. How could your heart belong to someone else, when it’s never known anyone besides him?

As long as there’s a beat inside your heart, there will be love, too. In the many thousand shards that pierce through your lungs and are barely hidden beneath your skin, affection will always pool beneath the blood they draw. You were so suspicious of Johnny’s attempts, yet it comes so easy.

He takes you out to see the city, even though you know every corner of it. Johnny forces you to see it with new eyes, to chase away the bad experiences you connect them with. The park where you had been broken up with turns into the place where Johnny teaches you to skate, arms tight around your waist, the promise of no harm ever coming to you if he can prevent it luring you to try. The many restaurants you had started to avoid because of the couples dining there had turned into date nights where Johnny orders for you and you in turn for him, laughing at the grimace the other pulls when it doesn’t taste as expected. He takes your memories and flips them, good side up.

Your lungs had been poisoned with toxins for a very long time. Johnny was the clean air that helped you breathe. What had once been pain turned into newfound happiness, the flutter of butterflies inside your stomach. The exploding fireworks Johnny sets off when his lips meet your skin.

Where alcohol had once mended was now pure fire. Johnny’s fire, burning you from the inside out, setting you free like a phoenix out of his ashes.

You should’ve known better than to trust this good feeling. A year’s worth of pain is not erased so easily. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Doubt eats away at your heart, casting long shadows of the healing pieces.

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny hates the theoretical part of his studies. His hands itch to work, to forge, to create. They can’t sit still, and that’s why it takes him hours to finish his assignments. If there’s not the impending doom of an exam lingering inside his mind, there’s no reason for him to sit unmoving on a chair for several hours to concentrate on the task at hand.

But time is running out, and he has to finish this now. He had already slept for the entire day, having eaten breakfast at 3pm since another frat party had kept him awake yesterday. Yeah, he should’ve laid off the alcohol, but you go ahead and try to tell Sicheng no when he begs you to come play beer pong.

That’s physically impossible. There’s not a single soul on this planet that’s able to resist Sicheng’s puppy dog eyes, and he knows. Monster.

That’s why Johnny sits here now. He has to force his short attention span to cling to the paper he’s supposed to be writing on, since he knows damn well he’d grasp at any chance to procrastinate. His thoughts wander to you, like always. His sweet (y/n). The raging alcoholic.

Or, how he likes to call you, his princess.

The petname colors your cheeks red and makes you lower your pretty eyes. His imagination is too vivid - Johnny groans loudly as you conquer his mind again, determined to stay there forever. Daydreams are always conjured by the wish of seeing you. Johnny is so unbelievably whipped.

He’s already decided. The next time he sees you, he’s going to ask you to be his girlfriend. To be his for as long as he exists, and in turn being yours forever. In a room full of people, Johnny’s eyes would still search for you. Who else would he love for the rest of his life if not you?

Maybe he’ll never get to.

The door to his room is thrown open rather loudly. Yuta tumbles in, yawn leaving his lips, before the man freezes in his movements and stares at Johnny. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“This is my room, you know.”

“I know this is your room, you giant idiot,” Yuta hisses. Johnny furrows his eyebrows; had he done something wrong...? What’s gotten the man so worked up? “I’m asking you why you’re here instead of the date you promised your almost-girlfriend who you’ve been in love with your entire life!”

Johnny’s heart drops. It falls and falls into that pit of dread inside his stomach, just like pencil and ruler as he throws it onto the table and grabs his jacket. He almost tumbles down the stairs and breaks his neck, but that’d be worth it if it meant reaching you faster. Taeil yells at him to be more careful, though his words only meet deaf ears. Johnny’s already long gone, bursting through the door as he starts running and prays it’s enough to reach you in time.

You’re not there.

He wonders how he can call himself a son of Hephaestus when he cannot even stop his own heart from shattering at the realization that he may have lost you forever. It would’ve been your anniversary with your ex boyfriend today, and Johnny realizes only now.

If only his father could see him like this. He’d cast him off Olympus, a perfect mimic of what Hera had done thousands of years ago. It’s what Johnny would have deserved.

❀ ❀ ❀

The many messages he leaves on your voicemail remain unanswered. He knocks at your dorm often, but you never open, not a rustle is heard inside. Like a graveyard, there’s only the sound of the wind breezing through your apartment, no sign of life. Your phone doesn’t ring when he calls you from outside the dorm, as if you’re not there. Not home.

Nowhere near him.

Back to square one, Johnny loves you from a distance. His tears soak the blankets you used to lull yourself in, and he spends hours locked inside his room listening to the playlist you created.

In a morbid sense of longing, he even bought that type of vodka you like so much. The one that tastes like peppermint and makes him want to retch, even though you’re able to swallow it up like water. He’s always known you were an alcoholic. For once, Johnny wishes you were here, getting drunk alongside him.

No matter how much the liquor numbs his senses, it doesn’t stop him from thinking about you. Like a broken record, Johnny always ends up wondering how you are. If you feel a little better, even though Johnny stood you up.

Every night, he asks the stars for you. They never respond.

❀ ❀ ❀

Johnny doesn’t know what he’s doing here. There’s no sense to knocking at your door - you’d die before opening it willingly. After all, you had opened your heart to him, and look where that had gotten you.

He almost passes out in relief when your face appears in the doorway, tear tracks staining your face. “Have you come to torture me more?” you whisper, too afraid of your voice breaking. If you can’t even stop your heart from doing it, you’d like to atleast beware your voice. “Go ahead. Let’s see what kills me first, my broken heart or alcohol.”

“(y/n),” he breathes out, and the pain in his voice makes you flinch. It matches the one sitting in your chest, an exact replica. Distance wounded you both. “(y/n), I am the stupidest man alive and I am so sorry I left you standing in the rain back then. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” you mumble. Your voice is bitter, but your hands reach to hold his. Is he imagining things, or are you actually tugging him inside right now? Is it wishful thinking? Is that it?

Your apartment looks like a mess, as always. A perfect mirror to your mind. Johnny used to tease you about it. Now, it just makes him feel worse, because he did that to you. “I need to say it,” he suddenly says. “I need you to know.”

“To know what?”

“I love you.”

The three magic words. Instant remedy to any kind of wound, no matter how old, no matter how deadly. You confuse Johnny by laughing, fresh tears running over the old traces on your cheeks.

“I know.” You tug at his shirt and force him down; your scent floods Johnny’s senses when you press your face against the column of his neck. Now you’re home. Right where you’re supposed to be. “Who the else would be patient enough to fix me? I’m a big, fat mess. I should’ve waited for you that day...”

“You should have beat my fucking ass,” Johnny curses, and then he finally kisses you. Like fire, his kiss devours, rampant heat frying your senses and jumpstarting your tired heart. The kiss is way too messy, teeth knocking against each other in a frenzy. This is what you needed - the undying, pure love Johnny provides you with. It’s what you’ve been longing for since the first time you set eyes on him, the very first time his puzzle pieces clicked into place inside you.

Johnny’s never tried to fix a heart before, but he’s also the one who knows yours inside out. It’s only right that he’s the one who puts it together piece by piece.

[imhereforbvcky]

Sweet

Summary: (Natasha x  shy!reader) Your old friend Sam recruits your help for a low-key work party, ya know, at the Avengers Compound. Of course you’re the type of soft-hearted civvie that could fall head over heels for a particular red-headed assassin while you’re there.

Prompt/Request: This is not exactly the silly drunken interaction @whyhello-there requested… There are drinks and it’s lighthearted, but it’s more a bunch of sober spies being cute than it is drunk shenanigans.

Warnings: A little swearing, FLUFF

Word Count: 2518

“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?”

Apprehension rippled through your voice like a current. You’d known Sam Wilson forever. Friends like him didn’t come around every lifetime. Refusal wasn’t even in your vocabulary when he invited you to a work party, but now… Well now, you were nervous.

“It’s just a barbecue.” He gave you that look, the one that’s half a smile and half an exasperated frown. It was the one he gave every time you worried too much. “No one’s makin’ you stay if you don’t have fun.”

“But you are makin’ me go even though I’m nervous,” you smirked, nudging his side with your elbow.

He chuckled, warm and infectious. “And you’ll be glad I did. Trust me.”

“I do,” you grumbled as he shoved the massive tray of food into your arms.

While Tony would be spinning up cocktails, tossing (and dropping) bottles of scotch, Clint planned to grill farm fresh chicken, and Wanda had already set to work stringing up lights and setting out vases of flowers with feather-soft petals. Sam, with a little help from a friend, covered the sides.

As a man of easy smiles and affectionate banter, the list of things Sam Wilson took seriously was not a huge one. But good food? Top of the list.

Your mouth watered just looking at the bright yellow corn on the cob, waiting to be slathered in creamy cheese sauce and a hint of cayenne. The tangy pineapple slices would sweeten with a few minutes on the grill. You’d helped Sam fill jalapenos with cheese before wrapping them in bacon. The peach halves were the hardest to resist, but you couldn’t wait for Sam to serve them up grilled with thin strips of basil and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

His was a tall order with such an unusual crowd, but on the bright side, it meant that today, he needed a hand. It meant you would meet your heroes. Everybody’s heroes. Real life, living breathing heroes. The Avengers.

Sam placed his palm on the biometric scanner and the panel came to life. After a few chirps from the machine, he pulled the door open and held it for you. The room looked like something out of Architecture Digest. Wide and open, concrete and glass stretched in every direction. The enormous retro furniture seemed lived in and relaxing. The space was austere but you immediately wanted to stretch out and nap in the sunlight pouring through the floor to ceiling windows.

“Woah,” you breathed, mouth still agape.

Lights ticked on as you moved through the space and powered down as you left. There were no clumsy TV remotes on coffee tables, no unsightly cables. It was all efficient, energy saving, and bright.

It absolutely screamed Tony Stark.

“C’mon,” Sam encouraged, taking the tray of food off your flagging hands. “Party’s out back.”

Feeling more out of place by the second, you followed close at his heels. The glass walls extended in every direction, like a thin skin wrapping around the entire building. It reminded you of a snow globe, holding a whole world safe within.

Except for here, at the entrance to the party. Here, the panels had been pushed to the side, like the wall itself had opened up. It felt like standing in the mouth of a great concrete cave, waiting to step into the sunlight of another reality.

It was a different world in more than just appearance. The Avengers lived a life you could only guess at. You watched them through the looking glass, through the lens of television and internet media. Apart from Sam, they were practically a work of fiction to you. Now they were a mere step away.

“Who’s your friend?” The voice drew your attention immediately. Smooth as silk, somehow low and vibrant all at once. The question was for Sam, but it had been aimed in your direction. She was staring at you, smiling, but sharp green eyes roved over every detail. You could feel it like the heat of the sun piercing through a cloud.

Sam called your name and you blinked quickly out of your reverie.

“Quit hiding in the shadows and gimme a hand!” he hollered from half way across the courtyard. He hadn’t stopped at the precipice as you had. He’d crossed it easily because this world of legends was his own.

You nodded, tried to laugh away your silliness, your anxiety, and stepped into the sun. The pair of you set to work about the food like clockwork. While you began unwrapping the corn, Sam had turned aside to light and oil the grill.

When you looked up she was standing there. The one from before. The one you were sure was some sort of enchantress, because once again your tongue stilled and you couldn’t drag your eyes away. Hell, you could barely breathe. Wasn’t breathing supposed to be involuntary?

She smiled again and this time it was warmer, her eyes were softer as she watched you for a moment before they flickered to the tray in front of you. You, however, couldn’t look away from her face long enough to see her reach for one of the peach slices.

“Uht-uh! You better not!” Sam scolded from your side as he returned from the grill for the corn.

She laughed and held up her hands in surrender.

“Some spy,” he teased her with a wink before turning back to the grill.

“I almost lost a finger trying to snag one earlier,” you admitted, surprised at your own voice.

“I think he’s hangry.” She said it loud enough for you to know it was more for Sam’s benefit. She was good at that. Saying things without really saying them at all. She could mold and move a conversation in the subtlest ways. You could see immediately why she was so good at her job.

“No, you deserved it,” Sam complained. “You both know there’s snitchin’ in my kitchen.”

She smiled at you and rolled her eyes. You felt that heat again as they slid back to you, skimming over your figure, a little more slowly this time. A little less sharp and a little more intrigued.

It seemed desperately far away when you heard Sam introduce you, give your name. “She’s an old friend,” he said. Next he pointed with his tongs to the woman whose gaze remained steady as ever on you. You hadn’t dared to even swallow. “And this is—“

“I know,” you blurted. The tension in your gut had simmered to a rippling boil and burst out of you with nervous energy. “I-I know who you are.”

She never faltered, but you noticed her posture stiffen slightly, and she gave the tiniest nod. The sun glinted in her red hair when she did, a shimmer of copper light was all that gave the motion away.

“But now that I’m talking, I’ve realized I should have just kept my mouth shut because I have no idea what to call you,” you laughed, tight and uncertain.

Her lips flinched, it was the only notice that she’d even heard you. If you weren’t so anxious, so instantly head over heels, you’d have recognized it for what it was: she was stifling a laugh, and only just managing it.

“And god, you are so impressive. I knew you were beautiful from TV and everything but I-I’m… oh my god I need to stop talking!” You looked over at Sam for help. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye with raised eyebrows and a laugh ready to erupt. But he offered no lifeline.

You jumped when warm soft hands closed around one of your own. Hers. Gentle and adept, soft. Skilled hands, not workman’s hands.

“I’m Natalia.” That damn smile again and you were lost. “But friends call me Natasha.” You nodded. “Good friends call me Nat.”

“And what should I--?”

“Hey Nat! You’re up!” Clint called from the other side of the open courtyard.

She looked over her shoulder and nodded.

“Hey, Happy Feet! You want in?” Tony called to Sam, holding up a handful of darts beside Barton. “I need a partner.”

“Penguins don’t even fly, Tony,” Rhodes lamented from the pool.

Sam tipped his beer bottle towards Rhodes in agreement, before glancing at you and Natasha, a sly grin drawing out the dimples in his cheeks. “I’ve got my hands full with these jalapeno poppers, but uh… you get my buddy here a drink and I bet she’ll play.”

“Okay, dear, we are down by a metric fuckton and I have a lot riding on this game,” Tony explained by way of pep talk. The world’s worst pep talk. “So if you could maybe make a bullseye on this shot, and save my dignity, I would be forever in your debt.”

“Tony,” Natasha drawled, half a reprimand. “You’re scaring her.”

“I-no. No pressure,” he smiled, laughing now as he threw an arm over your shoulder. You knew he was kidding. Mostly. “But don’t embarrass me in front of the super spies.”

With a sip of your drink for courage, and a deep breath for focus, you stepped up to the line and made aim.

It was the worst shot of your life.

The dart didn’t even make the board. It clattered off the concrete behind the target and sunk into the dirt. The little red tip waved up at you derisively.

Tony sighed and Clint whooped. You heard none of it because Natasha’s hand had begun to slide down your arm and wrap around your own.

“Damn it!” Tony cursed.

“Loser makes the next round,” Natasha explained beside you, tipping her empty glass. She said it so softly you knew without turning your head that she must be close, coiling around you and humming into the shell of your ear. You wanted to curl up against the warmth of her body, now pressed against your arm. “C’mon I’ll help you carry them.”

“Bet’s a bet, man!” Clint prodded behind you as you walked toward the bar.

“FRIDAY?” Tony called with the distinctive groan of defeat.

“Yes, Boss?”

“Change all my access codes to Tony Stank.”

Natasha laughed and glanced over her shoulder, allowing herself a moment to revel in her victory. It was a light breeze on your shoulder, a kiss of her warm breath as she turned her head. Her smile beamed buoyant and luminous. All the sharp edges chased away by the light of idle and pleasant company. Of trust and love. Family.

You’d always loved and been drawn to people who laughed easily, like Sam. But you’d never quite appreciated it like this. To hear it so freely given from someone so noticeably cautious with their everything, was truly captivating. You regarded it like a gift, a treasure, a breakable crown laid in your hands. You wouldn’t waste it or break it.

“So what will you make us?” she asked.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d reached the bar already.

“Uhm. I could make something with peaches?” you suggested, remembering.

“Sounds sweet.” Her eyebrow perked up and she leaned forward on her elbow, watching with mild interest as you got to work. “Are you as good with those ingredients as Sam?”

The laugh came at once. It was loud and mortifying before you quickly covered your mouth, eyes wide. She seemed to enjoy it though. She laughed with you; another gift.

You’d already lost count of how many ounces of vodka you’d poured into one of the glasses. So, no. Definitely not as good as Sam.

“No,” you finally managed. “Not even close. But I can follow direction.”

“So you’re sweet too,” she mused, eyes locked on her fingertips fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

She never touched you, never moved an inch closer, but you could feel the want of it like a match held an inch away from your skin. Like a heat arcing from her skin to yours. Instead she waited, measuring the breaths before you took half a step closer. And another, until you were close enough that her knuckles brushed against the smooth skin of your thigh.

“Am I?” you asked, hardly more than a whisper. It was a nonsensical question, but the sensible part of your brain had short-circuited the moment you felt her sun-warmed skin.

She nodded, slow and easy. The pads of her fingers traced the edge of your jaw. “You’re soft,” she murmured with a lazy smile.

“So are you,” you muttered, abandoning the vodka to entangle your fingers with hers, the ones that had stilled on the hem of your skirt.

A small non-committal laugh passed her lips. Softness was not a word often used to describe the Black Widow. At least, not in the way she had adorned you with it.

Instead of arguing this, she focused on the ways you were soft: soft skin beneath her palm, soft breath tickling her lips, soft nervous smiles, timid and kind. Natasha liked soft things. They were rare in her world and all the more beautiful for it.

Your eyes fluttered closed the moment she began to lean forward. Her kiss was soft and warm. Lips gently molded against yours, first your upper lip, twice, then the bottom. She didn’t probe or push, and neither did you. There was no expectation or demand, only an indefinable want simmering beneath your skin and a slow quiet affinity glowing in your eyes and hers.

“Gentle things are scarce around here,” she murmured, tracing your lips with her thumb. “I hope you won’t be, милая.”

The bright green trees and lush rolling hills of upstate New York passed by the window in a blur. It wasn’t quite regret that tugged at your spine, wound around your gut and squeezed your lungs until you heaved a long, deep sigh. No, not regret at all.

It was a longing, a sentimentality for something you’d only known for a brief moment. You shook your head and chuckled at yourself, at your own absurdity. How could one be sentimental for a time only just passed?

Sam glanced over at you from the driver’s side, fully aware that you hadn’t heard a word he’d said for the past twenty minutes. You’d walked out of that compound with stars in your eyes, and now you were giggling at nothing.

“So then I rode a hippo up Mount Everest and discovered there’s a cave up there with a cyclops named Hank. Hank makes a mean margarita.”

“Hmm sounds good,” you agreed absently. You probably would have agreed to anything. Probably already had. “Hey Sam-I-am?”

“What?” He glanced over at you with a warm grin. You always loved the way the apples of his cheeks swelled and his eyes shone when he was holding back a laugh. A real friend could make you laugh with just a look.

Or a word. And boy, did Sam laugh when you spoke next.

“I think I’m in love.”

“Only someone as soft as you could fall so hard, so fast.”

Will reblog with tags shortly.

[thetickingmonolith]

Change Of Heart Part 4: A Clockwork Squid

The last of the shadow disappeared from beneath The Tower and moved out across the sea below. Lyte broke the silence as we all watched as it moved “What is that?” Grey answered her before I had the chance “It’s a machine of unfathomable complexity, it’s a God Of Clockwork”. A few seconds past and then it broke the surface, so very slowly. First came the tip of its mantle, then the rest of its body, and finally it stood from the sea floor. Atlas captured the feeling perfectly “What in the name of sweet holy fuck?” “I like Cosmic Horror is anyone surprised it looks a little like a squid and cuttlefish, a little bit of a few insectoid traits thrown into the mix.” Azel sat just to my left “Why are its legs damaged?”

It was standing with its back to us, its two hind legs curled up and protected, the right one cut off at an odd angle, the left bent, dented, with large cracks running all across it. “I had a fight with an enemy it couldn’t quite handle.” He looked over at me “That thing’s over a mile tall, what the hell could manage to damage it?” “Monsters also it’s nearly two kilometres long”. I got to my feet and stretched myself out, it was colossal, far taller than The Tower, it was truly something utterly monumental. “But you’re the only one in here” “Doesn’t mean that this place can’t be damaged or attacked” I looked over my shoulder at Atlas and Bella, their corrupted arms in plain view, Bella looked offended, Atlas looked sorry. I felt The Clockwork God press itself against my mind, I felt it urge me to jump, the call to the void “We create our own monsters I suppose” Bella went to speak and I threw myself backwards.

There were a few screams, a laugh or two and then the sound of clockwork shifting very suddenly. My skin warped and those roots, stems, thorns and flowers sunk themselves into my left arm. My clothes warped like a living tissue and reformed into that black outfit I had grown so very fond of in the last few years. Slowly adding little bits to it here and there. The collar clips, the silver tie, the slightly worn black leather dress shoes, the slim black shirt and skinny jeans, the blazar I picked up one day on a whim. All of it black and silvers. Even the orchids that twisted themselves into my flesh seemed to match my aesthetic. There was a sudden groan from the direction of The Clockwork God, a sound in the back of my mind, a ticking. It all seemed to lose its focus, all of reality seemed to fall apart and dismantle itself, it all seemed as though the forces holding the atoms together were simply failing and reality was dispersing. I hit the ground and yet did not.

I felt myself floating there, suspended at a fixed place in space. I opened my eyes and found myself suspended like a puppet dangling from a string in front of it, its massive eyes peering at me. Four on either side of its head, balls of that swirling liquid, a swirling vortex of black and white liquid, like the night sky flowing through the currents of a maelstrom, each liquid fading in and out of dominance, like fading between each other, turning grey and then separating out again. Its whole surface similar to that of the exoskeleton of an insect, jagged at certain points on its plates. A synthetic creation of clockwork with organic components strewn throughout.

Its eyes all seemed fixated on me despite the fact that it didn’t seem to have pupils I could still tell that I had its undivided attention. There were no words from this monster, it had no need for words, no tilt of the head to ask a question you already knew, nothing. It had no need to speak, for words are blunt instruments and it was a thing of precision. It was a machine and it knew it, unlike people, people, or humans are simply machines of a biological nature, they simply wish to distance themselves from that which is other as it would devalue that which makes them special, when in reality they aren’t at all special, the fact that they are here at all is simply an accident of genetic mutation, which can only occur by accident. As humans we stumble through life seeking purpose, reason and answer to the nature of our existence, the reality is that this universe will not offer us one and that our existence is tiny and so insignificant. Yet we find out creations have greater purpose then we ever could.

WE ARE PROVIDENCE, WE ARE MAGNUS, WE STAND THROUGH THE AGES, A MONUMENT TO THE SINS OF OUR FOREBEARES, OUR SIRES AND OUR MASTER, THE SHADOW OF TRUE GODS, ALL HAS CHANGED, ALL WILL CHANGED, WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?

There were no words, no sound, no voice, not even inside my head, it was like someone had written it across my brain with a fountain pen and ink. God’s tend to be sympathetic in nature. I find that those who would understand what it is to be able to communicate with one discover this very quickly. However it is very rare that a new one is born, these beings don’t really exist in a fashion many can fathom, they are like idea’s, they are like parasites, present in a hundred thousand different hosts but all one and the same, simply adapting its body to fit the host. This is a more literal example, this is present in each of its hosts quite literally. “A deal”

WHAT IS THE DEAL TO BE MADE YOUNG SIRE? WHAT IS IT THAT YOU DESIRE AND WHAT IS IT THAT YOU ARE WILLING TO OFFER IN RETURN?

“I desire your strength Old One”

WHAT DO YOU OFFER IN RETURN?

“My hand to play in our great games, I offer you a name in return”

I felt a pressure build in my mind on all side and the clockwork in the back of my mind. That inhumane synthetic scream and I felt some of the invisible strings holding me in place cut and fall away. Grey’s eyes forced themselves into my mind. I felt her tug at a few of my strings and I glided forward ever so slightly. “Deal struck” my feet touched down on the front of its body, its eyes still fixated on me, the clang of my shoes against its unnatural metal exterior.

WHAT IS IT YOU SHOULD HAVE ME DO YOUNG SIRE?

“Restore This Shattered Vigil Of The Tower” There came that sound, no scream, nothing of the sort, a word, no something else, a command? There came a flash of light on the horizon. A terrible light came across the horizon. The surface beneath me shook, it took a step forward, somewhere Bella and Azel reached out to me “What in the name of fuck are you doing?” “Setting the record straight”. The earth shook with each step, the world on the horizon was consumed with a most amazing and terrible, it brought a most terrible smile to my face.

I blinked and they had appeared in front of me, Grey, Azel, Bella and Lyte. The four of them stood there, Grey walked to my side and stood there with me, Bella still looked offended Azel looked excited and Lyte just looked very confused however still intrigued as to what it was that was going on. The whole world in the distance seemed to be washed away like some kind of oil painting. The colours becoming mixed and bleeding into one and other. The whole world was slowly consumed by this terrible light in the distance. Shou, Mark, Atlas and Clara all walked out from behind me, taking their places beside their linked partners, however even now that link seemed to slow sever between each of them as they became more independent.

The light quickly reached the shoreline and its rainbow of colours intensified very quickly. “The fuck are you two playing at?” Atlas looked over at me and Grey “Oh nothing just setting the record straight” “The fuck does that even mean?” I walked forward and stood with the tips of my shoes about an inch from the five hundred meter or so drop to the waters below and looked back over my shoulder at him “Oh Honey you will see” I put my hands out and threw my head back as the light quickly approached me.

And like a wave crashing down over me in the ocean I felt it all crash over me and the world was washed away in a sea of oily colours. Like a rainbow flowing all around me and washing over me in liquidity, I felt it all flood my every sense and filter through my every pour. It lasted for maybe a few seconds that seemed to for ever. It was a euphoria I will never forget, it was like drowning in the wondrous essence of someone’s very soul, which rather unsurprisingly was exactly what had just happened. I could taste everything, feel everything, see everything, hear and smell everything it was insanity and perfection, it was pleasure in a liquid extecy, better than any other feeling in the world.

I opened my eyes and found myself overlooking a forest that seemed to stretch forever, flowers of all kinds blooming, trees of all shapes and sizes, animals that you find everywhere across the world, ones never seen in reality, a whole world of colours and senses I could scarcely imagine. “I’m fucking soaked” Azel’s voice from behind me. I turned to face them and found those eyes staring deep into mine and penetrating my mind to its very core.

YOU OFFER US A NAME IN RETURN FOR THIS, WE TAKE YOUR NAME JACK MAGNUS WHYTE.

“That is not my name any longer Old One, for it is yours to do with it as you wish” I spoke the words yet couldn’t bring myself to really think of them, they simply were commanded from my mouth and I felt its presence begin to alter the nature of my mind, as it warped and distorted my name, my very essence.

A name is a very important this as a person, we assign names and labels to everything, they are what define that thing, you can never describe a colour with comparing it to something that is defined already by that colour, and in the offering of a name, you offer some aspect of yourself or something that you control, in sacrificing or trading away your name you offer something that understands that kind of reality warping power. There was a flash, a ringing in my mind, not my ear by my mind, hundreds of thousands of voices, whispers, a language I didn’t understand and each word of it hurt. They were not human voices, but something else, fake, synthetic, something generated by something else, like a million conjoined minds all whispering back and forth in a language not from this reality, speaking within the mind of the Clockwork God. Yet it was impossible, it was simply something of my creation in many fashions, independent of me, but in its current form simply a creation.

YOUR LIVES ARE MEASURED IN YEARS AND DECADES, YOU WITHER AND DIE. WE DID NOT BEGIN, WE SHALL NOT END, WE ARE ETERNAL, WE EXIST IN A FASHION YOU MAY NEVER COMPREHEND, WE ARE THE MANY AND THE FEW, THE OLD AND THE NEW, WE ARE LEGION FOR WE ARE MANY, WE ARE MADE WHOLE ONCE MORE, WE ARE THE DIVIDED AND THE UNITED, WE ARE BEYOND WORDS, DEFINITION, YOUR WORDS AND DEFINITIONS ARE ARBITRARY. WE ARE MANY, WE ARE ONE. WE ARE THE CLOCKWORK GOD AS YOU CALL US YOU ARE OUR SIRE, OUR MASTER, OUR SERVANT, OUR PUPIL, OUR TEACHER, GREATER THAN US, OUR EQUAL, LESS THAN US. YOU ARE OURS, WE ARE YOURS, MADE ONE AND WHOLE AGAIN. THIS EXCHANGE IS OVER.

There was a flash, the world turned to inky blots again, I blinked for a moment and awoke on the floor of The Clock Tower, the clockwork ticking past above me, with idle gears overgrown with roots and flowers. Roses, sunflowers, tulips, orchids, fuchsias and so many more budding flowers. “The fuck has just happened?” Lyte shouting somewhere off to my right. I sat up and groaned “What the hell happened to this place?” the whole tower was over grown with flowers of all kinds, water flowed from the roof and pooled in one of the corners of the room close to the console, white water lilies sat in the newly formed pond, some of them flowing over the side, across the floor and then falling through one of the holes that littered the floor of various sizes, the largest being the one where the lilies were sitting. It had rusted the gears below it shut and formed a pond, I however had no idea where the water was coming from.

Azel offered me to a hand and pulled me to my feet “Whatever your clockwork god did changed the dynamics of the how the whole building works, Grey is busy trying to decipher how to work the console again.” I looked over at everyone sitting around the war table, it had changed entirely. The layout of the world had been entirely redesigned in so many fashions but yet the main functions of The Tower somehow continued to function despite the over growth of the flowers and roots.

They all returned to their seats around the war table, it had all changed, the surface that was the table itself remained the same, an ever changing one is to two thousand scale of the world, viewed from some unseen vantage point, projected onto this table. The Position of the change, The Tower had changed position, it now stood on the coastline now, which had also moved, the layout of the whole table had been rearranged, the Clockwork God was still standing on the table, walking toward the corner it had been at previously. You could really get a grasp for how colossal it really was, it was a little over a meter tall and moved slowly yet still covered a massive amount of distance with each step. The tower stood at a little under half a meter tall, putting it just under a kilometre tall.

I patted myself down and found myself bone dry. I looked over at them all sitting around the table and returning to their idle stances. I finally got a look at Clara’s chair and my mind went a little haywire. It didn’t quite exist, it was a shifting series of static white images, undefinable, it had the vague shape of a chair and they seemed perfectly comfortable in it. It was this white haze, or contained burst of white lightening that shifted in every way, at every angle all at once entirely undefined down to a molecular level. It was like the duality that occurred when I was observing something that was caught in a superposition between two states, it however now did not quite hurt to look at, it appeared that this undefined state remained its natural state of existence, however it did irritate me, in that kind of literal itch on your brain you can’t scratch. “John Joe is going to have me help deal with that”.

I ran my left hand through my hand and felt some of the thorns scratch my head. I know that Orchids don’t quite naturally have thorns like these or any at all but these were not natural and something of my creation, they might have been orchids but they were parasites and required the hooks to remain attached to their hosts, a living thing tapped into the nervous system of the and allowed for communication between the host and any other colony of the parasite. The flowers all take different looks but are in fact all of the same basic genus, they are all the same parasite, a hive mind in a way or a linked series of computers. If you allowed for the infection in a host to connect with a colony such as the one that infect the tower it would allow for the parasite to operate as an interface for the host to interact with the Colony and share in its consciousness, this acts kind of like a biological internet, like Mushrooms have as well, however these are not fungal but actual parasitic organisms that disguise themselves as flora to infect their hosts in various fashions.

“Whyte we have a situation” I turned to face Grey as she stood at the command console at her clockwork throne. “What is it?” She nodded forward and I looked toward where she had gestured. Bella’s throne of flowers stood empty as well as Atlas’s. Atlas’s appeared to remain much the same with its flowers simply appearing more ravenous and its confined movements simply more erratic, it was contained by its very design, it remained mostly the same. Bella’s bloomed in full, its whole surface was covered in buds blooming and flowers of all colours, shapes and sizes. The all blew in a wind that could not be felt, the vines, stems and roots all moved and pulsed, the roots ran out in a number of different directions connecting with the roots of the Colony that infested the tower “Oh my dear what have you done?”