#i figure maybe once i have enough of a baseline to stop feeling stupid then maybe i'll hate cooking less

[crimeronan]

if anyone has recs for good youtube tutorial/education channels about cooking for people who are Absolutely Hopeless let me know. for reference: did worse than 96% of people on that buzzfeed vegetable test, do not understand cooking terms (like sautee, stir fry, simmer, etc), don't know how to differentiate between knives or other utensils, don't know how to chop vegetables or even hold a knife properly, etc. the things i CAN do are 1) boil water 2) boil pasta 3) boil rice 4) make box brownies.

basically i need a hand-holding tutorial for someone who has never stepped foot in a kitchen before. like so simplified it borders on condescending. and many tutorials seem to assume a baseline of knowledge that i..... do not.... possess.

[crossroadsfossil]

106 degrees

Summary:

Here’s a fun science fact: Birds consistently run at a higher temperature than humans do. It tends to range between 99 degrees fahrenheit up to 112 degrees. Hawks’ own body temperature tends to self-regulate around 106 degrees.

This is important when you get caught in an autumn rainstorm with a villian you don’t really trust.

Also known as 5 times Hawks falls asleep on Dabi

Prompt: For something fluffier, how about Hawks can't stop falling asleep on Dabi because of how hot he runs. Dabi constantly has an arm full of bird and has no clue what to do

Bonus if they still didn’t trust each other the first time it happened

A03 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31366130

Here’s a fun science fact: Birds consistently run at a higher temperature than humans do. It tends to range between 99 degrees Fahrenheit up to 112 degrees. Hawks’ own body temperature tends to self-regulate around 106 degrees.

It’s something he and Rumi discuss often, if only because Rumi liked to snuggle up to him and comments on it constantly. She has no room to talk since she also runs at a higher temperature. Granted, it’s not much higher than your usual human baseline. She runs about a hundred or a hundred and one, depending on the season.

Needless to say, Hawks is a very popular patrol partner in the winter. Add in his feathers (which are amazing insulation, despite not being meant for it) and the large fluffy jacket he’s never without, and it’s not surprising that he’s almost never alone in the cooler weather, even if most of his companions can’t keep up with him once he gets going.

Neither his feathers nor his jacket are doing him any good right now, as soaked through as they are. His day had gone from bad (a long day topped off with a meeting Dabi ‘forgot’ to tell him about) to worse (an incoming cold front) to absolutely terrible (a storm that was preceding the cold front, resulting in rain, sleet, snow, or all three since this was Japan after all).

As soon as the sky opened up, Hawks insisted they take shelter. He’d herded Dabi towards the closest abandoned warehouse. He ignored the expression Dabi sported as he broke in. He didn’t care what the villain thought or how entertained he was by the action. He was a practical man and it was abandoned. Besides, if he didn’t get out of the wind and rain, he was at serious risk of going into torpor. The gear he was wearing today wasn’t meant for repelling water and it was about as much use as an icepack in winter.

There were a list of things he didn’t want to happen around Dabi, and going into torpor was fairly high up on that list, alongside bullet points such as ‘getting drunk’, ‘getting high’ and ‘running into another hero’. The best Hawks could expect from Dabi was for the villain to light his feathers on fire. At worst, he figured Dabi wouldn’t be the only burnt nugget around after he was finished with Hawks.

��Hey birdie, I’m not opposed to a show but take me out for dinner first.” Dabi said, watching as Hawks shrugged out of his coat and feathers in one fluid movement, catching his jacket before it fell off completely. He let his feathers fall to the ground with a disgusting splat. Laundering those would be less of a hassle than laundering his jacket. He draped his jacket over a nearby box in the vain hope that it might dry a little. It probably wouldn’t, but who knows. Maybe if he annoys Dabi enough, the fire-quirk user might raise the temperature in the warehouse by a few degrees.

“Ha. Ha. Not everyone has a fire quirk, asshole.” Hawks replied, giving what remained of his wings a shake to get as much of the water out. A quick look around the warehouse revealed it wasn’t as secure as he had thought, with great gaping holes in several of the walls. He shivered as the wind blew through them and started looking for anywhere that would provide a barrier between himself and the wind. He watched enviously for a moment as Dabi rolled his shoulders and began steaming slightly, burning the moisture out of his clothes and coat.

He spotted a pile of boxes, with several piled up on three sides to make a small nook and started to walk towards it.

“So, what do you have for me?” He asked, sitting down and scooting until he hit the back ‘wall’ of boxes.

Dabi shrugged. “Nothing. Just wanted to see if you’d come.” He replied.

Hawks stared at him, not quite believing what he just heard. Dabi’s growing grin cemented the fact that he had not, in fact, misheard.

“You’re an asshole. You seriously just called me out here on a whim? I’ve got better things to do, Dabi.”

“What, rescue people? In this weather? I think not.” Dabi said, slinking towards Hawks. Instead of taking a seat on the box directly in front of him, Dabi decided that the best place to sit was practically in Hawks’ lap. He shoved the hero over and leaned against one of the boxes that made up a makeshift wall and smiled at Hawks, daring him to do anything about it.

“Dick. So what now? Are you going to suggest we play Shiritori or I-Spy to pass the time? Since you invited me out for a playdate, we might as well.”

“That is not what I did.”

“You did it on a whim. It sounds like either a playdate or you miiiiiiiiiissed meeee.” Hawks said in a sing-song tone, delighting in the way it made Dabi’s face scrunch up in irritation.

“We could play ‘how many burnt feathers does it take to get to the crispy chicken center’.” Dabi held up a palm, a blue flame flickering to life in the center of it. Hawks looked between the flame and Dabi’s face and, very pointedly, brought his hands up to warm them.

“Thanks. My fingers were getting cold.”

Dabi huffed and closed his fist, snuffing the fire out.

--------------------------

When the bird actually showed up in the storm, Dabi wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He certainly wasn’t expecting the hero to stick around, let alone break into a building. Especially not the way he had. In the split second between Hawks looking at the door and breaking in, he’d assumed the hero would use a feather to lock-pick it. It seemed like something the hero would do- sufficiently flashy enough and sounded like the sort of party trick the pigeon would learn. Instead, Hawks had pulled out one of his larger feathers, slid it into the bend of the padlock and twisted it, using the feather like a lever and cracking the lock off with brute strength.

He wouldn’t say it intrigued him, but it was damn close. There were still things about the bird he didn’t know and he was still half-convinced the hero was a spy, but shit like that definitely made him question that assumption.

The hero also annoyed the ever-loving hell out of him. More than Toga or Twice did, so he was hoping the bird would slip up and he’d have an excuse to roast the number two hero.

The storm outside had rolled in completely, throwing the warehouse into almost complete darkness. He and Hawks had stopped sniping at each other almost half an hour ago, the warehouse filled with the sound of screaming winds and hammering rain. He was pretty sure this was a new record for Hawks. If he gave a shit, he’d say something about being impressed. He didn’t give a shit and he was more interested in figuring out what the fuck was making that weird noise. It kept disturbing the quiet of the warehouse; it was almost a peeping squeak, like a chain swinging in the wind, but far more organic.

He lit up one of his palms, peering out into the darkness to see if he could spot the noise. All it did was make the shadows worse and throw the hero into an eerie light. The hero was sitting with his eyes closed, and as Dabi watched, about every third exhale the bird would shiver slightly and let out that peeping noise.

Was that… Hawks’ version of a snore?

Pretty ballsy of the hero to fall asleep next to him. Ballsy and stupid as hell. Slowly, he brought his hand closer to the bird, intent on setting at least one wing on fire.

Gold eyes blinked open, unfocused. Dabi froze, waiting for the bird to react.

Hawks did, but not in a way Dabi had been expecting.

“Fucking hell-” Dabi spat as Hawks leaned against him.

The bird was freezing.

It was like getting hit by a wet washcloth that had been sitting in a freezer, and within moments he could feel the water seeping through his clothes. The bird was freezing and soaking wet.

Then the bird shivered again, almost cuddling into Dabi’s arms. Hawks’ eyes had closed again and it left Dabi with an armful of bird and no good idea how to handle this or how to feel about it.

Logically, Hawks was probably seeking out the warmth, and hell, maybe he was like Spinner. Spinner hated the cold and was about as tolerant of it as Dabi was of the heat. Guess that might explain the sleepy-thing. Spinner mentioned something about torpor once. Dabi hadn’t been listening because Spinner was goddamn annoying.

He brought his legs up, shifting Hawks so that he was sitting sideways and half on Dabi’s lap. One of his hands came up and, against his better judgement, settled on the remaining plumage Hawks had left on his wings. They looked comically small like this, and he had been wondering about how they felt.

Right now, they felt wet and cold.

He tsked and slowly heated his hand up, combing his hand through the feathers.

Slowly, they went from feeling like wet paper to delightfully smooth and soft.

---------------------------

Normally, Hawks enjoyed waking up. He had a nice bed and decadent sheets. He usually woke with the sun, and despite having an early shift, that still usually left him with an hour he could spend just basking in the delight of a nice bed. If he left the shades open, he could do so in a puddle of sunlight.

His bed didn’t feel right this morning. Too lumpy and for a moment he tried to recall if he had brought anyone home the night before. There was a hand combing through his hair, so there was a very distinct possibility that he had left the warehouse the night before and-

His eyes flew open at the thought.

He didn’t remember leaving the warehouse and-

“Chill your tits, bird brain. Just me.” Dabi said, giving a light tug on a lock of Hawks’ hair. He ignored the pleasant way it sent shivers down his spine.

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah. That was my thought too. Lemme guess- you go into torpor?” Dabi asked.

“Do I even need to answer that right now?” Hawks’ shoulders slumped and he groaned.

Fantastic. He did exactly the thing he hadn’t wanted to do. Dabi let out a soft huff, almost a laugh but not quite. Hawks leaned back, feeling an arm against his back and keeping him from going too far. Dabi didn’t look peeved, and that raised his hackles. His eye narrowed as he tried to figure out what happened.

“What?”

“You did something.” Hawks stated, running through a checklist in his mind. He didn’t feel any burns. Nothing smelled like ash. The only real change from before he went into torpor was his hair and wings were fully dry and his clothes felt, well, not dry but not sopping wet anymore.

Oh.

OH.

Dabi noticed the grin on Hawks’ face, and started spluttering. “You were just-”

“You preened meeee.” Hawks sang, laughing at the affronted expression on Dabi’s face.

“I did not. You were dripping everywhere.”

“Uh-huh. And that included drying my wings… why?”

“....Because they were there. So shoot me if I wanted to know if you had greasy bird feathers.”

“Nope. That the same reason you decided to sweetly comb through my hair? I mean, really Dabi. If you wanted to play with my hair and wings that much, you could have at least gotten me dinner first.” Hawks teased, stifling a laugh as Dabi’s expression went from affronted to a grouchy embarrassment, before then actually lifting Hawks up and dumping him on the ground.

One- Damn. Hawks’ wasn’t heavy but he was mostly muscle so. Damn.

Two- He was just laughing harder now. To think that Dabi got shy about being caught playing with hair. He got to his feet, trying to brush the dust from his pants before giving it up as a lost cause.

“Well Hotstuff, thanks for the preen and playing heating pad. Guess we did get to know each other a little better tonight.”

Dabi flipped him off, sliding off the crates and making his way towards the door they came in through.

“Dabi?” Hawks called out. To his surprise, Dabi stopped, turning to look at him, dubiously waiting for the rest of his question. “For the next meeting, can I play with your hair?”

A moment later he was scrambling away from the fireball Dabi sent his way, despite knowing that it wasn’t a true attack and Dabi was only trying to get him to stop talking and hide his frazzled expression. Hawks watched Dabi make a beeline out the door, wheezing on his laughter as he gathered up his jacket and feathers.

Teasing Dabi was going to be so much fun.

[stiles-halee]

Kinkmas Day 2: Mating

This was so not where he wanted to be on a Friday night. He was finally in college, he should be living it up, at a party or getting drunk somewhere. Instead, he was huddled up in his dorm-room, nose pressed into his pillow as he palmed his crotch.

He was in heat.

Normally he was pretty regular, he knew when it was coming and planned accordingly. He had even made plans with Scott tonight, they were going to get drinks with a few people from Scott's work, but only minutes after he solidified their plans, he had to cancel.

The heat gripped him tight, making his entire body shiver. It was only a matter of time before the heat had taken over completely.

He promised himself when he moved into his dorm that he would never have a heat here. He had been completely successful, able to tract and sense his heat coming, able to leave the dorm and head home, he was only about an hour out from Beacon Hills.

The idea of having a heat inside a dorm room made his stomach role. Everyone would smell and hear everything that what was going on, thin walls and all. It was weird enough trying to squeeze in a jerk session in the communal showers.

Stiles groaned, rolling over and pulling his hand out from his pants. He knew that he couldn't will his heat away, it didn't work like that, but he still wanted to put it off as long as possible.

He laid there for a bit, in his tiny top bunk, trying to distract himself, messing around on his phone or picking at the fabric of his navy blue blanket.

Scott had sent him a text, "just checking in." Stiles snorted, but texted back that he was fine, apart from the extreme embarrassment of having a heat in a dorm. Scott sent back his sympathies, but he would never get it, he was a beta.

Of course, he was offered a variety of dorm choices, including Omega only, but opted for a mixed dorm, what a foolish decision it seemed like now. He wondered if the Alphas could smell him and what that meant. He didn't want to admit that turned him on further.

It wasn't like what the movies portrayed, Omegas and Alphas crazy out of their mind or anything, but it was like having a couple drinks. You could still make decisions, still in your right mind, but your judgement was slightly clouded.

A knock sounded at the door, startling Stiles slightly. He got up with a groan, his body slightly sore from the heat, though he had done literally nothing except lay in bed. He adjusted himself quickly, only half hard anyways, before going to answer the door, figuring it was Scott.

He opened his mouth at the same time he opened the door, prepared to tell Scott to go have fun without him, that he wanted to be miserable alone, and that Scott should go live it up in his place. What came out though, was a weird, sort of strangled sound that Stiles wished hadn't come out.

It wasn't Scott.

"Hey." It was Derek. He was in two of Stiles' classes, but Stiles only knew his name because he was a football player. Stiles wasn't really one for sports, but he knew some names that got tossed around in the dining hall or classrooms. Derek was a senior and on track to play in the NFL, everyone knew who he was. The question was why he was in this dorm, standing in front of Stiles.

"Are you lost?" Stiles asked. It was a stupid and pretty rude question to ask, or at least the way Stiles spat it out. Football players got their own special dorms. Stiles had never been in one, but he had seen the pictures, their dorms were dirty closets compared to their's.

"Uh, no?" Derek said, looking slightly offended. Stiles supposed that was fair.

Stiles cleared his throat, shifting to hide behind the door-frame slightly. He wasn't going to admit was was still happening downstairs.

"Sorry uh, Derek right? You're in my Victimology class?"

Derek nodded, looking at him oddly, eyebrow cocked. Even if Stiles didn't pay any attention to football, or for that matter was deaf, he would still know Derek Hale. The guy was gorgeous and sat second row in the classes they shared. He joked around with his friends loudly before class started, but as soon as it did, he never said a word, always attentive.

Stiles sat fourth row and on more than one occasion caught himself staring at the back of Derek's head, rather than the board.

Stiles waited for Derek to say something more, but he never did. "Um, did you need help on that paper? I haven't finished it myself, but-"

"Actually, I was wondering if you needed help." Derek cut him off quickly, speaking sternly.

Stiles gave him a look, a little taken aback. "Like I was saying, I haven't finished it, but I got a 98% on the first one, so-"

"I'm not talking about the paper, I finished it three days ago." Derek crossed his arms. So he finished the paper the day it was due? Jesus. Stiles was ambitious, but that was on another level.

"Okay, well-"

"I know you're in heat."

"Would you quit interrupting me- wait what?" Stiles shook his head.

"You're in heat." Derek spoke, raising his brows and motioning Stiles up and down, before refolding his arms across his chest.

Stiles' face burned a bright crimson, warming his ears. "Yes, thank you, I'm pretty sure half of campus is aware."

Derek smirked. "You don't usually stay for your heats do you?" He phrased it as a question, but the implication was clear, Derek knew that he didn't stay for heats.

"Now how the fuck is that any of your business?" Stiles took a step back. Heats were personal for Omegas, not something they really shared in great detail unless they were talking with their mate.

"I only meant I would have noticed." Derek shrugged.

"Once again, how is that any of your fucking business-"

"Your scent I mean, dumbass." Derek rolled his eyes. Oh. Was it that strong?

Stiles glared. "Sorry, asshole, not really something I can control you know."

The next thing he knew, Stiles was shoved in his room, Derek shutting the door behind him quickly. He began to walk around, not much to explore given the size of the room. He had his own dorm, a privilege of an honors student, but it was a dorm nonetheless, it was cramped.

"Yes, please, come on in." Stiles threw his hands up in the air, and kept himself in the corner.

Derek continued looking away, looking tense. He looked to Stiles and he could have sworn his eyes were slightly reddened around the iris's.

"Look, do you want my help or not?" Derek huffed, growing bored with the conversation.

"I'm sorry?" Stiles spat. "I don't need your help you absolute sack of donkey shit. Big surprise here, but I've gone through heats alone my entire life," okay, slightly embarrassing fact to admit to the insanely, super-hot Alpha jock that was standing before him. "so no, I don't need your help."

This time is was Stiles' turn to cross his arms and glare, though it wasn't half as menacing as Derek's gaze.

Derek shrugged, turning back towards the door. "Shame. You smell incredible and I would have given you the fuck of your lifetime."

"Jesus!" Stiles threw his hands up in the air. "You are the cockiest bastard I have ever met in my entire life."

"I'm not cocky, I'm honest." Derek smirked.

"Ah yes, Derek Hale, the oh so honest quarterback, best in the nation. What a title."

Derek made a face in amusement. "So you watch me play?"

"I've watched maybe four football games my entire life, don't seemed so pleased. I can see why the girls don't stop talking about you though."

Derek raised that stupid eyebrow again.

"You do indeed have a reputation." Stiles smiled.

"Is that so?" Derek took a step closer.

"Yeah, of being an absolute fucking asshole who fucks anything that looks like a hole." Stiles snapped, redirecting the conversation from where Derek thought it was going.

"Aw, that wasn't very nice." Derek pretended to pout, but it was clear he was amused by the banter. Too bad the conversation was actually pissing Stiles off, well, not entirely.

"Yes well, I guess we both know what it's like to overstep boundaries, now if you would please-"

"I'm not trying to overstep boundaries. I could smell you were in heat, it's the strongest I've ever smelt and according to you, I've been with my fair share of people, so I should know what the baseline is, right? I wasn't out and about, looking to fuck anything that looks like a hole, I was on my way to the library when I caught your scent. I was actually just going to check that your door was locked, but got wrapped into an oh so intriguing conversation."

"Make sure my door was locked? What are you the anti-rape police? Thanks buddy, really appreciate it." Stiles snorted.

If anyone ever asked, Stiles would refuse the fact that what Derek had said had made him feel something squishy inside of him. It was nice, something he didn't think Derek was. Sure it wasn't right to pass judgement on someone he didn't know but come on, he was a quarterback! An Alpha jock! A senior!

Derek looked away, seeming like he was about ready to leave. Maybe he was bored.

"Look," Stiles started. "Thank you, but like I said, I've spent a fair share of heats alone."

"Not here." Derek put simply, glancing at Stiles' unorganized desk, as though he was trying to understand all of the papers.

"How do you even know that- you know what, it doesn't matter, plenty of experience."

"Doesn't mean it's pleasant to go at it alone." Derek cocked his head, still reading a paper on Stiles' desk.

"Is this your way of trying to get into my pants?" Stiles smirked, leaning against the wall.

Derek shrugged. "If that's what you want."

"Wha-what?" Stiles sputtered, leaning up quickly. Stiles didn't even think Derek was into guys, all he ever heard was both squealing and complaining from girls. Those who wanted to be with him, and were with him, for a very brief period of time. Derek didn't seem to date, but fuck, yes Derek fucked.

"Do you want me to stay with you during your heat?" Derek asked.

Stiles snorted, trying to play off how nervous he was. It was true Stiles had plenty of experience with heats alone, but it was also true that Derek was right, they weren't pleasant. They hurt and were far less pleasurable than they should be.

Stiles didn't answer. The answer should probably be no. He didn't know Derek, not really, but maybe that made it better? He could do this and never have to deal with Derek again, or better yet, Derek would never have to deal with Stiles again.

"I could make you feel good." Derek took a step closer and Stiles swallowed, heat instantly shooting to his crotch.

"No more aches." He took another step.

"No more fevers." Another step.

"Only pleasure." They were only inches away. Derek cautiously placed a hand on Stiles' bicep, slowly taking his pain. It wasn't a huge amount, but Stiles always had aches during heat. And somehow, Derek knew that.

"I could make you feel good." Derek repeated.

"What's in it for you?" Stiles asked. It seemed like a stupid question to ask, but it also made sense. Why did Derek want to help him, some random kid in his class?

"I already told you, yours is the strongest scent I have ever smelled, it's pretty intoxicating. I want to see what it tastes like." Derek traced the tips of his fingers across Stiles' cheekbone, making him suck in a breath.

"Besides, I like helping people." Derek shrugged. What a mundane answer.

"Is that why you're going into Criminology?" Stiles asked, as Derek traced his fingers down his neck.

"Do you want to talk career paths, or do you want me to knot you?"

"Second option please." Stiles breathed out. Derek growled lowly, tucking his face into Stiles' collarbone gently, breathing in his scent.

"Thought so." Derek hummed.

#sterekkinkmas #sterekkinkmas2020

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27847538/chapters/68179390

[rumandtimes]

“Bossypants” by Tina Fey: A pre-view

Luigina Cecchina-Tarquina

Assoc. Lifestyle Contributor

When I picked up Tina Fey’s book, I knew little more of her reputation than as a female comedian. I expected a chuckle and some depiction of a woman’s take on the world of hollywood success — I would not have expected to come across a racist book that struggles to relay a single joke while recounting the life of a southern woman’s bygone teenage years, but then, what would one expect from a cast member of “saturday night live”.

For those who are even aware of Saturday Night: Live (SNL), it is common knowledge that Tina Fey, and saturday night live for that matter, are controversial figures in american media. It seems to be a split right down american society: people who find Tina Fey “L-O-L” funny, and people who find her humour unsufferable; people who tolerate the blatant racism of snl and 30rock as “satire,” and those who have had enough of the denigration, minstrels, slurs, and tropes for cheap comedic effect.

I know Tina Fey is a comedian — a clown — and sets out to prick peoples ears and widen people’s eyes. To quote another comedy critic, I do not seek to come off as someone wilfully misunderstanding humour and repeatedly not getting the joke.

Yet the illusion of that decision is for those who do not remember that Bill Murray had a sketch on snl, where he dreamed about “turning from ‘brown’ to ‘white’”, and the more recent habit of snl writers hiring minorities as comedians to attack themselves on the show with slurs, because it would look less objectionable than if the writers denigrated those actors or people themselves. In Tina Fey’s book, she states that “As a Greek,” she would “only date a ‘white’ man, such as a redneck” inexplicably fond of camouflage.

But to quote that same critic again, humour has a goal; It has an audience. When engineered to subvert expectations and play to the common denominator, jokes have a base which they are founded upon. If that baseline for the comedian or writer, like Fey, is a bedrock of deep-seated racism, which the comedian exploits rather than lampoons, it is no longer a humorous observation, but a cheap, racist ploy servicing an already receptive racist base.

Tina Fey saying she would only date in a certain imaginarily-defined group is racist. Full stop.

Fey going on to say she would date even the lowest, “redneck,” in that category, before anyone else in the world is not less racist — as Fey probably expected her statement to be received (by deprecating people of European-descent with ethnic slurs like “redneck” or “hillbilly” or “honche”, rather than solely praising their racist memes) — but it is more racist, as Fey is simultaneously using racism to make fun of her suitors, and again using racism to elevate even them above anyone and everyone else.

Not to “belabour the point,” as Fey would appreciate, or focus on one bad joke: but Fey’s joke is playing to long-festered notions of racism, colonialism, and rogue supremacism, which Fey buys into rather than challenges, where Fey herself puts (1) any “Aryans” above (2) rich Europeans, (3) Greeks above poor Europeans, and (4) poor Europeans above (5) the rest of the living world. It is inane — and stupid — but a strongly held delusion among groups (1) through (5), and probably strongest among groups (2) to (4).

Fey happily plays with this unholy flame of racism, undergirded by genocide in her native South, fuelled by the segregation in Fey’s own high school, and leaving embers of anti-marriage laws across the American East.

That is not to say racism, colonialism, genocide, holocaust, mob rule, political repression, et alia, are not to be joked about — they are the most popular comedic material in the United States (even if only in the United States). But these topics are deadly serious, and not as distant and abstract as we would like them to be.

There is a real possibility, given their frequency and recency, that anyone who read the first edition of Fey’s book, or attended same secondary school, committed a hate crime, using the exact same rhetoric Fey employs as a “joke.” Not only that, Fey never says it is a joke — there is no punchline.

The only reason I give Tina Fey the benefit-of-the-doubt and assume she was not serious about what she said is because the statements where so outrageous and absurd that someone would have to be insane to print them in sincerity, and equally as ungracious to print them even in jest.

Nonetheless, it was never expected to have to wrestle with these issues, which Fey has ill-managed, in a comedy memoir. Maybe if it had to do with Fey’s experiences or personal identity (as “German–Greek”?) it would have a more natural place. That is, if Fey had been the victim of racism, and condemned it, even through humour, that would be expected, cool, and fine. Fey calls herself “Greek,” but only tongue-in-cheek, and it’s apparent she doesn’t speak Greek. Fey calls herself “German,” but only in relation to being American, and it’s apparent she doesn’t speak German.

What we learn is not how Tina Fey suffered racism, but her experience in adopting racism itself. It offends the senses, and anchors the book.

While hardly intended to win over the intellectual crowd, some of Fey’s items over the years cannot be ignored. Conventional culture, and Fey herself, would seem to agree, after the firing of certain snl comedians and the pulling of certain 30rock episodes, that just went too damn far.

This puts Fey in the precarious position of defending her legacy of racist and baiting comedy, and that of her colleagues, as now she has been outed as admitting herself that she has crossed the line on several, several occasions. But does that mean that Fey is accommodated now that she has made a partial apology? Or is that the mere beginning of scrutiny now that critics have gotten their first concrete admission of her failure?

Fey, and many of her cultivation, say such racist things in order to just have meaningless fun, or in order to make fun of the racist. While Fey and the others may consider this to be in good fun, and an inclusive way to overcome racism, at the end of the day you have subtly racist comedians repeating the words of violently racist hate-mongers for the entertainment of an audience often apathetic to the realities of racism. That is to say, with such willingness to commonly, repeatedly, and recklessly embrace such a serious topic, they can miss the mark.

The impulse may be that racism is so at the heart of American culture and popular life that it is expected that a pop culture figure embrace it (similar to why comedians talk so much of ornery subjects such as politics), and that they should not be taken seriously as comedic plays on the feelings of the populace.

However, comedy is nothing if it does not play to the sentiments of the crowd, and the cover of the clown mask is a poor excuse for crude thinking. In Fey’s apology for racist comedy sketches on her show 30rock, she echoed a previous comedians apology, David Letterman, when she said that intent is less important than perception when that perception causes innocent people pain. In Letterman’s statement (on a different subject), Letterman also says it is not about intent but perception that forced his apology and goes so far to say that if you must explain a joke, it wasn’t that funny anyway, so there is no sense in defending it.

Elizabeth Xenakes Fey, or Tina, has been a supporter of progressive movements in the country, but it should not be overstated to what extent, nor should the virtue of this support be overstated. Fey’s famous endorsements of Barack Obama versus John McCain, and of Hilary Clinton versus Donald Trump, and moreover her critical statements of Sarah Palin’s alliance to both McCain and Trump, have been definitive to her identity as a good liberal and progressive person who supports women’s advancements.

Yet, so too did the majority or Americans. It is not a controversial stance to support the candidate that won the popular vote of a national election — and, sadly, many racist people, both aware and unwitting, also vote for so-called “progressive” candidates for different reasons, despite their problematic stances. That is to say, being a Democrat is not exculpatory of anything. It should also be noted that Fey endorsed Clinton over Obama in the primary, and refused to endorse Bernie Sanders (or Clinton) in the next primary, and Fey describes herself and her works as “neutral,” rather than progressive.

Fey’s most famous work in comedy, the impersonation of Sarah Palin wasn’t as scathing as one might expect of a true critic, but was in many cases humanising, and even flattering. Fey was not kind in undermining the Tea Party spokesperson, but Palin was made out to be an odd yet loveable figure, rather than a contemptible one: she was written off. As Fey’s alter ego said herself, ‘it would be egotistical for saturday night live (or anyone else) to believe that a couple of jokes swung the 2008 election.’

Tina Fey has many hard questions to answer for racist depictions in her sketches, television series, and book — and it is not so easy a dodge to say that she once ‘made fun of Sarah Palin.’ Another reviewer stated, “I don’t think Fey comes off as a bad person, I just don’t think she’s funny.” Tina Fey doesn’t come off as a good person, or a bad person, but just presents as an ordinary person, and whether you find Tina Fey (or mor importantly, any of her jokes) funny is a personal and indeterminable matter.

I watched a few of Fey’s “world-famous” skits for this review, and I admit I did mistake Sarah Palin for Fey in their cross-over cameo skit; And the moment I laughed the hardest (in fact the only moment I laughed through the skits) was during the VP Debate Sketch with her fellow southerner, Jason Sudeikis, where “Biden” repeatedly attacked Scranton, Pennsylvania as “the worst place on Earth” — so again, people react to comedy in an unpredictable way, as a basis of personal experience. I don’t think all of Fey’s jokes make it, yet no one can singularly define anything as “funny,” or not, but I do see her as a professional on screen. I don’t give a pass however on bad interest jokes, especially on the mere basis of not liking Donald Trump (who, remember, is also a television celebrity who has worked in comedy, and made jokes that were blatantly racist — and sexist).

Entering Fey’s book, “Bossypants”, with this pre-review (re-preview?) in mind, it introduces to me that this memoir may turn to places unexpected, and that just because it is a celebrity-text does not mean it will be a simple, casual, or homey, ride.

[photochoco]

Out in the Field (pt. 1)

Black Cauldron’s newest recruit learns the ropes. She hopes she isn’t in over her head!

Wisteria had always loved sleeping late. In a world where the night was eternal, and the city only had colored lights to indicate the time, it was easy to lose track. She often would stay up until the deep purples of “night” would slowly gradient into the bright yellows of “daytime”. People more or less adhered to the idea that yellow was for doing things and being awake, and purple was for sleeping. Though Wisty had found that the city came alive during the purple hours in a way it didn’t when the lights were yellow. She herself worked better during purple hours. 

But now, they looked more or less the same. Maybe the purples were a little darker, but Wisty didn’t realize just how much she’d miss them until she’d looked out her window. Monochrome, just like the inside of her colorful room. Had she known this would happen, she would’ve appreciated it all a lot more. She was glad the BC had told her to come in for her orientation when she felt ready. She had curled up on her bed and sobbed her guts out for what felt like hours. It hurt, not seeing any color. Sure, she could still see all the colors in her mind’s eye, but what was the point if she couldn’t see them with her real ones? Her real ones, which were now gaping, black voids. They didn’t even reflect light very much, which was probably the weirdest part. 

For the most part Wisty had stayed cooped up in her apartment, trying to figure out what to do with her artist career. She’d made her way to the BC a couple times to meet with Harvey, but most of her time was spent fighting off a creeping emptiness.

She put on her headphones, pulled out a few locks of hair on each side and looked herself over in the mirror. Perfect, coordinated, adorable. She adjusted her hood and took a deep breath. She forced herself to keep looking when all she wanted to do was shut her eyes.

You are okay.

In front of her apartment complex she wrestled on her roller blades, selected some music, and was off. The breeze as she skated along eased her mind some, and her favorite tunes in her ears eased it more.

She wondered if Harvey had finished designing it yet.

---

The bustling of activity in the cafe area of the Black Cauldron was the same as always, Cadets walking around and chatting with each other. Everyone stopped though, at the sound of something banging into the front door. A heartbeat later, Wisty practically rolled through the threshold, a pair of roller blades in her hand. “Sorry sorry! I didn’t mean to hit the door!”

“Now that’s what I call an entrance,” Bianca giggled, giving a wave. “You ready for your first day?” “As ready as I’ll ever be!” Wisty said, raising her arms in a stretch. “I hope I don’t cause too much trouble for y’all.”

A tall mage in a bunny mask rounded the corner, a giant calligraphy pen in his hands.

“Ah, perfect. I just finished the final adjustments to your weapon. Here.” Harvey held it out with both hands. Its tip gleamed of newly polished brass. Its long body was black and smooth as Wisty took it in her hands. It was-

“It’s perfect!” she nearly squealed in her excitement. Harvey gave a satisfied nod. “Aaaand here are your ink canisters. I took the liberty of filling them up for you already. And here are the colors in powder form, just add water. Once you run out I can make more for you. And the colors are in the order you requested so you can easily pick them without seeing the hue. There should be enough ink to last you a whole fight, but don’t y’know, go painting the entire city.”

Wisty hugged her pen and ink pack tightly to her chest like a child being gifted a new toy. “I love it I love it I love it!!” she exclaimed, hopping up and down.

Harvey’s bunny mask was stuck in a perpetual grin, but Wisty could glean from his body language that he was quite pleased with his handiwork. “You’ll get a chance to try ‘em out today during your sparring.” “My what?” “Sparring!” Bianca appeared out of nowhere and slung an arm around Wisty’s neck. “You said you don’t have a whole lot of fighting experience yeah? Plus like Harvey said, you’ll totally wanna try out your weapon before heading out there, see whatcha can do!” “Okay…” Wisty said slowly. “But who am I gonna be sparring?” It was then she was lifted bodily off the ground by an enormous hand, which wrapped around her middle as easily as if she were a doll. 

“That would be me, cupcake. You should get a feel for what it’ll be like fighting powerful enemies with a lot of physical strength.” “As ya probably know, ghouls are usually witch cronies, doin’ their dirty work. Not the smartest, but really damn strong,” Bianca added. 

“...Did you just call Pinprick stupid? That’s not very nice!” “Oh no, cupcake, she is mostly right. Being turned into a ghoul scrambled my brains, hehehe,” Pinprick replied with a wide smile. Wisty paused to consider this. “...Still! Be nicer to yourself! I’m fairly sure you’re not stupid.”

“My oh my, what a sweet cupcake you are! But no time for chatter, we must be off to the sparring spot!” 

“Oh cool!” Wisty looked down to be put down. “Where is it?” “Near the outskirts of the city,” Pinprick replied as he squeezed through the small doorframe. “Oh, are we gonna walk?” 

“Nope!” Bianca said, walking up behind them and jumping onto Pinprick’s other arm, balancing herself against his shoulder. “Rooftop hopping is much faster. Observe!” Pinprick bent his legs.

“Wha aaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--”

---

“Here we are!” Pinprick chirped, letting go of Wisty. “Go stand over there, and we can get started. Oh before you do though…” He held his hand out to Bianca, who placed something in his palm. He then tossed it to Wisty, who caught it. 

“All Cadets carry these bracelets. They’re a magic disrupter, placing them on witches or ghouls disrupts their flow of magic to incapacitate them. But of course, they don’t always do the job, so you all need to know how to fight,” he explained. “That one is just a dummy bracelet of course, completely harmless.” “How does it work?” Wisty asked, looking at the bracelet curiously. “Is it like a taser in bracelet form?”

“Correct! Today, you’re gonna try to get that bracelet on me. Get that bracelet on, and we can call it a day. Unless you get it on real quick though!” Pinprick snickered.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that…” Wisty mumbled.

“Chin up, cupcake, back straight! Cuz here I come.”

“Ok so what--” Her words were cut off as Pinprick’s arm shot towards her at an alarming speed.  “ShiT!!” Wisty barely had time to dodge out of the way, one of Pinprick’s fingers clipping her cheek. 

Geezus, he’s fast!! She hopped backwards, trying to gain some distance between them. He lunged towards her again, arm outstretched to grab her. Gripping her pen, Wisty rammed it against his arm, knocking it off course. She barely had time to feel even an inkling of triumph before she was slammed into the ground and pinned there by his other hand. “Not a bad start, cupcake. But you’re gonna have to do better than that,” Pinprick crooned. “HhHhhhffffiiiihhhhhhhhne,” Wisty wheezed. “Le’go please my lungs hhhhh-”

Pinprick let her go and she stood up, wincing. Dude could pack a punch. “Ready? Again.” He lunged.

She dodged and slid underneath him, bashing the end of her pen into where she thought the back of his knee was. She must’ve struck true; the giant ghoul kneeled with a small grunt. Wisty yelped in surprise as his entire upper half pivoted to face her. “Surprise!” Wisty barely managed to bend out of the way of his swipe. Noticing the ridges on his arm, she grabbed one and swung herself up onto his shoulders. Pinprick bucked, trying to throw her off. She impulsively grabbed the first thing she could, his hair. “Sorry sorry sorry!” she yelped as she reached for the bracelet.

Her apology was answered by Pinprick grabbing her ankle and yanking her off. Upside-down, she could see Bianca ambling up to the scene, a burger in her hand.

“Howzit goin’?” she asked. “Pinprick is killing the shit out of me, so I’ve come to the conclusion that I will absolutely die if I go fight anything,” Wisty grumbled as she dangled from Pinprick’s hand. He snickered in response. “Hey, don’t feel too bad, this is only a baseline! Imagine how good you’ll be after me ‘n Nate ‘n Dex have taught ya!” Bianca said.

“Hopefully it’ll be a less shameful display than this,” Wisty replied as Pinprick idly swung her from side to side like a pendulum.

“Ready whenever you are, love,” he grinned widely.

“I yield.” Wisty’s legs were far past beginning to wobble. Now she could hardly keep herself upright. Pinprick was not only stupidly fast, but stupidly powerful. He absorbed all of her attacks like they were nothing and dished out brutal counters one after the other. Wisty had been reduced to blocking and dodging. At least she could safely say she was better at that now.

Pinprick raised his hands again in preparation, grinning still. “We’re only getting started, love!”

“What even determines if I’ve won anymore?!” “Simple! Immobilize me and get the bracelet on, and we can call it a day.” “Okay.” “With me at least!” “OH SCREW OOOOOOFF WITH THAT!! I’LL FRIGGIN DIE IF I FIGHT ANYONE ELSE!”

“What’s happening?” Bianca turned and gave a nod of greeting to Dex, who had strolled up to the scene and was now watching with interest.

“The newbie is getting broken in,” she said, cringing as Pinprick sent Wisty flying again. “I think she’s doing...okay…” Dex smirked. “Sure doesn’t look like it, hehe.” “Hey, go easy on her dude, she just started today! I’ve been watching the whole time, I can tell you she’s gotten a lot better already. Aw geez,” Bianca winced as Pinprick threw a punch that caught Wisty on her right cheek, resulting in her swearing loudly. “Remember your safe word!” Dex shouted to her. “My WHAT? PINPRICK YOU CHEATER, YOU NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT THAT!!” The ghoul only cackled in response. “You never asked about it, cupcake!” “OF COURSE I DIDN’T, I’M NEW HERE! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME!” Wisty screeched.

As Pinprick rushed her again, she didn’t wait. This time she lurched to meet him, jumping in the air and landing an impressive high kick on Pinprick’s chin. “Close!!” Dex shouted. “Keep trying--oof, that looked like it hurt.” 

Pinprick had slugged Wisty full force in the torso, and the girl skidded several yards away and hit some nearby boxes, sending dust everywhere. “I’ll go get the nurse bed ready,” Bianca sighed, turning to head back to the Black Cauldron.

Was Pinprick just that strong? Or did she just suck that bad? Wisty coughed on the clouds of dust filling the air. Fine. Fine.

Fine.

She reached behind herself to her ink cartridges. One, two, perfect.

“Yo Pinprick! Did you kill her, man?!” Dex called to his comrade. “Ahoho, I certainly hope not, we were having so much fun!” Before he could say anything more, though, a thin jet of orange ink fired from the dust cloud. The instant it made contact with the ground, it triggered a huge explosion. “HOLY FUCK!!!” Dex hollered as Pinprick skidded backwards, blinking in surprise.

“Oho, it seems the newbie has a few tricks up her sleeve! Good, good!” he laughed. The dust was settling, and now he could see Wisty standing with her back nearly against the brick wall. Just...standing there. “Oh come now love, you can’t be that tired already! You’re leaving yourself...wide! Open!” Pinprick sprinted forward and thrust his left arm out. Wisty swiftly jumped to the side, his right, and he attempted to grab her again, this time with his right hand. She ducked again, resulting in both Pinprick's hands smashing into the wall, sending pieces of brick flying. Wisty took aim with her pen, and fired. Black ink streamed from the tip and coated Pinprick’s hands. His first instinct was to tug--

And they didn’t budge. The ink was like tar.

“What in the--” his words were cut off as Wisty grabbed his arms, flipped herself up onto his shoulders and, using him as her own personal launching pad, leapt up into the air. She shoved another cartridge into her pen and aimed. “Gotcha.” Orange ink streamed. Pinprick was caught in a massive explosion. Dex shielded his face as the heat wave slammed into him. 

“Jeezus God, what the hell did Harvey put in those inks??” he muttered to himself.

As the smoke cleared, he could see Pinprick, still standing, his hands free from the black ink, but looking significantly more banged up. 

“Yeowzers,” Dex trotted up next to the ghoul to get a closer look at the damage. “That was pretty awesome. Might cause some property damage, though.” “But really, when don’t we cause just a little property damage?” Pinprick pointed out, dusting himself off. 

“Wait...where’d Wisteria go?” 

“Hmm...did she get blown away from the explosion…?” Pinprick mused. “She was right--”

His entire body was knocked to the ground as Wisty dropped down from above onto him. Dex barely managed to jump out of the way with a squawk. 

“You little--” Pinprick hissed, but the girl had a firm grip as she snapped the bracelet around his neck. 

“Friggin...got it...Geezus…” she huffed.

She slid off Pinprick as he straightened himself up, looking very pleased.

“Well well well, color me surprised, cupcake! You were quite clever to coax me into getting my hands stuck to the wall. So, orange ink makes explosions, hmm?”

Wisty twirled a lock of her hair looking sheepish, but very happy with herself. “Hehehe, to be honest, while designing my weapon and the ink color effects, I’d asked Harvey which effects each of you guys were resistant to or weak against. Y’know, in case I lend you a hand out in the field. I want to make sure I don’t accidentally hurt one of you.”

Dex let out a whistle. “Damn, you might even give witches a run for their money with smarts like that. But for now, howsabout we get you back to BC? You look like you’re gonna collapse. Your cheek ain’t lookin so good either.” Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, throbbing aches began to make themselves known all over Wisty’s body. Her right cheek really, really hurt, and she gingerly pressed her fingers against it, wincing as the swollen flesh protested.

“Do forgive me for goin’ so hard on you cupcake. Needed to make sure you were prepared; out there, it could be even more dangerous.” Pinprick reached out and ruffled Wisty’s hair, wiggling her whole head back and forth.

“You two got pretty banged up. How about we head back to BC to getcha patched up?” Dex jerked his thumb back to his bike, which was parked nearby. 

“See ya back at BC, cupcake. And you too, Dex,” Pinprick wiggled his fingers in farewell.

“Awwwww C’mon Pin, aren’t I a cupcake too?” Dex asked, his puppy-dog voice belied by the shit-eating grin on his face.

“Absolutely not! Go on now, I’ll see you two back there!” With a mighty leap, Pinprick was off, hopping from roof to roof with ease. Within no time at all he was out of sight. Wisty slumped. “Urgh, I barely hurt him at all. Look at him doin’ parkour shit while I can barely stand--” Right on cue, her legs buckled. She was saved by Dex, who swooped down and grabbed her under the arms.  “Tracy will get you all fixed in no time. Pinprick only went so hard on you because he felt you had potential you were holding back. His method of bringing it out is to hit as hard as he can, hehe. You seem promising, rookie. I’ll have to be extra careful when we fight.” “You use GUNS.” “In the field! Sparring I use blanks. And my lithe body.” Wisty burst out laughing as Dex helped her to the bike. “You guys are merciless! I don’t wanna do anything until I’m not hurting everywhere.” 

“Nothin’ a lil magic n’ a hot bath can’t fix. Aight, get on the back,” Dex said, turning the key in the ignition. “DeeDee likes to go fast, so you might wanna hold on.”

“Okay...uh where…” Wisty hesitantly gripped Dex’s shoulders. 

“Here we go!” The bike flared to life and Dex squeezed the handle.

The inertia as they took off was unexpected and Wisty had to momentarily throw her arms around Dex’s middle to keep from tumbling off the back. But soon enough her hands were back to his shoulders as they drove along, buildings and power lines passing by in a blur.

It was exhilarating. 

“Not too fast for ya, newbie?” “It’s awesome! I love going fast!” “Heh, hang on then!”

Wisty closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose, lost in the music from her headphones and the feeling of the wind as they drove along. This was giving her an idea for… She opened her eyes. Ah. Right. What she would’ve given to see what this all looked like in color. The blurred buildings. The bright moon. Dex’s scarf as it fluttered and danced behind them. He had told her it was red, but what shade of red? What shade were her inks? What if she forgot the colors she knew? Her mouth twisted as tears again stung her eyes. Not that any would fall, the wind was drying them up. 

“Hey just so ya know, you might wanna actually hang on to my middle or else you’ll fall off!” Dex called over his shoulder.

“What?” Wisty shouted back right before they went over a bump. She yelped and clung to Dex again. He snorted.

“Soooooo, have you thought about partnering up with anyone?” he asked her. “Uh...no, not really.” “Would you like to? Newbies usually tend to, though I don’t think Alphus ever did, heh.” “I dunno. I mean, I...” The truth was, she’d loved to partner up with someone. Maybe then she could stop that cycle of loneliness before it even started. 

But… “--It’d be nice to have someone show me the ropes!” 

What kind of person just went around telling others how they struggled with loneliness and just wanted to be included? It wasn’t their problem. It was hers, and she didn’t need to be included just so as to not be rude. Even if it hurt, a lot. Still… Please let this be different. Don’t let this be a repeat of every time I’ve tried to join a group. 

Her grip tightened. If Dex noticed, he didn’t say anything as he rounded a corner hard, tires screeching. 

“Y’know, you should really wear a helmet, especially driving like this!” “Naaahhhh, I’m too cool for one!” “No one is too cool for head safety, my dude.”

“This hair is!”

He weaved easily in and through the crowd. Wisty could see people staring as they flew by. What a strange pair they must look, a boy with glowing white eyes and a girl with black voids for hers. If they could even see them. “...Hehehe.” 

Wisty stood up suddenly, her arms spread wide. “Whooooooo!!!” “WISTERIA SIT DOWN! You’re gonna fall off!”

“My balance is really good!” 

Luckily for her, and Dex’s blood pressure, the Black Cauldron was within sight now. He pulled into the corner and Wisty hopped off as he turned his bike off. “That was awesome! Can we do it again sometime?” she asked excitedly.

Dex twirled the keys around his index finger. “Sure! If you can beat me when we spar.” “Oh--that is so unfair!! I can’t do that, change your conditions you meanie!” 

“Take it or leave it, sweetheart!” Dex smirked. 

“The only thing I’m taking is a nap, cuz--” Wisty’s legs gave out from under her. “Everything is hurting right now.”

“Let’s get you to Tracy, rookie.”

--- ---

And then Wisty slept for 44 years, content that her character arc was beginning. The lil spinoff series continues! What awaits the newbie? Probably a coupla witches and sprayin’ ink everywhere.

[xwaywardhuntress]

Family Don’t End In Blood (Part Six)

Summary: The end is here...or is it?

Pairings: Dean x reader

Warnings: some season 15 spoilers, language

Word Count: 5200+

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. This is fanfiction only. Please do not redistribute my writings on other sites, horrible or not. Thanks!

Author’s Note: This series will slightly follow season 15 as a baseline.

Catch Up: Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Jack.

Y/N’s hunter instincts immediately went into action as she grabbed the silver knife she regularly held in the inside of her boot. Luckily most monsters had some kind of affliction with silver if this Jack was a monster. Holding the pointed end towards the intruder, her eyes wandered from Jack’s dead body to this new Jack before her. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here? And change your damn face!”

The new Jack tilted his head. “Is something wrong with my face?”

 “I’m serious. Change it. This isn’t funny.” Y/N held her gaze at the intruder.

“But I cannot. This is my face.” Jack stated.

Y/N had heard enough of whatever game this monster was playing as she lunged forward, only to find herself going through the boy as he disappeared and then reappeared behind her. She turned around and stared at him in disbelief. “J-Jack? You’re a ghost?”

“Hm, I suppose I am now.” Jack articulated the idea.

Of course, he was a ghost. It would make sense. They hadn’t given him a proper hunter’s funeral yet and he must’ve been still tied to his human body. Putting away her knife, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been around this whole time.

As if he had read her thoughts, Jack continued talking, “I’ve been in the empty. I don’t quite understand how I got back here, but if I get to see you, then I’m okay with it.” The boy smiled at her.

At that moment, Y/N had wished more than anything that she could hug him. Hell, she was sure the boys would’ve wanted too also. The boys… Her mind wandered to the Winchester brothers and the angel. Everyone had shared the same guilt that somehow Jack had died because of them. “I should get the others. They’d want to see you too and know that you’re okay...kind of?”

“I can’t stay long.” Jack quickly spoke up as she was about to head to the hallway.

Stopping in her tracks, she looked at the boy questioningly. “Why not? Is something after you? A reaper?”

“No, I already met one. She was nice. I’m here to tell you I know how to stop God.” Jack shared as he began to flicker out. “Find Belphegor.” He managed to let out before he vanished completely.

Y/N had reached out to him as he began flickering and when he vanished completely, she yelled out his name. “Jack? Jack! Wait! Where did you go? Jack!” When he didn’t reappear, she looked down at the ground as her hands fisted by her side. She’d find this Belphegor that Jack mentioned and bring down Chuck once and for all.

A few seconds later, a deep voice by the door interrupted with a knock. “Y/N?”

The huntress turned around to find the older Winchester entering the room as he glanced over at the kid’s body. As she was about to share what had just happened to her, Dean spoke first after taking a deep breathe in.

“I’ll keep saying this for as long as I live. I’m sorry.” Dean walked towards her as he stopped in front. “I hate this. Whatever it is going on between us right now.”

It looked like the talk was finally happening. Perhaps it was for the best, she’d need him to help her take down Chuck and find this Belphegor. The two always worked better together than against each other. After what had happened recently, that was proof enough. And a part of her missed him, even during the times that they were on different sides. Reaching out for his hand, she looked down at them. “I do too…”

 Dean continued the speech he had been mentally preparing for after his talk with his brother. “I was being stupid before. You’ve always been the one there for me, whether I asked for it or not. I should’ve stopped and questioned myself the moment you drove off. I should’ve gone after you too. I was just so blinded by my mother’s death and wanted something to blame, something I could kill…and it turned into someone we all cared for. And now, even he’s dead…because of me.” He glanced over at Jack’s body as her eyes followed his.

She squeezed his hands, “Dean, it’s not your fault. We were all just pawns on Chuck’s chessboard to help him get what he wanted. And sadly, he did. He got exactly what he wanted. Not in the way he wanted and that’s what matters. You didn’t pull the trigger. You realized, even at the last second, that what you were doing was wrong. And it was at that moment where I had forgiven you for all of it.”

The green-eyed hunter found himself finally making eye contact with her. “How? I still got Jack killed. If it wasn’t for me, Chuck wouldn’t have had the chance to get to him.”

She sympathetically smiled at him as she placed one of her hands on his cheek. “Chuck always knew where he was. He’s god after all. Dean, we all blame ourselves in some way for Jack’s death. I could’ve tried better to stop you, instead of walking away as I did. We’ve all made mistakes that led to what had happened.” She could feel her eyes begin to grow watery again, but she fought against it as best as she could. “But no matter what happened, I would always be there for you Dean. I need you, even if you’re being a stubborn jerk.” A chuckle escaped her lips in a small attempt to change the mood, to avoid crying anymore.

His fingers found the skin under her eyes as he wiped away a stray tear. Dean’s hand slid down under her chin as he tilted it up slightly and leaned forward pressing his lips to hers gently. After everything that had happened, this kiss seemed to wash their differences away. She returned the kiss till he pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. “I need you too. More than you know.” For what seemed like a long time, the two stood in silence, their foreheads against one another as they felt themselves reconnecting.

A clear of the throat interrupted the moment, “Glad to see you two finally worked things out.” Sam entered the room with a smile, holding his laptop in one hand. Castiel had followed behind him.

“We have a problem.” Sam shared with a frown. “So get this, at first all the spirits from hell seemed to have been rising everywhere in the world, but now they all seem to be gathered in one area. Also the broken body parts you boxed up earlier that tagged along with you all, it stopped moving. It’s almost like the spirit is no longer in it.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asked as he stood away from you, near his brother.

“Nothing good.” Cas answered as his eyes couldn’t seem to tear away from Jack’s body since entering the room.

“Where is this place that they’ve gathered?” Y/N couldn’t help but ask.

Sam chuckled as he turned his laptop to show his brother and Y/N. “Harlan, Kansas.”

“I sensed a collection of energy there.” Cas added in.

“Isn’t that near where we were before? The cemetery?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, it’s not too far. I’m with Cas, if they’re gathering in one place, that’s never a good thing.” The younger Winchester shut his laptop as he too glanced over at Jack’s body. “We should probably…”

“No.” The angel spoke quickly.

Y/N could see the pain and guilt on Castiel’s face still. He wasn’t ready to accept Jack’s death. Even though she wasn’t ready either, she knew Sam only wanted to give Jack the same respect all hunter’s got when they passed away. However, it may have still been a bit too soon for everyone to get their heads wrapped around the idea of burning his body. “We should probably head to Harlan ASAP. I agree that the undead being in one place sounds like trouble. We need to figure out what’s going on and try to stop it before it happens if we can.” Y/N suggested to everyone, changing the topic back to the possible immediate danger at hand.

“I can roll with that plan. We leave in 20!” Dean announced as he went off to prepare his belongings for the trip. Sam also agreed, leaving after his brother.

Castiel finally tore his eyes away from Jack’s form and looked over at Y/N. “Thank you.”

She smiled back as she headed off to prepare her things as well, completely forgetting her brief conversation with the ghostly form of Jack.

- - -

Arriving in the town of Harlan Kansas, it looked to be just another normal day. Families and pedestrians were walking along the sidewalk, window shopping by the small-town stores. Some were really shopping as they held bags of purchased materials. The place was far from what they all were expecting with a town that had the undead gathering in it.

“Huh.” Sam looked around, confused in the front seat.

Y/N shared the same expression in the back, as Dean caught both of the looks. “Alright, what’s wrong with you two?” The older Winchester asked.

“Well, you’d think if spirits or the undead from hell were all gathered in one place, there would be…I don’t know, chaos?” Y/N shared her thoughts.

Sam chimed in, “Definitely shouldn’t be this calm.”

Dean looked around at the town as they drove through. It hit him that his brother and Y/N had made a good point. In a way, he couldn’t help but think that maybe this once, they were being given a break. Hopeful thinking, of course. Parking off to the side, the older Winchester was about to ask what would their plan be when the younger one stepped out of the car. With curious eyes in the Impala, everyone left watched as Sam shrugged on an FBI button-up and headed straight to the town’s sheriff who had been standing not too far ahead of them. Castiel, who seemed to have realized Sam’s plan, followed behind him as they both began interacting with the sheriff.

“Guess we’re going with that plan.” Dean commented as he threw on the same FBI button up and then threw the one for Y/N in the back.

Y/N put the smaller sized button-up on as well. She and Dean could faintly make out what Sam and Cas were talking to the sheriff about. The keyword they both heard being ‘evacuation’.  

Leaning forward against the front seats on the impala, Y/N had her eyes on the trench coat wearing angel, “Do you think bringing Cas was a good idea?”

Before they had left, Castiel was set on staying. He did not want to leave Jack’s body at all. Dean and Sam insisted that since what was happening may have been Chuck’s doing again, they’d need him. It wasn’t until Y/N asked kindly that the angel conceded without a fuss. A bit odd, but as long as it worked.

A breath of air was released as Dean answered, “He can’t stay with the kid’s body forever. He needs space to accept what happened. We all do.”

She leaned back on the backseat, knowing Dean was right this once. One of the back doors of the impala opened. Expecting Cas, Y/N was met with a young man, probably in his early 20s, wearing sunglasses. She looked at the boy confused.

“I think you have the wrong car, kid.” Dean stated as he looked back at the new kid.

The kid in question smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right car. Chevy Impala 1967.”

Y/N looked over at Dean raising a brow and giving him the look asking if this boy could be a possible danger.

Dean sighed, “Hey kid, you’re right about the car but I know for a fact you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t know us. So hit the road.”

“You’re Dean and Y/N, right?” The boy asked. “You both are much better looking than the stories describe. Actually, everyone in this time is much better looking. I’ll tell ya when I was alive way back in the day, everyone was pretty ugly with humps and then we’d be praying to this rock that looked like a giant pe-”

The click of a gun shut the young man up as Dean had it pointed at him. It was hidden strategically under his arm to cover it from pedestrians walking by. Y/N had reached for her silver knife in her boot while the boy in question talked. She held it near the seat but pointing in the direction of the stranger as well.

“Who the hell are you? And how do you know who we are?” Dean asked with a serious tone.

The boy held his hands up. “Woah, Woah. I’m on your guy’s side. I even brought all those souls that escaped from hell here and I was waiting for you guys to show up.”

“Why?” Y/N questioned.

The boy sighed, with his hands still in the air. “A peace offering so you wouldn’t kill me on the spot?”

She brought the knife closer to his side, “Why would we kill you on the spot?”

The boy started to move his hands towards his sunglasses but Dean shook his head telling the boy to think again before moving.

“Alright, if you won’t let me show you, I’ll have to tell you. BUT you have to promise to hear me out first before either shooting or stabbing me please.” The boy pleaded, looking between Y/N and Dean.

The two hunters looked at each other and mentally agreed to it.

“Okay, start talking kid.” Dean demanded, the gun still pointed at the boy.

“The names Belphegor. I’m a demon, not any important demon. I worked in hell as a torturer. I quite liked my job down there and to put it simply, I’d like that job back, along with the souls I’m ordered to torment.” The boy explained.

The moment Y/N heard his name, she remembered her small conversation with Jack. Jack had told her to look for him and here he was served right to her. But why would Jack send her to go after a demon?

Dean, of course, had a hard time believing the kid. “Get out.” He ordered. “We don’t need a Crowley Jr. We don’t need any demons help.”

“But I can help you guys!” The boy responded. “The spell I used before only temporarily gathered all of hell’s souls here, but I know another spell that can keep them here till you guys do what you do and figure out a way to get all of us back into hell.”

“No, get out!” Dean raised his voice.

Belphegor sighed as he shook his head. He knew this would be a hard task to work with the infamous Winchesters, but he thought maybe Sam would be more reasonable and decided he would be his next stop.

“Wait!” Y/N yelled as the boy was about to get out of the car. If Jack told her to find this demon boy, who was offering to help them, then she’d take it even if the boys wouldn’t agree.

“Y/N….” Dean gave her a stern look, questioning why she stopped the boy from leaving.

“Dean…” Her eyes met with his. She’d have to find time to tell him and the others later that she saw Jack and that he told her to search for this demon. For now, she’d need to find another way to get Dean to agree to work with this demon. “Let’s give this boy a chance. He has more of a plan than any of us at the moment. We honestly don’t know what the hell we are going to do and we have no idea what is happening. The only thing he has confirmed so far for us is that there isn’t something bigger going on here to have all the souls, or spirits, or whatever from hell to be gathered here. They were brought here against their will, thanks to his spell. And if we can keep them from spreading throughout the world and keep the fight local, I think we should consider helping him with this other spell he has in mind. You don’t have to trust him. I’ll keep an eye on him. But trust me.”

The older Winchester was internally fighting himself. He didn’t want to work with a demon, but he also didn’t want to go against Y/N again. He hesitated in answering till he huffed in defeat, “Fine. You’re explaining this to Sam and Cas.” He rolled his eyes at his turned his back to them.

The boy smiled at Y/N as she returned it with an awkward one. She was hoping that she was making the right choice or that Jack knew what he was doing when he told her to find Belphegor.

When Sam and Cas came back and found an extra body in Baby, Y/N introduced Belphegor. She began explaining what the demon had shared with her and Dean earlier. Sam and Cas were adamant, but Sam seemed a bit more lenient out of all the boys. The younger Winchester then shared that it was a good thing he and Cas told the Sheriff to evacuate the town. Sam asked Belphagor about the spell that would keep the souls in one spot. The demon summarized it as one big mile-wide circle of salt that would include the cemetery where any more souls escaping hell would be trapped as well. The keyword to hurting these souls from hell seemed to be salt, the ultimate weapon against any supernatural creature.

It was decided that Castiel and Sam would go door to door to help the townspeople evacuate and to also check for any signs of the undead or souls appearing. Dean and Y/N would help Belphegor gather the ingredients needed for this big salt circle spell. It was a pretty convenient spell with only two ingredients needed: a big bag of salt and unfortunately, a human heart.

Dean pulled Y/N aside, while Belphegor stood by the impala. “Where the hell are we going to get a human heart?”

“A morgue?” She shrugged.

Dean eyed her as he already had that idea in mind, it was the ingredient itself that he had an issue with. “I mean, why does he need a human heart?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Dean. This is the first I’ve heard of the spell and we don’t exactly have time to research if it’s legit. How about giving Rowena a call? In the meantime, I can go to the morgue and see if there’s a heart around. You get the salt.”

When she turned around, she found the boy on the ground. She quickly ran over and kneeled as the boy began stirring awake again. Dean was right behind her. “Belphegor?” Y/N called out.

The boy took the sunglasses off and looked up at Y/N, very confused. “Who is that? Who are you?!” The kid got up, clearly shaken and then ran off.

Dean groaned aloud, “Great! See! This is why I knew we shouldn’t work with a damn demon!”

“Hello!” Another voice spoke from behind, a familiar voice.

Y/N and Dean turned to look behind them as Y/N stood back up. “Jack?” The older Winchester questioned. The two both immediately noticed the lack of eyes on Jack, which caused Y/N to stop herself from running towards the boy.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I know you guys aren’t pro-possession and figured I’d ditch that old body and inhabit a dead one. This was the closest one I could find.” The kid shared.

“Belphegor?” The huntress asked.

The kid walked forward towards the sunglasses that were left behind as he picked it up and placed them on. “Much better. Blending.” He semi-posed then faced Y/N and Dean. “Anyways, back to the bag of salt and human heart that we need. We getting them or not?”

Y/N was speechless. A part of her was upset for the demon using Jack’s body, but another part of her thought maybe this was Jack’s doing. Unfortunately, the former was a stronger feeling. It was too soon for her. She grabbed the jacket Jack last wore by the collar as she pushed the demon against the impala. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HIM!” She screamed.

Luckily this portion of the town had been the first to evacuate, otherwise, this would have been quite a scene for the norm. Dean reacted fast the moment he saw her move. He grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away and turned her around to face him. “Hey, calm down.” She struggled against his hold to get loose when she didn’t even realize her eyes were beginning to water. Dean noticed as he pulled her into an embrace. “Hey! Listen to me. You need to calm down, we have a job to do right now.”

“No! I can’t! I won’t!” Y/N mumbled against his chest. “I don’t care if this is a part of his plan. I don’t care that he told me to find him.”

Dean heard every word that she spoke, which brought him confusion. He placed his hands on her arms and pulled her a bit away from him to look at her. “What are you talking about, Y/N? Who told you to find who? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

She looked up at him as she wiped her eyes. “Jack. I saw him back at the bunker before we had our talk. He told me to look for him.” Her eyes darted over at Belphegor. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you till now. I swear I was going to tell you after we got the spell done. I was going to tell all of you.”

Dean didn’t feel betrayed as he usually would have after having information withheld from him. A part of him understood that a lot was going on still and it was still a fresh cut for Y/N. He took a deep breath in and out, as he pushed down his need to question the hell out of her at the moment. “It’s okay. Tell me later after the spell is done as you planned. I’ll stick with the kid and you go look for a heart at the town morgue.”

Y/N nodded her head as she adjusted herself to calm down. She glanced at Belphegor in Jack’s body, who smiled at her as she headed out to do the task at hand with a salt gun.

- - -

Before reaching the morgue, of course, Y/N ran into some trouble as she witnessed the death of the town sheriff. The culprit was a woman dressed in white. “Let me take a wild guess here, the woman in white who haunts highways? Or at least some version of the multiple stories that are around?” The huntress asked sarcastically as she pointed her salt gun at the woman.

The woman in white smiled as she flickered before Y/N. “You share the same smell as the ones that brought me home.”

“Uh, thanks? Now, bye.” Y/N shared as she shot her salt gun, causing the woman in white to disappear. She went to the sheriff as she double-checked for a pulse, hoping he would still be alive somehow. The moment it was confirmed that the sheriff was dead, the woman in white reappeared and threw Y/N against the dumpster nearby.

The shot and ruckus were heard by Dean and Belphegor, as they came running into action. Dean immediately went to Y/N, dropping the bag of salt by the sheriff’s body. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded her head as she was helped up.

“We have the last ingredient now.” Belphegor stated holding the sheriff’s bloody heart, smiling. The woman in white re-appeared by the demon in Jack’s body. “Oh no. Bad Ghost. Bad.” The demon called out at the soul as he placed his hands in front as a poor way to stop her advance, which obviously wouldn’t work.

The woman just stood there staring at the demon when Dean shot her from behind. “Do the spell!” Dean yelled as he stood alert waiting for the woman in white to reappear. Y/N held her gun, ready to fire as well, despite the small sting she felt on her arm.

The demon opened the big bag of salt that Dean bought from the store earlier as he spilled it on the ground in front of him. As Belphegor chanted the spell, before he could use the heart, the woman in white appeared before him. With a smirk, the demon dropped the heart on top of the pile of salt.

The moment the heart contacted with the salt, a circular burst of energy expanded from the source of the heart and salt. Y/N felt it somehow, unlike Dean who showed no reaction. They waited for a moment to see if the woman in white would re-appear. And when she didn’t, Dean suggested they get the hell out of there and meet back up with Sammy and Cas.

- - -

The town’s people of Harlan had evacuated at a school, just outside of the salt circle spell. Sam and Cas had ended up helping a mother and daughter, to which Dean brought to the evacuation point. Sam took point as he left to bring the mother and daughter in, while also speaking with the town authorities to check on the evacuation status.

Back at the impala, there were disagreements with Belphegor’s new choice of meat suit. The demon found the group's dispute to be awkward as he made himself scarce. Dean was surprisingly on the side that didn’t want the demon out of Jack’s body ASAP. As Castiel was about to leave upset, Dean found himself raising his voice at Y/N. “Your arm!” Both men made their way over to her.

“Well, that explains the stinging earlier.” Y/N commented as she inspected the hole that was created from a cut along her arm. Her blood had stained the sleeve of the FBI button-up she wore, which is how Dean noticed the cut in the first place.

“You probably got this when the bitch threw you against the dumpster.” Dean explained as Cas overheard.

Castiel went straight to her as he brought his hand over the cut, “I will take care of this.” Within seconds, the cut was gone and her skin was all healed. The angel cleared his throat, which she found a bit curious. “I should check everything to make sure nothing else is hurt.” He eyed her, waiting for permission.

Y/N looked at the angel raising a brow, “Uh, sure. Go for it.”

When he had said he would check everything, the angel meant it as his hand hovered over almost her entire body. She caught him relieving a sigh before he stood up and then made his way to leave.

The older Winchester thanked Cas, despite the small tension from before as he caught Y/N’s interested look watching the angel walk away. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Hm? Yeah.” She answered. The throw hurt like a bitch, but she doubted that anything serious was injured. Her mind led her to think that maybe Cas was scared to lose another person he cared for and that was why he had the brief moment of relief on his face as he scanned her for any more injuries that weren’t present.

“So you want to tell me the whole ghost whispering story with Jack?” The older Winchester asked as he opened the trunk of the impala.

Y/N joined him by the opened trunk. “He said he knew of a way to stop Chuck, but before he could go into detail, it seemed like he was losing his connection to here, so he was flickering out a lot. The only thing he managed to say before he disappeared completely was to find Belphegor.”

“Well, we found him. Have any way of contacting Jack again?” Dean asked as Sam returned.

“Contacting Jack? What did I miss?” Sam questioned as he began re-loading the gun he had been using throughout the day.

Y/N didn’t know why, but something felt different with Sam now. Before she could ask if he was okay, the younger Winchester hissed from feeling a slight sting on his shoulder, the shoulder where he got shot from shooting Chuck.

“That shoulder bothering you now?” Dean asked his brother.

“A little, not much. It’s probably because I haven’t exactly rested it…is all.” Sam answered as he looked away. Y/N had an inkling that the younger Winchester was hiding something.

“Why don’t you have Cas heal you?” Dean asked.

“No.” Sam answered a bit too quickly, which only increased Y/N’s suspicions that he was indeed hiding something. “I’m fine. It’s probably better for him to save some angel juice for an emergency.” He suggested.

Dean wasn’t having it but he wouldn’t push his brother towards the angel either, “Alright, if you want it that way, then at least have Y/N or I check on it.”

“Fine, fine, later.” Sam continued talking, “So what were you guys talking about concerning Jack before I got here?”

Dean looked over at Y/N, eyeing her to share her story again.

She sighed, as she knew she would need to repeat it again with Cas eventually. If only she could say it once with everyone present. “Jack appeared to me back in the bunker, when I went to trade places with Cas. I haven’t seen him since but he told me he knew how to stop Chuck. And then he told me to find Belphegor before disappearing.”

“Ah, so that’s one of the reasons he’s still alive.” Sam realized as Dean rolled his eyes. “Jack letting him use his body part of the plan too?”

Now it was Y/N’s turn to roll her eyes. “Maybe? I’m not all too sure. And I’d rather the demon not.” She stated. “But since he’s been useful, I can deal. For now.”

The additional cars showing up caught the younger Winchester’s attention for a second, “So when Chuck said ‘Welcome to the End’, I guess this is what he meant?” He watched as the people ran out of the cars they drove. Fear visible on all of their faces.

Y/N fisted her free hand in a ball. “It seems so. Screw that bastard. I swear I’ll-”

“Alright, alright…” Dean interrupted. “That’s enough talk. You…” He looked over at Y/N, handing her a new loaded shotgun. “…take your anger out on the ghosts. And you…” He turned to his brother. “…go find Cas and then call every hunter we know. We need all the help we can get. Y/N or I will meet you later inside to check on your shoulder.”

Pulling the fore-end of the shotgun back, Y/N looked at the boys, “So us three versus every soul in Hell?”

“I like those odds.” Dean finally grinned as he made eye contact with her.

Sam managed to smile slightly too as he agreed.

“Well, you know what that means. We got work to do.” And then the older Winchester slammed the trunk of the impala closed.

Next: Part Seven

Feedback welcome!

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[inawickedlittletown]

We Can Meet Again Somewhere (somewhere far away from here) - One shot

A/N: This contains Endgame Spoilers. Title from Sign of The Times (Harry Styles) 

Words: 6,728

Summary: Morgan is 17 years old and she wants one thing more than anything: to meet her dad. Lucky she has a time machine. Lucky she also has the best big brother.

Just stop your crying

Have the time of your life

Breaking through the atmosphere

And things are pretty good from here

Remember everything will be alright

We can meet again somewhere

Somewhere far away from here

Morgan Stark grew up knowing that her dad was loved. That he was mourned. That everyone always had something good to say about him. She grew up hearing stories from all of his friends -- aliens, gods, superpowered and baseline humans. Mostly, she heard them from Peter.

At four years old -- almost five -- she’d known that he was gone. Forever. To another place.

“Somewhere where he can rest,” mom said on occasion.

It wasn’t until much later that she knew why he was gone in the first place. That he sacrificed himself for everyone -- for the whole world...no, for the whole universe. Her daddy was a hero. He saved them all.

Growing up she just didn’t have a dad. She had a bunch of uncles and a few aunts and a big brother and a Hulk. Her family was huge and sometimes when she told her friends at school that her family was having a reunion no one quite understood that it meant family even from outer space.

Along with talking about her dad, a lot of her family talked about Steve Rogers. Captain America. Because just a few days after the funeral, he disappeared into the past. Uncle Sam said that he stayed in the 1940s to be with the love of his life.

“He deserved it,” Uncle Bucky would say, but he always looked sad when he said it.

Morgan hadn’t really known Steve, so she didn’t think much of him being missing from her life -- although she did realize that he was a big deal. It was years before what he did registered to her...the idea that by staying in the past Steve had created a different timeline -- an alternate reality where it was entirely possible that her dad was still alive.

She went to the only person that might listen. Peter.

“All I’ve seen are videos of him and that stupid goodbye message he left. Peter, I just want to see him with my own eyes. I want to see my dad just once.”

Peter shook his head. “Nope. Nope. No, your mom would kill me.”

“But you want to see him too. I know you do.”

“Morgan, I don’t know about this. It can go wrong. We’re talking about time travel and if we make a mistake a screw something up then it will create another timeline and…”

Morgan crossed her arms. “And it doesn’t matter. Peter, please.”

Peter had been thinking about it for what felt like forever. The first time that the idea had crossed his mind had been just a few minutes after Sam Wilson told them that Steve was gone. Sam had returned to the house with Bucky at his side and the shield on his arm. The Hulk -- Professor Hulk -- followed behind them but no Captain America.

“We think he stayed in the past. Probably with Peggy Carter,” Sam said.

“Selfish bastard,” Rhodes said.

Peter had thought about it then -- the idea that maybe he could go back in time and see Mr. Stark before he snapped his fingers. Maybe even before the battle had begun at all. Would it be horrible to maybe even just steal Mr. Stark and bring him with him instead of letting him die?

The thoughts had gone over and over in his head, but Peter had known deep down that Mr. Stark wanted him to move past it -- wanted all of them to accept it and move on despite how much it hurt and despite the giant hole he’d left behind in all of them. Eventually, he’d put the whole idea behind him.

Morgan pleading with him with her big sad eyes that were the exact shade of her father’s made him want to cave and do it. Morgan kind of always got what she wanted from him -- Peter just never knew how to say no when it came to her. Morgan was the little sister he never knew he wanted -- she was amazing and strong and she had grown up without really knowing her father. Peter knew something about that -- all his father figures were dead. Mr. Stark included.

“--Peter, please,” Morgan said. Her eyes were wet.

Pepper would kill him if anything went wrong. Happy would bring him back to life and kill him again. And then May would probably take a turn too if it got back to her.

“I -- I don’t know if that machine even works anymore and we would need at least four things of Pym Particles. This won’t be easy, Morg.”

“Petey, it’s not about easy. It’s about it being worth it.”

Peter gulped. She was too smart for her own good.

“And, Peter, this is worth it, isn’t it? Isn’t seeing him again worth it?”

It was probably going to hurt too.

Two weeks later, they were ready. It turned out that Bruce had left some Pym Particles behind in Mr. Stark’s garage. Everyone called it a garage but it was a very sophisticated lab that these days only Peter tended to use. It was nice to get away from the city from time to time and hang up the suit. There were plenty of heroes these days, anyway, and Peter didn’t feel as responsible for anything that went down in New York City. Not to mention that, he loved spending time with Morgan. Pepper too, but mostly Morgan.

The machine was still in working condition, but Peter did some maintenance on it anyway just to be sure. The last thing they needed was anything to happen to him or Morgan. It was bad enough that they were sneaking around.

Peter had had the foresight to record a message with Karen. It was only to be delivered to Pepper if they didn’t make it back after a few minutes had passed. He hoped that when they returned, he could just delete it and no one would know what they had done.

“I’m doing this for Morgan,” he told himself. Not at all because he wanted this desperately too.

They waited until Pepper had to go on a business trip, after Peter had agreed to stick around the house with Morgan. It wasn’t that Morgan needed looking after seeing as she was almost eighteen, but Pepper hated to leave her on her own. She was a mom. She worried.

Usually that meant him and Morgan ordering take out and pigging out in the living room and Peter introducing her to movies from back when he was younger. Quality time with his little sister. This time, they were going to be a bit more adventurous.

Peter had thought a lot about when they should go back to. It needed to be sometime after Morgan was born which meant that it would be while Peter was still gone. They couldn’t do it on the day of the big battle because there were too many variables to consider and because Peter knew that if he saw Mr. Stark then, he might just steal him away and bring him to the future with them before he died. So, he had to pick sometime during the five years -- maybe when Morgan was still too young to remember much just in case.

He ended up picking 2020. Morgan had been born in 2019. Peter and everyone else had been gone for close to two years.

Peter had never used the time machine before. They just hadn’t had reason for it because nothing as bad as Thanos had come up. There were still bad guys, but none that had required time travel to beat them. Still, turning it on and getting it working wasn’t difficult.

He found a couple of the old suits and put Morgan in the smallest one he could find and then got into another one.

“Ready?” Peter asked.

Morgan looked nervous, worrying her bottom lip and not managing to stay still for very long.

“I -- what if he doesn’t like me? What if he just doesn’t believe us or--”

“Morg, he’s Tony Stark and stranger things have happened to him. I think this will change things for him -- I think him seeing us will change things enough to create a new timeline, but that isn’t all a bad thing. We just can’t--”

“Tell him he’s dead in ours,” Morgan said. “But, Petey, what are we going to say?”

“Uh...we can -- we can tell him we arrived there on accident.”

Morgan nodded. “Okay. Okay. We can do this.”

Drinking coffee on the porch of his cabin had become one of Tony’s favorite things. Well, favorite things that didn’t include holding Morgan or watching Morgan sleep or really anything to do with Morgan.

But being outside on the porch with the fresh air was nice. In the two years since the snap, Tony had started moving on. He’d made an effort to move on because choosing to live and choosing to have as much as he wanted for himself and for his life felt like the only way to honor Peter and everyone else that they lost. Taking a step back from The Avengers and all of that had made the most sense too, especially once Pepper told him she was pregnant. He didn’t regret that at all. Well, maybe some days he did, when Natasha reached out to see how everything was, and he let himself wonder if he might be able to help.

One of her calls had led to him starting to work on time travel -- to try and figure out if it was possible. He didn’t think it was and yet Tony knew deep down that it was the only way. The stones were gone everywhere but in the past and the only way to fix what Thanos had done was to get the stones. All of it felt impossible.

He nursed his cup of coffee, looking out at the clear sky and the trees whose leaves had only just recently started to come back. Spring was fast upon them but there was still a chill in the air and Tony didn’t mind it, it kept him awake.

It took him another ten minutes to finish up his coffee, but he stayed where he was. Morgan had been put down for a nap before he came out and Pepper was getting some sleep. Tony was a little too keyed up to join her and either way, he had a few projects to get back to.

A bird flew past him, landing on a tree and chirping away. Maybe Tony needed to get some bird feeders outside. He was so focused on the bird, that he almost didn’t see the two figures approaching--

The bird flew off, and Tony almost dropped his mug in his haste to stand up.

“It can’t be--”

He didn’t recognize the girl although there was something familiar about her, but the boy was unmistakably Peter. Older and less boy-ish but still Peter. Peter who was gone -- whose very dust had fallen through Tony’s fingers out on an alien planet...the boy he dreamed about almost every night. His Peter. The kid that had burrowed himself so deeply in Tony’s heart that nothing would ever take him out and who was standing just there.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.”

“Who -- you’re not--”

He thought he was going to pass out. He must have fallen asleep -- this was all some sort of dream and Tony would wake up out on the porch to Pepper poking him with Morgan in her arms. It had happened before. Tony didn’t really sleep well without nightmares and this was--

“Mr. Stark, we’re kind of from the future.”

He looked like the Tony Stark he’d known when he was a teenager and just starting out as Spider-Man -- like the Tony Stark that had shown up at his and May’s apartment and recruited him to help him out in Germany. He wasn’t as grey as he’d looked the last time Peter got to see him right before he--

“From the future,” Mr. Stark said. “That’s impossible. You’re -- this is some sort of joke. Is it April 1st? It’s not funny -- not funny at all.”

Peter sighed. “Mr. Stark, we’re from the future. A ways into the future. Kind of messed up a little bit, though, and ended up here. Not for long, mind, just until we can travel back to our time. This is -- this is Morgan.”

Morgan was quiet, and shaking a little.

“Morgan as in--”

“Your daughter,” Peter said.

Morgan stepped forward. “Hi, daddy.”

Mr. Stark gapped at both of them, but then he tightened his jaw. “If you’re from the future then you time traveled which is impossible. No one can time travel.”

“We can,” Peter said and then, “you used it to bring everyone that was dusted back.”

“I -- what?”

Peter motioned Morgan to walk forward and he followed after her. Mr. Stark waited for them at the top of the stairs. He was clutching a mug in one hand and his other was in a fist.

“Wait. Wait, no. You shouldn’t tell me anything. It might not happen if you tell me and I have to -- I have to bring you back.”

Peter nodded. They climbed up the stairs and Mr. Stark looked between them before settling on Morgan. He seemed to take in everything about her with awe and surprise, but then his eyes were on Peter and it didn’t take long for Mr. Stark to pull him into a hug and Peter melted into it. He held Mr. Stark back just as hard. Peter hadn’t gotten many hugs from Mr. Stark, but they were all ingrained in his memory and it was the best thing in the world to be able to have one more.

When Peter was let go, Mr. Stark hugged Morgan, pulling back to look at her for a long moment before he let her go. He looked stunned and Peter could tell that she was nervous

“Wow, you two have really grown up. I mean, you’re literally a baby sleeping in your crib right now. This is...it’s unbelievable.”

Morgan smiled a little.

“You look like your mom,” Mr. Stark said.  

“Most people say I look like you,” Morgan said.

Tony was still in a state of shock, but he invited them to sit and offered them water. Both declined.

“I was losing hope of ever getting you back,” Tony said eventually. He really couldn’t stop looking at them -- at either of them.

“You did it, though. You and the Avengers.”

Tony had only kept contact with Natasha. He hadn’t gone near the compound since returning from space. But maybe -- maybe they had to work on it together. He’d accused Steve of abandoning him when he needed him the most only to then take himself out of the equation. Granted they all had.

“Well, I don’t want to change anything so we can talk about something else. How is -- how’s the future?”

Morgan and Peter shared a look. “It’s good. I’m still Spider-Man. Morgan just won first prize at a science fair. I helped her out a bit.”

“Not your old man?” Tony asked.

Morgan shook her head.

“You were busy,” Peter said, his voice going a little low.

He was lying.

Tony crossed his legs and he leaned back, watching them both.

“How’s your Aunt May?”

“She’s happy. She and Happy got married.”

Tony couldn’t help but laugh. He couldn’t even begin to picture it. Happy Hogan and Peter’s Aunt May. No, that was -- it was weird.

“I know, I thought it was weird too but she’s happy so--” Peter trailed off with a shrug.

Tony still couldn’t imagine how all of that had all gone down. As far as Tony knew, Happy had never gone on more than a few dates from time to time. Never anything serious. He couldn’t remember if Happy or May had even met yet. It was possible that they hadn’t.

“And you, kiddo, what are you up to these days?” Tony said, looking at Morgan.

She looked unsure and nervous.

“I--”

Peter reached over and grabbed her hand. She smiled in his direction.

“I’m doing really well in school. I read a lot and when Peter comes over we have movie days. I -- I’m happy, daddy. I’m really happy.”

There was something in her voice, something that told Tony that there was something she wasn’t saying.

“And I guess I’m starting to look at colleges now. Mom doesn’t want me to go too far away so that’s--”

Peter cut in. “It’s been a fun argument. Pepper wants her to stay in New York like I did, but--”

“You didn’t go to MIT? But I have pull there and you’re--”

“I didn’t want to go to MIT,” Peter said, but Tony thought he heard regret there.

“Okay. Okay. And I guess you don’t either, little miss?”

Morgan worried her bottom lip. “I -- I do actually. That’s--”

“Then you should,” Tony said. “I want you to -- I would want you to…”

“You do,” Peter jumped in. “You really do. Like I said, it’s been a fun argument.”

Peter was still just such a bad liar. He could see it all over his face. Morgan turned away. Her hold on Peter’s hand was so tight that it was lucky Peter was Spider-Man and not someone else otherwise she might have broken his fingers. Then there was how nervous Morgan seemed and yet whenever he did catch her looking at him there was something like awe in her gaze. And Peter was acting a little weird too. There was only one reason for that...

“I’m not around, am I?”

“Yes. No. You are. You really are, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quickly. Too quickly.

“No, I’m not. And because I know that nothing could ever make me leave either of you then that means I -- I’m dead, then? I guess I always knew it would happen someday.”

He was numb. His whole body had gone cold and the words leaving his lips were half thought out and half considered. He was -- in the future he was dead. He died. His daughter barely knew him. Peter lost another person.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. We weren’t supposed to tell you but now we did and it’s -- well…” Peter trailed off.

Morgan next to him looked like she was close to tears and she clutched at his hand like a lifeline. In front of them Tony Stark was pale white and he seemed to be staring right past them. The moment passed slowly and then Mr. Stark looked at him again.

“How?”

“I -- is that a good idea to tell you? I--”

“I know already so that’s already going to have some ripple effect. So tell me how. Tell me and I can -- I can try and…”

It didn’t take Peter long to decide. So, he told him. He told him about the time travel and about the Thanos from 2014 that managed to figure out their plan and how he came back to the future with them.

“He was going to destroy not just half of the population anymore but all of it,” Peter said. “But you took the stones from him before he could. The Iron Man armor formed a gauntlet for them and that kind of power -- I mean Bruce Banner still has nerve damage from when he used it and he’s the Hulk. So--”

“So it killed me. Using the stones killed me.” It was almost ironic. The Avengers had started out when he decided that sacrificing himself was the only way and he’d survived that...it shouldn’t have been surprising that he would be the one to put his life on the line again.

“Daddy, you saved the world. The Universe. I’ve always understood that even if it meant you had to go.” Morgan was crying, then. Tears rolling down her cheeks that she didn’t even try to wipe away.

Peter took a deep breath. “I talked to Dr. Strange after and he said it was the only way he saw us winning.”

“His one in whatever chance,” Mr. Stark said and Peter could hear bitterness in his voice. Then, his eyes were on Morgan and his face crumpled. “No, oh, Morgan.”

Peter saw him get up and then he was at Morgan’s feet, taking her free hand and reaching up to wipe the tears on her face with his fingers. Mr. Stark took his attention off Morgan for a second to look at Peter and he was so clearly in pain and Peter hated it. He hated that they had done this to him.

Everyone spoke about how Tony Stark had been given five years of happiness. How he managed to get married and start a family and now for this Tony Stark, the shadow of what was to come would hang over him. Peter knew him well enough to know that he would try his best to stop his own death, but that in the end he would face death sooner than letting everyone else perish. He would still continue working on the time travel and he wouldn’t hesitate to go after the stones even knowing that he would die.

“Come here,” Mr. Stark said and Peter had to let go of Morgan’s hand as Mr. Stark pulled her into his arms.

Every once in awhile when Morgan was little, all she’d wanted was her dad. She’d wanted him to eat popsicles with and for him to tuck her into bed. She wanted him to tell her stories. She wanted him to be the one to pick out her clothes with her.

Of what she could remember of him, she knew he was warm and loving and that he always had time for shenanigans. Shenanigans was what he always called anything that wasn’t entirely approved of by mom. Sometimes that meant them sneaking out to sit by the water even when it was past her bedtime. Or it was having candy before dinner. There were so many little things that were half remembered that Morgan cherished and yet she knew she had spent more time wishing for him to be around than anything else. She had lived longer than she’d known him -- thinking about it that way hurt.

Having him in front of her was everything and yet it was so bittersweet. He was her dad. He was -- there was a little Morgan inside that house and it was weird and strange to think about. It still kind of felt nice when he hugged her. His fingers had been wiping her tears, but they turned to running through her hair.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Not your fault,” Morgan said. She meant it. She had come to terms with that a long time ago and yet--

Her tears stopped after a while and she pulled away slowly, but he kept an arm around her back.

“I just wanted to meet you. Just once,” Morgan said. “That’s -- that’s why we came. Peter didn’t think it was a good idea, but I convinced him to.”

“Wasn’t hard to convince me, Morg,” Peter said.

Peter had always been good to her.

“I’m glad,” dad said. “I’m glad you get to see me. I’m glad I get to see you. Both of you. I love you, Morgan. You know that, I hope. Love you more than anything.”

Her eyes were full of tears again and her sinuses were acting up and it felt like she was about to start crying again. Dad rubbed her arm and he hugged her to his side and Morgan wished more than anything that she’d had this when she needed him because her mom was great and so was everyone else, but her dad was different. Tony Stark was different.

For the whole world he was their hero -- the savior of the universe. To Morgan he was just her dad and she never got to have him.

“How long can you stay?”

Peter knew logically that they shouldn’t stay long. He also knew that they would be back a minute after they left no matter how much time had passed.

“A little longer,” Peter said.

“Okay. Okay,” Mr. Stark said and then he looked to Morgan. “So, Morgan, what is the one thing that you want to do with your old man? Anything at all. If we only get this sliver of time then we’re going to make the best of it.”

Peter grinned wide.

Morgan seemed a little overwhelmed and Peter knew that there were probably a million and one things that Morgan would want to have a chance to do with her dad and making a choice would be difficult. She took a few more minutes.

“I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I -- I didn’t think of it before…I kind of, I wish I’d gotten to work on something with you. Peter told me all the time about how you spent time in the workshop and I--”

They went to Mr. Stark’s garage and Peter didn’t know how long they were there, but Mr, Stark started showing Morgan a few things and Peter was distracted by seeing the garage with Mr. Stark’s touch on it instead of how it looked in the future. Morgan followed her dad around and Peter could tell that she was loving it -- seeing the way that Tony Stark worked and thought. It made Peter a little bit sad, though, because Morgan could have had him at her side...should have had him.

“This is amazing,” Morgan was saying.

Peter didn’t even know what they’d been working on. He’d gotten distracted looking at the research that Mr. Stark had already compiled on time travel. Pepper had always told everyone that Tony had been working on it for years -- that it was a myth that he’d figured it out overnight.

“He was a genius but even Tony Stark couldn’t have done that in one night,” she would say.

But every year on the anniversary of his death, the news mentioned it like it was a fact -- said it in reverence because no one would ever talk badly about the savior of Earth...well, of the universe. Everyone knew Tony Stark’s name -- they knew it everywhere.

It had hurt for a long time to see Iron Man everywhere he went. Painted on murals, on so much merchandise, on the cover of books, on the news, in movies -- because of course someone had gone and made Iron Man movies that were not accurate at all. Worse were the ones that focused on Tony Stark instead of the superhero persona. Peter tried to avoid all of it. But back in the immediate aftermath it had been hard. Everyone was mourning and trying to pay some sort of homage to him.

They only realized that they had overstayed when the door to the garage opened and Pepper was the one standing there. She wasn’t alone -- she was holding a baby Morgan.

“Tony what is -- Peter…” Pepper stopped short, eyes wide. “Tony what is going on? Is he--”

Peter had never known Morgan this young. He’d seen pictures, but they didn’t do justice to how adorable she was.

“Hey, hon,” Mr. Stark said and then looked to Peter before facing Pepper again. “So, it turns out I figured out time travel in the future.”

Pepper gasped. “You came back. The snap -- you came back.”

Peter nodded. “Everyone did. Three years from now. Although, now that we came here the future won’t be the same in this timeline.”

“We?” Pepper asked and only then seemed to notice Morgan.

Unlike Mr. Stark, Pepper knew it was Morgan at once. “Morgan?” She asked. It was probably a mom thing.

“Hi, mom.”

“Oh my god.”

Her mom was so young. She was beautiful and young with bright strawberry blond hair -- the hair that Morgan had always wanted to have. She had convinced mom to let her dye it once and the results had been disastrous and so Morgan had never dyed her hair again. These days in the future, mom had more grey in her hair than ever and the wrinkles that in 2020 were only just forming were deeper.

Stranger than seeing a younger version of her mom, was seeing herself. She was a year old and calm in her mother’s arms.

“She’s everything and more, Pep,” her dad said. “We did good with her.”

Oh. They weren’t going to tell her. It was probably for the best.

“And since we’re in here, I’m guessing she takes after you?”

Dad grinned. There was a glint in his eyes. “She’s going to go to MIT.”

“I don’t--”

He grasped her hand, holding it tightly. Their eyes met and Morgan loved that she could finally definitely say that she had gotten his eyes.

“You are,” her dad said. “You are, Morgan.”

It was hard to keep her emotions at bay. Being in the garage and looking at his things and getting to work with him had been a bit of a distraction -- enough to keep her from remembering that this was absolutely temporary -- but she remembered then.

“Okay.”

His lips quirked up into a smile. “That’s my girl.”

Tony reached over with her free hand and touched her cheek. Morgan wanted to start crying all over again. Maybe convincing Peter to go back in time had been a mistake. How was she supposed to leave while knowing that he was just there within her reach.

“Hey, Pep, how about we get some lunch with the kids before they have to get going,” Tony said.

He hated thinking about them leaving, but he was aware that it was probably a bad idea to keep them. Morgan -- his grown up almost an adult Morgan who would go to a future that he wasn’t a part of -- and Peter who looked like he’d seen more loss in his life than he’d ever needed to.

“I -- yeah, sure,” Pepper said.

Tony could see how unsure Pepper was and Tony didn’t want to make her suspicious because Tony knew that he was going to die. If it meant that his kids were okay in the future then his death was inevitable.

Pepper turned and left and Tony deflated a little. He hated lying to her.

“You’re not going to tell her?” Peter asked.

Tony shook his head. “She’ll obsess over it -- and if it has to go that way again I don’t want the next few years to be marred by that. I want to be able to have this as it is until I can’t.”

Peter nodded and then he was there next to Tony, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders.

“Whatever you do,” Peter said, “it won’t affect me and her -- not this version of us. But that baby -- that Morgan...try to find a way to stay for her. For the other me.” Peter’s words were shaky and full of emotion. “We kind of need you, you know, Mr. Stark?”

“I’ll try, Pete. I’ll try. And stop calling me that. It’s Tony, kid. Okay?”

Peter was crying. His tears fell on his shoulder and Tony wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in tight.

“Okay,” Peter said.

He wished they had more time. It was so unfair that both Peter and Morgan had had him for such a tiny amount of time.

Morgan still held his hand and she moved closer to his other side and Tony could tell that she was crying too. It broke his heart. He pulled her in and then they stood there in the middle of the garage and he held them both as tight as possible. His kids. The ones he would never get to see grow up.

They had lunch -- sandwiches and some sort of baby food for Morgan. Peter ate slowly, not sure that he was tasting any of it and from the looks of it Morgan wasn’t doing much better. Pepper was distracted by the younger Morgan and Peter hoped it was enough for her to not notice that his eyes were completely puffy and red and that Morgan wasn’t looking much better. Even Mr. Stark looked a bit emotionally drained.

They made conversation. Pepper asked about Aunt May in the future and about herself. Peter told her what he could. Eventually, she started talking to Morgan, curious but cautious even as baby Morgan threw some of the mushed baby food on the table.

Mr. Stark helped clean her up and he kissed baby Morgan’s head.

“You know, I still don’t really like peas,” Morgan said.

Pepper laughed. Mr. Stark smiled.

When lunch was over, Peter knew it was time. He would have loved to stay as long as possible, and yet he knew that they couldn’t. The longer they stayed, the less and less that he would want to leave. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a life back home. He had Ned and MJ. He had Spider-Man duties and Avengers duties. It was just that Tony Stark had always been his idol -- his hero. His sort of dad-figure and he was just there in front of him alive and well and Peter didn’t want to not have him in his life anymore.

Pepper hugged Morgan. “I’m glad to know you’ll become this wonderful young woman. And if I know anything, your parents are probably missing you in the future. But it was so nice to get a glimpse at the future. At you.”

Then, Pepper turned to him.

Before coming back from the snap, Peter hadn’t spent a lot of time with Pepper. But he’d been fond of her and she had always been warm with him -- never discouraging him from coming around to spend time with Mr. Stark.

“It’s been a little while for us, kid,” Pepper said. “You don’t really look like a kid anymore. So grown up.” Her eyes were teary and she cupped his face before her arms enveloped him into a hug and he hugged her back. “I’m glad my baby has the best big brother,” she whispered.

“Me too,” Peter said before she let him go. They shared a smile.

Baby Morgan chose that moment to let out a cry and Pepper turned to pick her up. “You want all the attention on you, don’t you?”

“She’s a Stark,” Morgan said. “Of course she wants all the attention.”

Pepper laughed and she bounced baby Morgan.

“Come on, kiddos,” Mr. Stark said, “I’ll walk you out.”

Tony didn’t know how he was going to just let them go. He didn’t know if it was actually possible for him to do so. Peter seemed to be trying to be strong. Probably for Morgan.

“Do you have to be anywhere in particular for you to travel back?”

Peter shook his head. “The -- the GPS will get us back no matter where we go.”

Tony nodded. “Good. Good. I -- I’m really glad you came.”

Morgan hugged him tightly again, and he held her for a long while, trying to memorize the moment forever. His little Morgan was inside with Pepper, but he would never get to have this version of Morgan. He wasn’t going to see his little girl grow up and it stung. It hurt deeply.

“I love you, dad,” Morgan said. “So much. I -- I’m so glad I got to meet you even if it was just this. I -- I’ll never forget this.”

“Me either, kiddo. I love you so much. So much. And I know I would have done anything to stay with you. I will try my best.” Not that it would matter for this Morgan. But Tony still had to try.

“I know,” she whispered and then she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Peter had stood back, letting them have their moment, so Tony walked to him. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Peter returned.

“You know, before I met you, I didn’t think I’d ever want kids. I didn’t think I’d ever make a good father. Never had a good example of one so -- anyway, you changed my life, Peter Parker and I’m glad I got to see you again. It’s been two years and I’ve missed you like crazy and I hate that we only get these stolen moments -- small as they are. But, Pete, you’ve grown into a wonderful person. I can just tell. You’re doing good, kid.” His eyes were blurry with tears and he was trying to shake them off and not let them fall.

Peter looked just as bad and Tony pulled him into a hug and Peter fell right into his arms, holding on tight. Tony didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to see him go. With Morgan it was different -- he still had baby Morgan just inside the house. From what Peter had told him -- they would see each other for just a few minutes in the middle of the battle before Tony was making the hard choice. He wasn’t going to have another moment with Peter again. Never.

“I’m so proud of you, Peter. I love you, kid. So much. And I know you’ll take care of my girl. Both of my girls.”

Peter nodded and he let out a sob and it broke Tony’s heart all over again. It brought him right back to Titan and Peter’s scared voice -- he still heard it in his dreams.

“I love you, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s Tony, kid,” Tony said, laughing a little.

“It’s dad, Petey. He’s your dad too,” Morgan said.

She was wiping away tears, but smiling a little.

Peter sort of froze, but then he gave a nod. “I guess he sort of is.”

He hugged them both one more time, pressed kisses to their cheeks and wiped away their tears. Then, eventually, he watched them grasp hands. White and grey suits -- nanotech ones -- came on them, and then they both looked back at him one more time. He smiled and nodded. Then, they were gone.

Tony gasped and sobbed all at once. It hit him as he stared at the spot where they had been standing and it took everything to not fall to his knees and cry like he’d done on Titan two years earlier. Instead, he stood in that spot and steeled himself. He was going to change things. He was going to make sure that he lived to see his kids grow up. Both of them.

When he went back inside the house, Pepper was in the living room. Morgan was on the ground with some of her baby toys.

“They left?” Pepper asked.

Tony nodded.

“And why were they here?” Pepper asked.

“Because we’re going to do things a little differently this time around,” Tony said.

Pepper could probably tell that he’d been crying, but she didn’t say anything as he sat down next to her and she let him pull her close.

Morgan knew logically that nothing would be different in the future and yet a tiny part of her had let herself hope that maybe it wouldn’t be and that maybe -- somehow -- they wouldn’t be arriving back in the garage and that her dad wasn’t still gone. But of course he was.

Peter helped her take off the GPS device. He didn’t say anything as he turned everything off, but then he extended his hand out to her. It kind of reminded her of when she was a little girl and Peter had held out his hand and she’d taken it gladly, never to let it go again.

“Come on, Morg, this calls for ice cream and brownies and all kinds of junk.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, but as soon as they were out of the garage she stopped him. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“It was...it was good we did that right? I’m glad I got to see him. Meet him.”

“Of course, Morgan. Of course. It was good. It hurt a little to say goodbye but it was good.”

“Good. We really...we had the best dad, didn’t we?”

Peter inhaled deeply, but he nodded. “Yeah, kiddo, we did. We sure did.”

[screambirdscreaming]

personal rambling

For the past couple years I’ve been working to build a way of functioning that doesn’t hurt me. Before that, I was running on a mode of pretty much pure determination - pushing myself to do the next thing that had to be done, and the thing after that, and the thing after that. Partly that was because of the chronic pain. There’s a way things get, when you’re in pain all the goddamn time, where you just don’t have the bandwidth to feel emotions in any kind of complex way. Like when you’re nose is stuffed up from a cold and you can’t smell anything or taste any of the complex subtle flavors, just your basic “sweet” “salty” “bitter” kinds of categories. But with emotions it’s like “frustration” and “determination” and the rare, ever elusive “calmness”. That’s about as good as it gets - feeling like things are pretty ok and you don’t need to be fighting right now immediately. Oh, and hysterical amusement. And satisfaction - satisfaction is good.  But things like the joy when you see a really good bird, or the feeling you get when you smell wet earth, or the things music makes you feel... they just get kind of squished out. Or at least, for me they did.

And then I got on medication that actually managed the pain. And I started being able to feel these things again, to notice and appreciate things outside of the very narrow pathway of “the thing I need to do next” which I’d been focusing all my energy on. And I felt - I can’t describe what a wonder it was, and what a relief, to feel things like that again, after I’d almost forgotten they existed. I wanted to learn to live that way. 

But I was still swamped with depression, and anxiety, and what I very belatedly identified as sensory processing issues and executive dysfunction. I still had to pour almost all my energy into making things happen, one step at a time. But as I tried to keep moving forward that way, all determination all the time, I realized that - it wasn’t possible to do both. That bitter, powerful determination that had carried me through so much was the determination of “fuck it, everything’s awful anyway, I might as well do this too.” It existed on the far side of being so miserable I couldn’t function. And having crossed back across that gap of misery, I couldn’t reach it anymore. If I pushed too far, tried to force myself to do too much, it would hurt me. Or rather, it always hurt me, but now I had the potential to experience things other than bitter exhausted hurt, and I wanted to try that. To try not hurting.

It still frustrates me. To remember being able to just do things, to just make myself do things with willpower alone - I can’t do that now, really. Or I can, but only a little bit, and sometimes it just doesn’t work. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. It’s easy to romanticize it, from a couple year’s distance. It’s easy to think maybe it wasn’t that bad. But here’s a weird little trick your brain plays on you: you don’t remember pain. You can’t. Your brain just doesn’t form memories of what pain feels like. Which is, probably, for the best. But it makes it easy to second-guess yourself. You remember how much you hated the pain, and you remember thinking about how miserable you were, but you can’t feel the misery anymore. So. I choose to trust my past self, who made this choice, on the tipping point between pain and relief. They’re probably the only version of myself who actually understood the options. I hope they chose well.

And what they chose was - to define “doing my best” as “doing a reasonable amount that will not hurt me.” To stop pushing when pushing started to hurt me. And instead, to try to learn to do things by following what I found interesting and satisfying to do, what I could focus on without fighting my brain. To learn to recognize my different mental states, and what kind of work I could and couldn’t do in each of them, and what things I could do to influence what mental state i’m more or less likely to be in. Rather than pushing harder to make myself do something, I try to find ways to deconstruct and reframe it to be easier to approach. I feel like I’m juggling with my adhd, or setting up elaborate mazes to lead it down to the outcomes I want, like a clever hero outwitting a monster. Only it’s not a monster. It’s a way of thinking, a way of being. I made it through pretty much my whole childhood never thinking of it as a bad thing, being proud of it even - or at least of various parts of it, like the way I can hyperfocus on a project for hours and make something even I didn’t know was within my abilities. And sure, I’ve always felt like there are downsides, or things I struggle with, but everyone has those.

I just feel, more and more, like it’s hard to give myself space to think the way I think and function the way I function, and still keep up with what’s expected of me. I’m terrible with time, I’m always late to everything. The older I get the less forgiving people are of that, and while I can scrape by as a student - that’s the sort of thing that could loose me a job, once I get one, and I’m still barely more on top of it than I was a few years ago. And I can’t really explain to people why this is such a fundamental problem, why this is such a big deal. Back when the pain was really bad, I remember trying to explain to the boss at my summer job that it was harder for me to “just push through” my problems with time than it was to “just push through” doing farmwork with pain equivalent to continuous labor contractions. I have no reliable internal perception of the passage of time - I can’t perceive the difference between three hours passing and 20 minutes. Also, trying to align myself to the flow of time which I cannot perceive makes me massively anxious. If I try too hard, pay too much attention to the way time randomly slips away and try to set lots of alarms and calculate how long it takes me to finish things - I have a panic attack and don’t leave the house at all. I know it sounds dumb. I know, I know. But I promise you, whatever trick with a clock or a planner you want to suggest, I’ve tried it, and it hasn’t worked. I’m getting better at working around it. As long as I don’t focus on it too directly. I have a vague sense of how long it takes me to get ready in the morning, and I set my alarms to wake up at a time that seems kinda reasonable, adjusted through trial and error when I start a new schedule, and I get up and get ready and leave and catch a bus without ever checking a clock, and whatever happens, happens. I’m usually not more than 10 minutes late. I know that doesn’t sound impressive, but believe me, it’s progress. 

Once I get out of the house it’s better. I’m already moving, I can keep moving, as long as I have a continuous set of things to do until I get home again. I try to plan my schedule so that I have plenty of time to get between places I need to be, without having to rush to catch a specific bus or anything like that, but not so much time I get distracted. It’s a balance. I’ve made so much progress, and at this point I feel like it’s reliable enough that if people could tolerate me being not more than 10 minutes late, I’d be fine. But that’s too much to ask, in the modern world. And I don’t know how much better I can make it.

I feel like I’m trying so hard to build myself a mode of functioning that doesn’t hurt me, that works with my adhd rather than against it, and I feel like what I’ve built works really well - but it still feels like it’s not enough. Like I still can’t conform to the expectations of society.  And I try to go looking for other perspectives, other people’s advice, because I’ve derived all of this myself by trial and error and maybe someone out there has something that would help? Something that I could use without figuring it out the hard way? But I feel like everything I can find about ADHD is about conforming to the expectations of society. Like, that’s the baseline. It’s all about how much extra effort you can pour in to using a planner like a normal person. I’ve always felt like structured planners make you do twice the work putting everything in a certain order, and then don’t help at all. I’ve found my own strategies for writing things down and organizing them that do help. Some of them even look a little like some of the things in a planner. But I made them to work with the weird patterns in my brain, not to impose their patterns on me. And I can’t find that perspective anywhere.

I want to find somewhere where people are talking about ADHD as a way of thinking and being that is self-contained and self-sufficient and doesn’t need to be “managed.” I feel like that’s almost hypocritical of me, because I think about “managing” my adhd a lot. But that’s shorthand for “managing the ways the expectations of society interface badly with my adhd, and also, rederiving a bunch of general organizational tactics and strategies for doing things because the ones I was taught as a kid mostly don’t work for me.” 

I still feel a little like I’m being stupid and selfish, going to this much effort to try and construct a way of being when I know I can do the other option. I can push myself through misery and out the other side, to a place where I don’t feel miserable anymore, just exhausted and fiercely, bitterly determined. I’ve done it before. I could do it again.  And I feel like... a lot of people with adhd must end up there. It’s not that bad once you get used to it, and it interfaces with society pretty well, and you can do so much. I feel like I know a lot of people who are still dealing with chronic pain who still function like that. Honestly I’m incredibly lucky, to have gotten treatment in only two years. That’s a crazy good turnaround time for chronic pain. And I feel kind of like a hack, to have connected with that community (at least here on the internet) and to have related so much to that experience and the way of being it brings about, and to the coping strategies people had - and then, to not be there. To be doing this other thing, which I’m so stupidly lucky to even get to try to do.  I don’t know. Maybe I get to be selfish. Maybe I get to at least try this, and feel these cool weird feelings, and be inspired to do art sometimes, and I might not function that much but it’s alright. I feel like I have a responsibility to do good work in the world - not because work determines worth, but because I have the resources and the capacity and so I should use them to make things better in whatever ways I can reach. And sometimes it seems like my selfishness isn’t worth the balance of how much I could do, if I just pushed through and decided to do it - but maybe I’d burn myself out. Maybe it’s enough to live a life I enjoy and do a little work when I can but not sacrifice myself to it. I don’t know. I’m trying this, anyway.

[anarchetypalarchive]

a little more spark

aka that christian/eric pool hustling/heist au fic only like three people knew i was writing and very few people are here to read, i am in rarepair hell rated m for allusions to sexual acts i guess content: christian’s a big-time conman and thief, eric hustles pool, deliberately vague details, christian’s grumpy and eric’s insufferable and they both find that endearing about each other on ao3 excerpt:

“I can’t— I hustle pool, I don’t do this, this is way out of my comfort zone—”

Christian slips his hand into Eric’s and pulls him from the main entrance into a side corridor, gets his back against the wall and brackets him in, arms on either side of him. To anyone passing by, hopefully it’ll look more like a tipsy tryst than a pre-job pep talk.

“Look at me.”

“Uh, kind of hard not to,” Eric says, laughing, but his tone is pinched and anxious even still. “Are we about to make out. Like, I’m totally down for that, but give a guy some warning—”

“I know you’re out of your comfort zone,” Christian says, steamrolling over Eric’s babbling before he gets too carried away with himself. “That’s why we’re here. This is low-stakes. A practice run. This can become your comfort zone.”

It’s not the type of bar Christian usually finds himself in.

Well. Correction: It’s not the type of bar Christian usually finds himself dragged to by his more extroverted friends for a job or ‘for fun, Christian, don’t you remember how to have fun?’”

It’s quiet, for one, maybe unsurprisingly since it’s well past midnight on a Tuesday. The music that’s playing is more of a ‘background-noise’ situation than a ‘deafening EDM with a baseline he can feel in his dick’ situation, which he can’t say he’s complaining about. He’s tired, and parking himself on a bar stool and nursing a drink for an hour sounds about his speed.

He had a flight out of the city scheduled to take off a couple hours ago. Because the universe isn’t inclined to make his life easy, he arrived at the airport to find his flight delayed by a good few hours.

There isn’t much to do in a near-empty airport in the middle of the night, he discovers.

The guy working at the service desk mentioned there was a bar about a five-minute walk away, and it beat going through security and finding a chair to park his ass in for the next few hours.

The bartender—a tall woman with a buzzcut who introduces herself as Jazzmyne, tells him cheerfully that he looks like shit, and adds that she’s got a cocktail called Flight Delay for specifically his type of misery—mentions that the bar pretty much only sees out-of-towners: people waiting out layovers and delayed or missed flights.

“We’re the Two-Hour Hookup destination of the state,” she says, grinning. “Guaranteed to get your rocks off before your plane leaves the ground.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I think I’ll just stick with the cocktail.”

When he texts Aria about the delay, he gets back a string of angry-face emojis and little else. They’ve got a low-stakes jewelry heist planned, and Aria tends to be a loosely-contained bundle of nerves even when everything goes off without a hitch.

‘The jewelry’s not going anywhere,’ Christian replies. ‘I’ll be there before we need to leave. Stop panicking.’ He tucks his phone into his pocket before he can see Aria’s inevitable message about how he is not panicking, thank you very much, he is just concerned, about the fact that Christian is not here yet, and there’s nothing wrong with that, and—

Christian likes Aria. He really does. Aria’s one of his best friends. But he always gets a little unbearably cagey in the twenty-four hours before a job.

It’s not a big heist, but Aria says he’s got something bigger planned for next month, and they can use the cash from selling the jewelry on this job to put towards making the next one happen.

Aria’s always got something planned. Christian can’t complain. Makes for an interesting life and a full wallet.

He swivels on the stool to aimlessly people-watch—not that there are many people to look at. A handful of people scattered at different tables, mostly alone, all hunched over nursing drinks in the general fashion of I’d rather be on my flight but since I can’t be on my flight I’m going to drink grumpily.

Maybe that’s why Christian notices him almost right away.

The guy leaning against the pool table off to the side looks relatively unbothered. Cheerful, almost. If he missed a flight or he’s waiting out a layover, he doesn’t seem annoyed about it. Looks content enough to amuse himself with the table playing alone.

He’s...not very good, unless he’s trying to miss half the shots he takes, sends stripes and solids alike bouncing off the felt edges nowhere near the pockets of the table.

He’s not bad to watch, though, and that’s not just because the guy looks good, dressed for a casual night out, his shock of black hair in a disarray that somehow complements his haven’t-shaved-in-a-few-days stubble.

Christian might have a thing for hot messes.

When the guy accidentally pops the cue ball into the air and sends it flying off the table, Christian gives in and laughs. He hops off his stool and stops the ball with his foot before it can roll clear to the other side of the bar.

“Sorry!” The guy’s smiling apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck as he walks over. “I was trying to do a trick shot.”

“A trick shot where you cave in someone’s skull with a billiard ball?” Christian asks as he picks the ball up off the floor and hands it over, but he finds himself smiling, too.

The guy scrunches his nose. “No, like— You know, like when you jump the white ball over another ball? I saw it in a movie once.”

“Maybe you should focus on just getting the balls in the pockets before you start getting fancy with it.”

The guy grins. “Oh, okay, and I suppose you’re an expert?”

“I mean, I can keep the balls on the table and get them into the pockets without hurtling them across the bar.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I should probably just stick to drinking. Not much fun playing alone, anyway.”

“You here on a layover or something?” Christian asks, settling back on his stool. Small talk isn’t his strongest suit, but this beats drinking and sulking by himself for the next few hours.

“Nah, I live on the other side of town. Was supposed to meet a few friends here but they bailed on me.” He shrugs. “Drove all the way out here, though, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to hang for a while. What about you?”

“Flight got delayed.” Technically, Christian lives around here, too, but the only reason he’s at the bar is to stave off the boredom before his plane takes off.

The guy gives him a mildly sympathetic look. “Sucks. You gonna be late for something?”

Christian shakes his head and lies easily: “Just visiting family for the week. Could be worse.”

There’s the dull sound of a full glass against polished wood. “Hey, here’s your drink.”

Christian turns in time to see Jazzmyne sliding a frighteningly green cocktail down the bar towards him. “Jesus Christ.”

“That’ll be ten bucks.”

“Jesus Christ!”

She shrugs. “You’d be paying like fifteen at the airport bar.”

“The airport bar wouldn’t give me something that looks radioactive.”

She laughs. “Just drink it. You’ll like it.”

“You can put it on my tab,” the guy says suddenly.

Christian looks over at him, brow furrowing. “What? No, it’s fine, it’s not like I can’t afford it.”

“C’mon, I insist.” The guy gives him a charming smile and hands him the pool ball. “One drink in exchange for a lesson in how to ‘keep the balls on the table and get them into the pockets without hurtling them across the bar’.”

He can’t help but laugh. It doesn’t take long to make a decision, and to be honest he wouldn’t mind a harmless, better view of the guy bending over the pool table.

It’s late, he’s had a rough night, he wants to look at a cute guy’s ass for an hour. Sue him.

“Fine,” he agrees, sliding off the stool.

The guy picks up the cocktail and takes a sip of it before handing it over to Christian, eyebrows raised almost in challenge, biting down on a smile. “I’m Eric. By the way.”

Christian takes the glass and eyes the print Eric’s lip balm left on the rim. Laughs. “Christian,” he says in reply, and knocks back half the cocktail in a few neat swallows. Jazzmyne’s right—it’s not bad. “Grab a pool cue.”

——  

Eric’s not totally hopeless, but it’s a close goddamn thing.

“No, that’s the eight ball, you’re not supposed to—” Christian breaks off with a laughing groan. “Of course you actually managed to sink that one.”

“You said I’m playing solids!” Eric looks affronted.

“Yeah, but not the eight ball, you’re supposed to leave that one for last, that’s the whole point of the— You know what, don’t worry about it. You got it in, congratulations. I’m very proud. I have no idea how you even did that, with the way you’re holding the cue stick.”

Eric furrows his brow. “What’s wrong with the way I’m holding it?”

“Other than the fact that you look like you’re about to use it as a weapon? Nothing.”

Eric laughs and jabs the stick in Christian’s direction with mock forcefulness. “En garde?”

“That’s not the way you’re supposed to hold a fencing foil, either.”

Eric stares at him and laughs again. “Pool expert, fencing master— Is there anything you can’t do?” He bats his eyelashes dramatically.

“Shut up and let me show you how to hold it right, oh my god.”

Eric looks smug, which Christian doesn’t understand until Eric’s somehow managed to idiot himself into forcing Christian to press up against his back and reach around to show Eric exactly how to hold the stupid thing, like this is a Dirty Dancing knockoff and Christian has to fucking hold him tenderly.

“I feel like you could’ve figured this out without me having to dramatically embrace you.”

Christian can feel him laughing.

“This is more fun,” Eric says, and Christian can’t really argue with that. He’s a few drinks in at this point and the closeness isn’t exactly unwanted.

Proper form doesn’t seem to help much, though; Eric’s still missing a sense of aim or care or patience or all three, and he can’t manage to sink a ball more than once in a blue moon.

To be fair, Eric’s had a few drinks, too. Christian discovers he’s an energetic, playful, giggly drunk, and all the laughter isn’t doing much for his aim.

Or his decision-making, as it turns out.

“C’mon, c’mon, I get it now! Watch. Watch me sink that one. The eight ball. Uh, right corner pocket.”

Christian blinks. “You’re pointing to your left.”

“Left corner pocket. Two hundred bucks. Bet you I can make it.”

Laughing, Christian shakes his head. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t think I can do it? Are you doubting your teaching skills?”

“I think my teaching skills are great. But you don’t even know right from left right now.” Christian sets his own pool cue down and checks the time on his phone. “I gotta get back to the airport, anyway.”

Eric clutches at his chest dramatically. “You’re doubting me?”

“Sure am.”

“Christian!” Eric struggles to put on a sulking expression, but he’s laughing. “C’mon, instill some confidence in me. There’s two hundred dollars on the line.”

Christian smiles and rolls his eyes. “I’d feel bad taking money from a drunk man.”

“Confidence, Christian, please.”

Christian throws his hands in the air. “Fine! Fine. Your loss. Go for it.” He leans against the wall and folds his arms over his chest, watching, appreciating the way Eric stretches and bends over the table.

And that’s when Eric seems to find his talent.

Meaning he sinks the eight ball into the left corner pocket like it barely takes any effort at all.

“Oh, holy shit! Did you see that?” Eric says, straightening up and turning around, eyes bright with excitement.

Christian’s staring, stunned. “Yeah, I saw that.” He’d be suspicious, but Eric looks genuinely delighted. He reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

“What? No, no, c’mon, you don’t have to do that.”

Christian shrugs. “You said two hundred bucks and I agreed.” They’re starting to get looks from the few people in the bar, anyway, and Christian doesn’t want to look like the jackass who skipped out on a bet just because he lost.

He hands over a bundle of twenties and Eric takes it hesitantly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course. Glad my teaching skills actually got through to you.”

Eric laughs. “Well, hey, thanks. This was fun. You said you have to get back to the airport, so—as much as I want to, I won’t take any more of your time.”

“Or my money?” Christian puts in, but he’s mildly amused.

Eric grins at him, looks him up and down. “Maybe next time you’re in town.”

Christian doesn’t get the chance to say he only lives about a fifteen minute drive from the bar before Eric’s paying off his tab and ducking out with a cheerful wave.

The second the door swings shut, laughter erupts from behind the bar.

Christian turns, frowning a little, to see Jazzmyne shaking her head, still grinning. “What?”

“Boy,” she says, “you just got played hard.”

“What?”

Jazzmyne leans against the bar, amused. “Eric’s in here every week taking money just like that from guys just like you.”

“Are you serious?” Christian turns towards the door, but. What the hell is he gonna do, chase down the kid and mug him for his own money back?

“Don’t bother,” Jazzmyne says, as if reading his mind. “He always leaves in an uber.”

Christian, embarrassed and frustrated, turns his irritation on her. “You couldn’t have told me?”

She raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Alright, one, it’s not my fault your dick clouded your judgement, and two, that’s the most entertaining thing that’s happened here all night, so you can’t blame me for sitting back to watch you trip over yourself.”

Christian blames the heat in his cheeks on the alcohol. “I wasn’t— My dick didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Jazzmyne looks, somehow, even less impressed. “He had you wrapped around his finger.”

He did. Christian’s really annoyed about it.

Jazzmyne can tell, and that only seems to make her more amused. “You’re not the first or the last to empty your wallet to him. No shame in it.” She pauses. “Two hundred bucks is a lot more than he generally tries to get out of people, though. Maybe a little shame in that.”

Christian frowns at her. She laughs. Frustrated, he downs the remainder of his last drink and sets it on the bar. Takes a moment to debate. The money, that’s not a huge deal, but the fact of the matter is this kid hustled a seasoned con artist out of two hundred bucks and got away clean. Christian’s embarrassed, sure, but he can’t say he’s not at least a little curious, too. “You said he’s here every week?”

“Mhm. Usually weekends, but sometimes in the middle of the week.” She looks entertained. “What, are you gonna fly back into town over two hundred dollars?”

“I’m gonna make a fifteen-minute drive over two hundred bucks. I live here in town.”

Jazzmyne sobers slightly. Seems to consider him for a moment. “Yeah, okay, I’m gonna have to get in your business for a second, then. You planning on hurting him?”

“What? Christ, no,” Christian says, taken aback. “I’m gonna talk to him. Why, does he— Has he gotten into shit before?”

“He’s hustling people on a regular basis. Take a wild guess.”

Christian throws up his hands. “Why are you letting him do this? Can’t you kick him out?”

Jazzmyne laughs. “He’d just go to some other bar. Eric’s my friend; at least I can keep an eye on him here.” She leans forward conspiratorially, eyes bright with mischief. “Plus, I get a cut of the profits.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, man, I’ve got rent to pay! Morals don’t pay rent.” She picks up his cocktail glass. “You wanna come talk to him, go ahead, but I’m gonna suggest you don’t put a hand on him.” She says it casually, but her expression makes Christian put his hands up in surrender.

“I don’t want to hurt him. Just wanna talk to him.”

Jazzmyne shrugs. “Be my guest, then.” She pauses. Grins. “Just don’t let your dick think for you again.”

——

The jewelry heist goes off without a hitch.

“There hasn’t even been enough time for anything to show up on the news yet,” Christian says, amused and exasperated.

Aria’s sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning forward towards the television of their hotel suite with a remote in his hands and flicking through channels. “You never know!”

“At least take the night off to celebrate and, you know, breathe,” Christian says, opening the bottle of champagne they got from room service with a satisfying pop.

Aria laughs, tossing the remote down and walking over to grab one of the champagne flutes Christian fills. “I’m breathing. I’m celebrating. I feel great. I feel so great I wanna talk to you about this next job.”

Christian groans, setting the bottle down, and gives in.

The main issue with the job, he discovers, is that it’s not a two-person thing. Aria says they need at least two more people. He’s bringing in his friend Fernando, but they need someone to come in and be a combination distraction, grifter, and honeypot—someone that can keep people distracted and happy even as they’re getting robbed blind.

Christian snorts. “From what you’ve told me, Fernando’s, like, the ultimate honeypot.”

Aria waggles his eyebrows and grins. “He knows how to catch an eye, yeah. But I need him for something else. Which is why I was wondering if you know anybody who’d fit the bill?”

Christian doesn’t know too many people in this business. Hell, the people he does know, he met through Aria in the first place.

That being said...

“Actually, I may know a guy that could help us out.”

Aria perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Christian laughs a little. “He owes me, anyway.*

“Owes you for what?” Aria asks, looking mildly intrigued.

“For not chasing him down and kicking his ass after he hustled two hundred bucks from me in a stupid bet.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask. Give me like a week and I’ll let you know if he can work with us.”

——

Christian’s back in the bar a few days later. It’s a weekend, so the place is a bit more packed this time, but he spots Eric seconds after walking through the door.

The kid’s mid-hustle and the sucker he targeted doesn’t have any clue, if the scene Christian’s watching is anything to go by.

The guy is almost a stereotypical college jock, hair gelled to shit and in a tank top that shows off gym-earned muscles. He’s drunk, or at least getting there fast, and Christian’s too far away to hear them but it looks like he’s making fun of the way Eric’s holding his pool cue.

Eric laughs along and holds the stick out, and the guy takes it and shows him the proper form. God, Christian hopes he wasn’t that much of an oblivious idiot when Eric was pulling the same thing on him.

He watches them for a few minutes, trying to decide how to best approach Eric—and then Eric does him a favor by handing off the pool cue again and gesturing towards the bathroom with a smile before heading in that direction.

Christian follows.

Eric looks over his shoulder when Christian enters the bathroom, shuts the door, and slides the lock into place with a snap of finality. Christian’s caught him at nearly his most vulnerable, hands on his fly as he’s settling in front of a urinal—his eyes land on Christian’s face and widen in recognition a moment later.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Christian says mildly, leaning against the door and folding his arms over his chest. He doesn’t often like to play the ‘stoic, muscley asshole’ card, but then he’s not often put in a situation like this when he isn’t working.

He’s got to give Eric some credit—the kid doesn’t immediately fold under the first sign of pressure.

“Christian!” he says, smiling widely and turning towards him completely. “Back in town so soon?”

Christian can’t say he’s in the mood for small talk. “Your hustle looks like it’s going well. Dude was staring at you more than the table.”

Eric blanches slightly. “Uh, hustle?” he repeats, smile tightening a little at the edges.

“We can play the ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ game if you want, man, but it’s gonna end with you giving me my two hundred bucks back either way.” He can’t say he’s not curious as to how this’ll play out, but he keeps his expression even regardless.

Eric laughs, a little too high-pitched to be anything but nervous. “C’mon, Christian, I thought we were friends.”

“Oh, we are. Which is why I’m not gonna kick your ass and you’re gonna hand over the money before I have to get mean about it.”

“Whoa, whoa, okay, calm down.” Eric puts his hands up in surrender and takes a couple steps towards him—

Which is ballsy. Christian’s kind of impressed.

“Look, I don’t...exactly have the money, like, on hand.” Eric takes a couple more steps towards him, laughs a little. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. But…” And a couple steps more. Christian could easily reach out and touch him. “I bet we could figure out some kind of...arrangement, don’t you think?”

Oh, the kid is good. Aria’s gonna love him.

Christian takes a moment to give Eric a self-indulgent once-over, then huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I think we could.”

He catches a brief flicker of smugness on Eric’s face, and that just won’t do. Time to burst his bubble.

He puts a hand on Eric’s chest before he can move any closer. “You don’t have the money? Fine. You’re gonna go out there and make some.”

Eric blinks, thrown off. “I— What?”

“You’re gonna go out there and finish your hustle, and then you��re gonna give me the money you cheat out of him. And if you don’t get enough from him, well. I don’t have anything going on tonight. You can go ahead and move onto the next sucker. And the next. Until I’ve got two hundred bucks in my hands and you’ve learned a lesson about sloppy conning.”

That seems to make Eric pause. He gives Christian a once-over of his own, like he’s really reading Christian for the first time. “Yeah? What do you know about sloppy conning?”

That’s not a conversation Christian’s ready to have yet. “Enough to get you cornered in a dirty bar bathroom.”

It looks like Eric’s holding back a grin. “That’s a nice watch,” he says, gesturing to Christian’s left wrist. “Where’d you get it.”

From a pile of jewelry he and Aria lifted from a mansion in Hollywood four days ago. “I inherited it from my grandfather.”

Eric doesn’t bother to hold back the grin this time, like he doesn’t believe a word of it but is willing to play along. “So you want me to hustle people for you.”

What Christian wants is to see what Eric’s capable of, how he works, if he’ll be a good fit for this job Aria’s planning, but he nods anyway. “You’ve got until the bar closes. Five hours.”

Eric laughs. “I’ll do it in three.”

——-

Jazzmyne wasn’t lying when she said Eric’s gotten into shit before.

The con looks like it’s going to run clean, but either Eric isn’t smooth enough, the guy isn’t drunk enough, or the guy just doesn’t want to swallow his pride and give up his cash.

Christian’s watching from less of a distance now, so he gets there just in time to intercept the guy before he can grab Eric by the collar, grabbing his wrist neatly as his hand stretches out.

“Everything okay over here?” he asks conversationally, even as he squeezes the guy’s wrist tight enough that he winces before turning his pissed off gaze on Christian, who just smiles at him pleasantly. Squeezes a little harder.

Eric is staring at him, wide-eyed in surprise and confusion.

The guy doesn’t seem keen to back down. “This little fucker hustled me.”

“Did he?” Christian raises his eyebrows. “Looks like you agreed to a bet. And he won. I was watching,” he says, and then gestures with his free hand towards the rest of the bar at large. “Plenty of people were watching.”

That seems to get through to him. The guy scowls, but drops his gaze, and stuffs his free hand into his pocket and shoves a fistful of bills in Eric’s direction, drops them at Eric’s feet. “Here,” he spits. “Take it. You’re lucky I’m late for a flight.”

Christian wants to gently insist that the guy pick the money up and hand it over like a fucking gentleman, but Eric’s already kneeling down and gathering it. He still looks a little shaken, more at Christian’s interference than the threat itself.

With a growl, the guy wrenches his wrist from Christian’s grip and storms out of the bar.

“I could’ve handled him,” Eric says quietly, smoothing out the crumpled bills and organizing them into a stack, evidently over his shock.

Christian snorts. “I think you meant, Thank you, Christian, for saving me from getting my ass kicked in public.”

“I could’ve handled it!”

“He had fifty pounds and half a foot on you. He would’ve crushed you like a bug on a car windshield.”

“Whatever,” Eric huffs. Christian’s hesitant to label a grown man as ‘sulking,’ but. Eric’s definitely sulking. He holds out the money to Christian dramatically, hand out flat with the bills laying across his palm.

Taking mildly exasperated pity on him, Christian reaches out and closes Eric’s fingers shut over the money securely. “I don’t want it.”

Eric stares at him. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? What the hell was all that for, then?”

Christian pauses. Considers his options. “Follow me outside.”

“Ohhh, no, I’ve fallen for that before, nuh-uh, I’m staying right here where there are witnesses.”

“I’m not— Eric, for fuck’s sake, I’m not trying to kill you, I’m trying to talk to you, just—” Patience thin, he snags Eric by the collar and drags him through the bar to the door.

He stumbles along, protesting the whole way. “Hey— Hey— Jazzmyne!” he calls out, waving frantically. “Jazz! Help!”

Jazzmyne looks up from where she’s wiping down the bartop. “Yeah, I would, but I’m totally swamped over here,” she says, looking entirely unconcerned—and not swamped in the slightest.  

“You are not!”

“So busy, very unfortunate, bye Eric, have fun.”

Grumbling, Eric allows Christian to pull him out the door and around the corner into the alley. “If I die, I’m haunting your ass. You’ll never have a moment’s peace. I’ll—”

“Jesus Christ, Eric, shut up, I’m trying to give you a job offer!”

Eric falls silent and blinks at Christian in surprise. “Wait, what? You are?”

“If you’d shut up for five seconds, yeah.”

“What kind of job offer?”

Christian huffs and rolls back his left sleeve up to his elbow—trying to ignore how Eric stares unabashedly. He lifts his wrist up to Eric’s face, nearly touching his nose. “You pointed out my watch earlier.”

Eric goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at it. “Uh-huh.”

“It probably costs more than your car.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“You don’t have— How broke are you?”

“Plenty of people don’t have cars in this city! That doesn’t make them poor!”

“Then you’re not broke?”

Eric shifts. “Well—”

Christian waves his free hand dismissively. “Never mind. Point is, I didn’t inherit the watch from my grandfather.”

“I mean, that was kind of obvious.”

“I stole it. Along with enough jewelry to buy a jet.”

That seems to get Eric’s attention. He tears his gaze away from the watch and looks at Christian, brow furrowed. “No shit?”

“I pull jobs a lot bigger than that, too. I’ve got something lined up, but we need another guy.”

“And I’m your guy?” Eric looks baffled.

“I’m thinking about it. I want to see you do your thing a few more times—but not here. A place with higher stakes, with people who don’t fall for that kind of shit so easy. I need to know you can handle yourself under pressure and talk your way out of a tight situation.” Christian raises an eyebrow. “And not by offering sexual favors.”

Eric grins at him. “You were thinking about taking the offer, though.”

“Consider this an...extended job interview. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night—since you don’t have a goddamn car—and take you somewhere you can really spread your wings. Show me what you’re capable of.” He backs out of Eric’s personal space and shrugs. “If you’re interested.”

Eric looks a little dazed with all the information, but to his credit seems to take it well enough in stride. That’s good; they need someone who’s quick to react. “Interested? Dude, this is the best offer I’ve gotten in my whole life— I could kiss you.”

“Take it easy.” But Christian’s struggling not to smile. “You have to show me you can handle the kind of work we do. I can’t be there to save your ass. Do a good job tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the guy planning the heist.”

“The heist,” Eric echoes, voice dramatic. “Is this gonna be some kind of Ocean’s Eleven deal?”

“Ideally, it’ll be even bigger.”

——

“What are you wearing?”

“What are you wearing?” Eric is gaping at him.

Christian looks down at himself. “A suit? I told you to wear something nice.”

“This is nice!”

“Eric, those jeans are so tight they look like somebody painted them on.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“This is a black tie event.”

Eric frowns and looks down at his outfit, twisting this way and that in the doorway. The jeans are a deep, almost black blue, and he’s sporting a leather jacket that looks like it was thrifted from the 1980s over a grey shirt. He doesn’t look bad, is the thing. He looks good. It’s a perfect outfit for an off-the-highway bar or casual club.

But they’re going to a formal event uptown, and he’s going to stick out like a big, flaming hot thumb.

“Change. Right now.”

“Yeah, no, trust me, I don’t have anything like that in my closet.” Eric jabs a finger at Christian’s suit.

“It’s just a suit!”

“No, it’s like. It’s a Suit, capital S.” Eric draws the letter in midair with his finger. “You look like— James Bond’s American cousin or something.”

“...Thank you?”

“Say ‘shaken, not stirred.’”

“Eric.”

“Just once, just humor me—”

“Eric, go change.”

“Fine! Fine. Fun-sucker.” Eric turns and walks back into his apartment, leaving the door open. Christian takes that as an invitation inside, and follows behind him awkwardly. Eric disappears down the hall and Christian waits in the living room on a misshapen but surprisingly comfortable couch.

Ten minutes later, Eric returns, looking frazzled.

“I can’t— This is so stupid, how— I haven’t worn a tie since my bar mitzvah.”

It shows.

“Jesus,” Christian says, getting to his feet and struggling not to laugh. “Okay, stop— Stop, you’re gonna mangle it, just let me do it.”

Eric’s sulking again. He lets his hands drop to his sides as Christian settles in front of him.

“Chin up,” Christian says.

Eric offers him a weak smile.

Christian snorts. “No, I mean— Literally, lift your chin up, look up so I can fix your tie.”

“Oh.” Going faintly pink, Eric tips his head back.

Christian tries to focus less on the bare expanse of his throat and more on making him look presentable. It’s not a bad suit; it’s not high-quality by any means, but Eric’ll blend in, and that’s what matters. There’s a time and place for standing out and tonight isn’t it.

“Okay,” Christian says, sliding his hand down Eric’s chest over the tie to smooth it out. “All set.”

Eric steps back and strikes a pose. “How do I look? On a scale of one to James Bond.”

Christian shakes his head and laughs. “You’ll do in a pinch.”

When they finally get out the door, Eric’s gaping again.

“Is that your car?”

“Are you kidding? It’s a rental. We’re literally going out to commit a crime. You think I’d take my own car?”

“Oh.” Eric deflates a little, but he’s still looking at the car in awe. “If it’s just a rental, can I drive?”

“Nope.”

“I’m a good driver!”

“Not happening.”

“Just around the block?”

“Eric, just get in the car.”

——

Eric starts the drive looking relaxed enough, but by the time Christian’s parked on the street where the party’s happening, he looks more than a little cagey.

“You good?” Christian says quietly, walking shoulder to shoulder with Eric up to the house—not quite a mansion, but probably the nicest house Eric’s ever been in.

Eric nods. It’s not super convincing, but Christian’s not going to press it. Everybody in this business has their own way of dealing with nerves.

He gets a little more concerned when they’re waved into the house and Eric practically suction-cups himself to Christian’s side.

“Christian,” he says lowly.

“Take a deep breath,” Christian says, voice even, smiling at a small group of people they pass by as if it’ll distract them from Eric’s wide-eyed, nervous expression.

“I can’t— I hustle pool, I don’t do this, this is way out of my comfort zone—”

Christian slips his hand into Eric’s and pulls him from the main entrance into a side corridor, gets his back against the wall and brackets him in, arms on either side of him. To anyone passing by, hopefully it’ll look more like a tipsy tryst than a pre-job pep talk.

“Look at me.”

“Uh, kind of hard not to,” Eric says, laughing, but his tone is pinched and anxious even still. “Are we about to make out. Like, I’m totally down for that, but give a guy some warning—”

“I know you’re out of your comfort zone,” Christian says, steamrolling over Eric’s babbling before he gets too carried away with himself. “That’s why we’re here. This is low-stakes. A practice run. This can become your comfort zone.”

For once, it seems, Eric has nothing to say. He looks at Christian, expression unreadable, for a long moment, then takes a breath.

“Yeah,” he sighs out. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll be watching the whole time,” Christian reassures him—and isn’t that weird, how quickly he’s gone from wanting to hit the kid over two hundred bucks to automatically trying to reassure him.

It seems to help, regardless. Eric takes another breath and seems to mentally shake himself off. He gives Christian a grin. “Then I’ll be sure to give you something worthwhile to look at,” he says, and gives Christian a delicate little push away.

Christian watches him walk back into the main room and shakes his head with a smile before following.

With a confidence boost and some reassurance, Eric does just fine, melding into the crowd and schmoozing like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth just the same as all the people he’s charming. Christian’s feeling increasingly more certain about him.

The goal is for Eric to lift the VIP pass off one of the guys at the party—Jordan Mahoney, a trust fund kid whose last name alone gets him into places like these. It’ll test a small handful of Eric’s skills, and Christian has to admit to being eager to see him perform on a stage that’s really worth his time.

Maybe a little too eager.

Eric approaches him after maybe twenty minutes. At first he thinks something’s wrong, but Eric’s fighting back a smile.

“Christian,” he says, “you’re making it really hard for me to work.”

That’s admittedly not what Christian was expecting to hear. “What? How?”

“Half the people here don’t want to talk to me, let alone Mahoney.”

“How is that my fault?”

“Because you’re standing in the corner staring at me intensely like a spurned, brooding boyfriend.”

“I— What?”

Eric’s outright laughing at him now. “I thought you said you’re a professional.”

Christian can feel his face going hot. “I am a professional, you ass—”

“Then give me some space so people don’t think you’re gonna throw hands if they even look at me.” Eric gives him an annoyingly charming smile and walks off again before Christian can think of a reply.

“I’m not staring at you like a brooding boyfriend,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Even so, he makes a point of wandering to the other side of the room and making agonizingly boring small talk with a group of people he has next to nothing in common with.

He goes through a few glasses of champagne and a few fancy hors d'oeuvres before Eric appears at his side again.

“Guess who has two thumbs and someone else’s special access ID?” Eric says, a little giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Christian resists the urge to cover Eric’s mouth with his hand. “Go ahead and say it a little louder, why don’t you.”

Eric ducks his head apologetically, but he’s laughing, high off the energy of a successful lift. “Sorry, sorry.”

Maybe it’s the champagne, but Christian’s a little giddy, too. He’s proud of Eric, eager to tell Aria about him, excited about what this means for the future.

They leave through the back, walking past a few people sneaking puffs of cigarettes and joints on the porch, and head along the side of the house through tall, wet grass towards the street.

“That was— I mean, that was a rush,” Eric says a little breathlessly. “I haven’t felt like this since I first started hustling people at the bar.”

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Christian replies—a little too soon.

“Hey!”

Christian spins on his heel, fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in automatically. He hears Eric swear quietly next to him.

Mahoney’s storming through the grass towards them, four other guys following behind like some kind of tipsy, angry parade procession.

“Whoa, hey, what’s the problem?” Christian says, forcing himself to look bewildered and concerned.

Mahoney jabs a finger at Eric, ignoring Christian completely. “You think you’re funny? Think this is some kind of joke? Give me my shit before I kick your goddamn teeth in.”

Eric fumbles for the pass immediately. “Okay, okay, take it easy! It was just— I was just messing around, I was gonna give it back—”

Mahoney steps forward and snatches the card from Eric’s hand the second he gets it from his pocket. Eric stumbles back, and Christian’s holding his breath, praying that’ll be the end of it.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Christian says calmly. He doesn’t like their odds; it’d be five drunk, angry guys against him and Eric, and he’s pretty sure Eric isn’t exactly a brawler. There’s a chance they can get out of this if they stay relaxed and non-confrontational and—

And of course that’s when Mahoney grabs Eric by the lapels of his suit and slams him up against the side of the house.

Christian sighs. “Okay,” he says evenly, and makes damn sure he throws the first punch.

——

“So, uh. That could’ve gone better.”

Christian huffs out a laugh, wiping at a still-bleeding cut on his lip. “Probably, yeah.”

They’re back in the rental car, assessing the worst of the damage from what was, admittedly, not Christian’s best fight. They’re both a little banged up, but luckily most of the guys were too drunk to put too much effort into it, so other than some scrapes and bruises, there’s not much to worry about.

Eric can handle himself in a fight better than Christian anticipated. He’s not big, but he’s scrappy, and gave as good as he got. He’s rubbing at a bruise on his jaw and his suit’s ripped in a couple of places.

“Wasn’t a total loss, though,” he says suddenly.

Christian snorts. “How was that not a total loss.”

“I mean,” Eric says, and Christian looks over to see him pull something leather and bulky from his suit pocket. “He got his pass back, but I grabbed his wallet, so.”

Christian stares at him. “What.”

Eric’s going through the contents of the wallet cheerfully. “There’s like five hundred bucks in here. And a gift card to Lush!” He looks over at Christian and waves the card at him. “You like bath bombs?”

Christian keeps staring, exasperation building alongside begrudging but intense fondness.

Eric furrows his brow. “What?”

“You are,” Christian says, “fucking unbelievable,” and he grabs Eric by the lapels of his torn suit and hauls him in and kisses him breathless.

Eric goes still in shock, then practically climbs over the center console in his eagerness to kiss him back. Which is—entirely unsurprising, really.

Christian has to pull away sooner than he’d like, wincing and touching his tongue to his split lip. “You got the job,” he says, voice a little rough, still catching his breath.

“Huh?” Eric looks dazed and giddy and hungry and it takes a lot of effort not to drag him back in.

“The heist. You’re in.” God, Christian’s hands itch to grab him again. He grabs his phone instead, sends Aria a quick text to let him know they officially have a fourth man for the job.

It takes Eric a moment to catch up. “What, even though I fucked up?”

“Are you kidding? You charmed half the people at that party, blended in perfectly, did a nearly flawless lift, then managed to steal a guy’s wallet while he was beating the shit out of you. That was amazing.”

“Okay, well, that’s a little harsh, I got a few punches in—”

Christian raises an eyebrow at him.

“I did! Sorry if you didn’t see because you were too busy getting hit in the face—”

“Okay, smartass, I took on four guys at once—”

“Go ahead and call me names; you still kissed me, so what’s that say about you?”

“That I have horrible taste.”

“Christian!”

[greenishbucket]

Via the Zombie Apocalypse

Ransom was the first to admit that he never would have pinned himself as the guy to survive the zombie apocalypse.

For @ransomweek day 1 (primum non nocere - “first, to do no harm”), 3 (crisis - a time of intense difficulty, trouble, or danger), and 4 (cacoethes - an irresistible urge to do something inadvisable).

Inspired by this tumblr post.

Ransom & Holster, 2.5k. Warnings for detailed descriptions of panic attacks, typical Bad Times of a zombie apocalypse, and a passing mention of the idea of overdosing. Also on ao3.

Ransom was the first to admit that he never would have pinned himself as the guy to survive the zombie apocalypse.

Like, sure, he used to play hockey before the world went to shit so he was pretty ripped and had some great stamina from running from the undead that wanted to eat his flesh. But he’s also had an anxiety disorder his whole life and he’d been in cities since birth, enjoyed the comforts available to him while those kinds of things were still around. Stuff like TV, salmon shorts, easily accessible amenities. Good music, the sound of his mom’s voice on the other end of the phone, food he didn’t have to hunt and/or extract from half-demolished supermarkets. Bagged milk. Small stuff.

And yet here he was. Surviving.

At least it’s not a movie, or you know we’d be the ones killed ten minutes in, his sister always said, back when it had first started, when they’d been sticking it out together. But then she’d got sick; not even zombie-sick, just regular sick, only there hadn’t been anyone left with resources or the knowhow, and if Ransom had just fucking gone to medical school like he’d said he would–

But there wasn’t anything to be done about it now. Now it was just Ransom, and some people he saw from a distance from time to time but didn’t risk getting too close to, and it sucked but that was how it was. He contained his panic attacks to a half hour each morning when it was light so at least he wouldn’t be a sitting duck to any zombie bros while his chest locked up and his head span and his stress responses went out of control.

And Ransom wasn’t all that sure what the point of it anymore was, exactly, but like fuck was that going to override his survival instinct.

And like fuck was this zombie apocalypse mess going to ruin every second of the last however long he had left. So he was making the most of the complete collapse of society, when he could – he watched movies for free in abandoned cinemas when he could get them working, he spent a nice couple of weeks by the coast looking out at the Atlantic Ocean and wondering if living on the sea might be better, he learned to drive manual and automatic.

What Ransom really wanted was to go and see Niagara Falls again. He hadn’t been since before he left for college, the last real family trip they ever got to go on, and he knew it was going to bring up all kinds of horrific repressed grief shit to see it again, but he still wanted it.

It was just an issue of logistics; he’d been travelling consistently further south to have a chance of surviving the winters, and he wasn’t sure about how to get the fuel to travel all the way back up north again, or how to travel safely on foot by himself. But Ransom had all the time in the world to figure that out, no deadlines coming up on the horizon other than the potential he’d turn into a zombie snack, which was a potential he mostly tried not to think about.

All in all, he’s pretty much settled into a routine of post-apocalyptic life. Ransom couldn’t help but create routine wherever he went.

And so it came as a bit of a shock, as stupid as Ransom felt to register it as a shock, when he was trying to scrounge up a couple of water purifying tablets to top up supplies and realised he wasn’t alone in the echoing, abandoned mall.

He could hear the heavy, soggy footsteps before he could hear the whistling breathing, laboured as decaying lungs tried their best. The rotting smell was permanent, didn’t matter if a zombie was right on top of you or a hundred miles out, lingering in the air so much Ransom barely registered it anymore. And maybe that had been his mistake, not that it mattered now.

Ransom had gone very still, frozen with a fear that left his mouth dry and his pulse thundering in his ears. He didn’t want to turn and see it; every time it was the same, the bone-deep instinct to not look, to go as still as possible and play dead. He felt like he was a kid again, curling up under the blanket and telling himself the monster under the bed couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see it, or a college freshman and hiding under his desk Googling how many anti-anxieties he could take before it was an OD.

It was with a sickening sense of dread that he realised he’d left his weapons across the way, beyond the now-dry fountain. It was a hot day, and the mall had a ceiling of glass that amplified the heat to unbearable, the AC had long rusted to uselessness. Ransom had put his shit down, figured it was best to conserve energy by not sweating himself into heat stroke while he looked around. God, I’m a fucking idiot.

But a zombie didn’t care if the dude it was eating was an idiot or not, and the zombie wasn’t moving all that slowly. Ransom breathed deep, sent up a prayer he wasn’t sure had any value, and turned.

Fuck, if zombies weren’t the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. Ransom knew some people had pegged him as a bit shallow back in the day, but this was deeper than that. There was something viscerally repulsive about zombies, the most basic parts of Ransom’s brain screaming at him that whatever was in front of him was wrongwrongwrong and he had to get away, now.

But everyone knew that you didn’t run away from a zombie. They’d only run after you, and a good seven times out of ten they could run faster, powered with whatever virus shit had got them that way unless they’d been zombie’d so long they were more rotten flesh than even a virus could hold together.

So it wasn’t just Ransom’s natural propensity for freezing when presented with fight or flight that kept him still. Plus, the zombie was closer than it had sounded and didn’t look as decayed as it could. The only way to escape would be to climb fast – except you’re in a fucking mall, dude, said a slightly hysterical voice in Ransom’s mind, are you going to climb the walls like Spiderman? – or to somehow distract the zombie enough to get time to run and grab whatever weapon he first laid hand on.  

For a moment, Ransom and the zombie looked at each other across the space between them.

Ransom could feel his t-shirt sticking to him with double the amount of sweat than before, and he’d already been pretty sweaty. The zombie was a tall, hulking mass of raw flesh, still wearing the remains of the dirty clothes of whoever it’d been before the poor sucker got contaminated. Its hair was blond, and its eyes were unsettlingly cognisant for all they were definitely not human.

Ransom felt sick. He was cornered, and this zombie was going to eat bits of him and then he was going to be a zombie and eat bits of whoever else was left in the world, and he didn’t want to hurt people. He would’ve taken an oath, if he’d ever actually gone to medical school. He was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and the adrenaline pumping through his system was making him light-headed and twitchy. Ransom didn’t want to die.

And so when the zombie lunged at him, all putrid breath and gaping mouth full of broken teeth ready to rip out Ransom’s throat, Ransom did the unthinkably stupid: he bit the zombie first.

It tasted really bad. Like, so, so bad. He bit hard enough to break the zombie’s decaying skin and whatever came out wasn’t blood and it filled Ransom’s mouth and he pulled back, gagging and spitting and trying really hard not to freak the fuck out because did this count as contamination? No, that wasn’t how it worked, but had he made the zombie really angry? Did zombies even feel emotions?

The zombie collapsed. Just, like, flat out collapsed. Straight down into a crumpled heap on the floor of the abandoned mall, the bite mark Ransom had left in its arm still oozing sluggishly.

Ransom stared down at it. His thoughts were going haywire, everything moving too fast to catch onto, his chest getting tight and his head spinning and– oh. This was a panic attack.

It felt strange to sink onto the floor, put his head between his knees and shut his eyes tight. There was a maybe-dead-for-real zombie lying beside him, and this wasn’t part of the schedule. Ransom had already had his panic attack of the day, a familiar process of a curled-up meltdown after he’d pieced together some kind of breakfast.

He didn’t know what to do with it now, and the anxiety built as he realised without the imposed time-limit this attack could go on forever, what if it never stopped? He couldn’t live like that. Ransom couldn’t do life if it had to be like this forever, if he couldn’t repress everything and reassure himself one day it would be a funny story to tell in a therapist’s office when everything was fixed again. It had been hard enough adjusting cold turkey once his anxiety meds had run out; Ransom couldn’t adjust to this kind of anxiety as his new baseline. He couldn’t.

“Hey, hey, hey, dude. Listen, dude. It’s all good.”

The shock of hearing another person’s voice pushed the attack to its winding down stages like the old trick of a cold shower. Ransom still couldn’t respond, but he listened as the voice chattered a grounding stream of nonsense around him.

“… And so then here I am, as a zombie, which majorly sucked but you fixed me and I’m actually kind of blurry on the details for what happened which is cool. I don’t think I’d want to remember all that, we’ve all got enough nightmares and trauma to deal with, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Ransom, because he couldn’t disagree. He opened his eyes, focused on the grimy floor for a moment. Dude was clearly out of his mind with that used-to-be-a-zombie thing, but it had been a long, long time since Ransom had spoken to anyone at all. It felt good, and bad, and a little overwhelming.

“Hey, you’re back,” said the voice, pleased, “I’d offer you water but I don’t even know where we are or what’s going on really, I’ll be honest with you.”

“The water hasn’t been cleaned, anyway, so–” Ransom started, and then he looked up and his voice died in his throat.

Where the zombie had been passed out, a dude was sitting. A dude that was talking to Ransom. He was as big as the zombie had been, and had the same blond hair, but his skin was smooth and whole, and his eyes were blue and human. He still had some massive fucking teeth, but they were all present an (a little unsettlingly) uniform. He was – someone smack Ransom for thinking it – kind of cute, for a definition of cute.

He also had a red ring of toothmarks on his arm, healed over like a few years old scar.

“Dude,” said Ransom. He didn’t know what to say other than that. His brain’s higher function section was entirely blank. This guy had been a zombie and now… he wasn’t anymore. Because Ransom had bitten him? The fuck.

“I know, right?” said the guy. “This is some pretty wild stuff. For sure thought when that zombie bit me there wasn’t any going back, but I guess sometimes you just have to fight fire with fire. Eye for an eye, bite for a bite.” The guy carried on rambling a little, in a way that made Ransom think he was trying to reassure himself with it. The dude did look a little twitchy around the eyes; Ransom gave him about fifteen minutes, max, until the guy was having his very own meltdown.

Ransom considered up and running. He hadn’t been around people in a long, long time and this dude had been a zombie a hot minute ago. Loneliness was better than getting attacked in his sleep, or, perhaps worse, being the one left behind again.

But then Ransom figured, well. Bite for a bite, support through a panic attack for support through a panic attack. He didn’t have to hang around longer than that if the guy did re-zombify, and if he turned out to be cool then Ransom would deal with any abandonment-grief if it came. The zombie apocalypse didn’t get to decide things for him.

“… and so I’m thinking, how about now I can actually appreciate shit and have sensation back in my limbs, I go to see something cool. Something that’s hopefully still around. Niagara Falls, maybe? Pretty hard for zombies to fuck that one up. I’ve only been once, but it was some pretty beautiful stuff and–”

“Bro, no way,” Ransom interrupted, else the guy anxiously talk himself horse and also because, “I’ve been thinking about going there myself.”

“No shit? You looking for an ex-zombie, newly found buddy to come with?”

The guy looked like he was trying not to look hopefully at Ransom and failing hard. Ransom couldn’t even imagine being a zombie and then coming back, let alone whatever horrible shit had probably happened to this dude before that. Like the guy had said: they all had enough nightmares and trauma to deal with. Maybe this was a sign it was time for Ransom to stop pretending to be dealing with it alone, to stop pretending that was a possibility for anyone.

“If you’re feeling up for it, man, that’d be awesome,” said Ransom, stomach flipping over at the excitement-anxiety-risk of it all. He hadn’t touched another human in years, but he held out a hand. “I’m Justin Oluransi, most people called be Ransom back in the day.” No one needed to know about Ranser; it sounded like rancid, Ransom wouldn’t be argued out of it.

The guy reached out to shake Ransom’s hand, warm and real and human. “Adam Birkholtz, the guys called me Holster.”

Ransom felt the last vestiges of worry about re-zombifying fade. There had been more unbelievable things since this zombie disaster started than the possibility that things were looking up for once, and he’d long learned to trust his gut instinct. Holster across from him didn’t send out the wrongwrongwrong signals now he wasn’t a rotting reanimated corpse; his hand felt good in Ransom’s and his smile as he introduced himself made something warm bloom in Ransom’s chest, a rightness that spread all the way down to his toes.

“Ransom and Holster,” he said, trying it out. “Off to Niagara Falls, via the zombie apocalypse. Sounds good to me.”

[terresdebrume]

2017: The take out.

I completed my first year in Cambodia, and started the second one. I started teaching French to really little kids which, even though I still have huge doubts about my abilities to do so efficiently, has been really cool so far. Highly stressful in many respects, but really cool. I met new people and succeeded in becoming pleasant acquaintances with them, if not friends (mostly my fault, let’s be honest). I visited new places. I went back to France and was surprised by a visit from my paternal grandfather (as well as my dad’s older brother + his wife and daughters). I got a new apartment, decorated it, got settled in it.

I lost friendships, mostly for stupid reasons, and subsequently discovered I could get along really well with people I didn’t know all that much before. I planned and then missed out on a weekend with elephants, and didn’t really go on vacations after, mostly through my own fault as well. I got a crush on a friend, told her about it (!) and then got over it when she wasn’t interested (as anyone should, really). I realized I wanted to be a guy. Was a guy. I’m still hovering between the two phrasings.

I told : Tumblr, my closest friend in all the world, a couple of other friends, my sister, my aunt and my mom about it, pretty much in that order. With mixed but never catastrophic responses. I bought myself a pair of binders. I tried them on and liked what I saw. I even went out with one on, once. I started seriously thinking about what transitioning would mean for me (and promptly have semi freakouts about it but, funnily enough, they’ve been fairly manageable so far). I wrote. I watched TV shows. I understood things about my own stories that I didn’t really get, or want to get, before. I got angry. I got hurt, physically and emotionally, but I recovered. I laughed. I cried, though only one of those time was the kind of ugly-choke crying I associate with really terrible mental state. I learned. I grew. I held on.

It was, in all honesty, not too bad at all.

It’s funny, how it feels, typing that. It wasn’t too bad at all. I don’t think I’ve eve thought back on a year and thought that. Not too bad at all. I think the closest I’ve come to before was ‘it could have been worse’ which, well. It usually means things could have been better, too. Things in 2017 could probably have been better, overall. I definitely feel like I’ve wasted too many hours on petty shit and the frustration linked to that, and there was this whole bit between August and October that didn’t really have the best mental landscape for me, but overall? I’ve had worse. I’ve had way worse. Probably, I will have worse again, but I don’t want to focus on that too much right now because, well. Like I said, it really wasn’t too bad. Which is pretty cool when the baseline I’m used to is ‘it sucked, but it could have sucked more’.

I have some regrets. Things I said that I shouldn’t have said, things I didn’t do that I could have done (even if, in some case, I’m not sure exactly what those things are, but I could probably have done them). I have doubts, too. I’m way less certain about the trans thing than I sound here. I’m not sure how it’ll go over with the rest of my family. I’m not sure how it’ll go over at my work, especially since I work with children, and I’m hoping it won’t come to that but I’m also bracing myself for having to change job/country at some point in the future. I still have trouble knowing what I want, and I’m navigating the guy think the same way I’ve navigated everything else in my life so far: going by what I don’t want. I don’t want people to tell me I don’t really want it (I wonder about it often enough). I don’t want to try and shove myself inside femininity again. I don’t want to wear dresses. I’m not opposed to wearing more feminine shirts and clothes, but they make people call me ma’am and I don’t particularly want that. I don’t want to stop changing until I have a definite answer, because I know myself well enough by now that I know it’s not going to happen anyway. I guess I want to keep going and see how it goes, whether the newfound optimism that came with that realization (in a way that it didn’t when I started identifying as a lesbian, btw) keeps strong or not.

I’m...not sure where I’m going with this post. I feel like there are so many things I left behind this year, things I never imagined I’d ever loose or even reduce. I thought I’d be an uncomfortable mess my whole life. That I’d keep feeling like a fraud everywhere I went and that I’d keep doubting myself and what I had to bring to the world. I still do that, occasionally. I’m not sure it’s ever entirely going to go away. But now...well, now I have a potential endgame in sight. I have something to look forward to that’s way, way better than a nebulous ‘maybe one day’ and that’s...actually pretty cool. I feel like I was dragging a mountain of shit behind me, trying to progress while tied down and now...well, I’m not flying yet but things feel so much easier now. So much more real.

I used to have these moments when I...wasn’t entirely in control of me. Like I was just a fixed axis, a soul frozen in immobility while my body and the rest of the world twisted and jumped and moved on around me. I used to have these moments where I could feel and not feel my body at the same time, like the information came from really far away. Like I was looking in the mirror and saw someone else’s face—like I was one of those characters trapped in a mirror, seeing my features and my body moving but it wasn’t quite me. I used to be resigned about my body being an independent entity I was never going to be fully able to control, like it had a particular desire for freedom and its own idea about what it should be, look, feel like. I haven’t felt like that since late October which is, incidentally, when I tentatively started thinking of myself as a guy.

It’s funny because it changed nothing. And yet, it changed everything.

I feel like I’ve been running a marathon for years and years and years, and I’m finally reaching the end. Well, maybe not the end, but a water booth or something. Like I’ve been trudging through an ocean of shit with my nose barely poking out and now I’m finally reaching the upward slope to shore. It’s going to be a slow one, and a long walk, but you know. There’s progress. There’s land on the horizon. It’s. I’m not sure how to describe this in a way that makes sense, really. Let’s just say I’m being very, very emotional in front of my laptop right now and for once, for freaking once, it’s a good thing. Man, what a change from all the time I ended up spilling pain and despair over here and crying from it. I love it.

Also. I don’t know how many people will bother to read this until the end because it’s not like I reach out to people a lot, so I’m not sure who will see this but. I do want to thank you guys. Like, all of you who read this, and all of the others who don’t but who are here, on Tumblr, every day, and who send a little heart-shaped nudge in my direction sometimes. I know everyone likes to say this website is a cesspit of shit but honestly Tumblr has been such a great place for me from the very first day, and I owe it all to you guys. Thank you for sending important information and dumb cat gifs my way. Thank you for sharing your stories, your art, your thoughts and making the end of hard days brighter. Thank you for laughing at my ridiculous post sometimes, and thank you for being supportive of who I am, always. There hasn’t been a single time this year where I got a negative response to what I said regarding myself and my life, and even the rebuttals I did deserve were always kind and pretty composed, which we all know take an awful lot of effort.

Thanks for giving me a place to vent, and learn, and escape when I need to. You’re pretty rad, and I don’t think this year would have been as good as it was without you.

Here’s to a 2018 with probably as much political bullshit as we saw this year, but always with a place we can go back to in order to feel better.

[addledconsciousness]

The Beginning part 2

As I said earlier, there’s not a whole lot of my early childhood I remember, so in order to understand why you need to understand my family dynamic and most of all need to understand who my father is.

(TW and CW ahead for domestic violence, child abuse and bodily harm)

My mother married my father when she was 18 because her mother fell ill and didn’t think she was going to make it. She wanted to make sure my mother was taken care of so pressured her into marrying her high school boyfriend. My grandmother never ended up dying, and she’s still kicking to this day, but the deed was done and my mom had her first child shortly after. 

My brother was the first male grandson for my father’s side of the family. Coming from a traditional Italian Roman Catholic family this was a huge deal. He was like the second coming. He would continue the bloodline, the family name was secured and he would take over the family trade after my father and his father before him. The family trade being cattle ranching, more on that later. Then I came along 18 months later. From what I was told my brother could not be more upset. He wasn’t getting the attention he was used to anymore, and I was (by everyone’s account) not a great baby. Constantly sick, screaming and never sleeping. He once asked my parents to take me back where ever they got me, but who could blame him really, I was a terror to the whole family.I eventually got older and traded the screaming for shy silence, still sick a lot (probably mostly stemming from the kidney issues in the previous post) but I was quiet now. Three years after me came my sister who ended up being the exact opposite. My brother and I found our groove together eventually but this other girl threw a wrench in our system and I treated her much like my brother treated me at first. We both had a history of pushing each other off things (this is late 80′s early 90′s so not a whole like of child protected anything going on there) but we all came out relatively unscathed. At least from each other. 

Mark, (not my brother’s real name) and I had a past time of playing Nintendo together. He usually kicked my ass at everything as he was a little older and better coordinated; but I remember competing to see who could get to the highest level in Mario, him beating me in every game of Tecmo bowl (which I still refuse to play to this day because of it) and some other ones. I also remember sitting on my dad’s back when he would take over and play himself and I would just sit and watch him. I remember he would come home from work and would take a nap on the couch and I would sit behind his legs and watch TV with my brother and sister.

My mom was always around the house as my dad preferred she didn’t have a job. After all, who would watch the kids and make dinner and clean the house if she was at work? So I never liked leaving her side if we ever had to go anywhere. The only person who could hold me without my immediately starting to cry was her and my grandma. So I was a stage 5 leg clinger from an early age. Since we didn’t have anyone around other than family, going anywhere with any sort of crowd made me nervous. I’d rather stay home and play outside than go into town to run errands.My siblings and I played a lot outside, my mother insisted on it. We we’re allowed to even come in the house most of the time because she didn’t want us watching TV or spend all our time playing video games. So we ran around like crazy wild children on our property.

Growing up on acres of land with no one else around definitely gets the creative side going in kids, at least it did in us. There wasn’t a whole lot around so we made up games to play with each other. There was this hill behind our house that we used to jump down and climb back up for hours. In the winter since we didn’t have central heating or air (I know right), we had a wood burning stove instead. So my dad would go out and cut wood and bring it home and that was our source of heat when it was cold. We’ll all those coals and ashes needed to be cleaned out of the stove every so often and dad would throw the old ashes off to the side of the yard. One day when we were playing out back I fell down the hill in the backyard like I had done so many times before, but this time there was an added element, hot burning coals. 

Now maybe my dad thought they were out or maybe he just didn’t care (because who throws themselves into a pile of ashes), but needless to say, I threw myself into a pile of hot ashes. One bloody scream and a trip to the hospital (mind you was at least an hour and a half away) I had burned my arm from my wrist to my elbow to the third degree. The doctor told my my mom they removed most of the burned skin and wrapped in some kind of burn aid that needed to be on for a few days and to come back in a week but to expect a high amount of scarring and tissue damage. Dunno how it happened but when I came back for my follow up appointment and they removed my bandages it was like nothing even happened. They honestly couldn’t explain what happened. They took pictures to document and everything because there should have at least been some scarring. My arm was perfectly healed. Not sure how I got away with that, but I’m grateful.

Back to the story at hand though. So stay at home mom, with three young children and a dad who I guess at the time was starting to get irritated with his lot in life, and his wife, abuse the verbal and physical abuse started shortly after that. My dad isn’t the best of guys on a normal day and knows exactly what to say to tear you down when he’s sober, so when he was drunk (which was more often then not) he’d just get mean and violent. Anything we did to piss him off would mean being yelled at an belittled. He used to call my brother all sorts of names and tell him he was stupid. He would do the same to my mom in front of us and my brother after he got a little older (maybe 6 or 7) would try and stop him. This of course only enraged my dad and couldn’t let a little kid stand up to him so he had to put him in his place. He used his hands mostly, but if belts and electrical cords were handy those were convenient to used too. Which of course would send my mom into bear mode trying to protect her kids and she would get the worst of it. Me being the tiny emaciated kid I was didn’t stand a chance. So i’d let him yell at me and berate me and say all kinds of horrible things because it was better than being hit. I still have a scar on the back of my head from when I caught the buckle on a belt. Living in constant fear and panic because I never knew what was going to rub him the wrong way on a day to day basis made me an extremely cautious kid. I spent a lot of my time figuring out the right things to say and do in order to avoid being punished. Mind you, this is all before the first grade. 

So that is were my journey with trauma started, this is where my brain started making neural connections in my flight or fight response to survive and be on alert at all times instead of appropriate times. This is where I started leaning on my mind and trying to out think a grown man to get the desired outcome of not being beaten instead of getting to be a kid. It’s also where I started forming the distinct mindset of survival at all costs. I didn’t know until recently that my childhood trauma was the basis for most of my mental illness today (figured people grew out of that and now that I am no longer in those situations that It didn’t effect me anymore). I also didn’t know that living in that state for years and years and years actually mapped my brain for fear and anxiety to be the baseline for how my brain and body worked. 

All that is to say, that is one of the reasons I am doing this. To help get my thoughts straight, to confront my memories on my own terms and to work through them with techniques taught to me by my therapist in a safe environment that I can control. It’s not reliving my trauma but identifying what happened to me and learning to accept and let go. 

That’s enough for now, but I’m feeling pretty good about this so far. I’m not as freaked out as I thought I would be airing out things so far, maybe it’s because it was the oldest abuse and I’m far removed from it, or maybe that part of it was so normalized that It doesn’t hit me too hard to talk about it. At any rate, i’ll be ending it here tonight.

[seunghyun247-blog]

great white sharks vs killer whales || solo ft jongin

MENTIONED: @247jiyong , @247xbora , @247yoori , @sehun247 @247sooyoung

it’s the second to the last day of the trip and all seunghyun wants in the world right now is some goddamn alone time. he’s been followed around by camera crews and his tentmates, and then there’s the issue of him living so damn close to every enemy in high school he’s ever had. he tries not to make eye-contact with them, but how is he supposed to avoid them entirely when they are sleeping and eating and breathing just a few meters away from him? it’s hard to pretend things are fine, and even harder to do it under the watchful gaze of the television lens.

he feels like he’s going to explode soon—he’s never been able to handle stress very well.

but still, at least he’s managed to find a few minutes away from everyone else, a few seconds just to himself where he can smoke a cigarette without feeling guilty and let himself just embrace the overwhelming quiet of the atmosphere out here. he stands off to the edge of the woods, about a hill and a half away from the campsite where he can still see everything but from a good distance. he’s begun to think for the last day and a half that this trip might actually have been enjoyable had he been out here without the others. maybe he ought to come back soon, just to chill alone for a while, no friends or fake friends or camera flashes.

he drags in on the tobacco, closing his eyes for a long moment, letting the serenity surround him.

“got a light?” asks a voice just behind him.

without really thinking about it, seunghyun pulls out his lighter, his baseline need to be nice to others taking president over any other feelings of annoyance or frustration that his peace has been interrupted. he turns and holds the lighter up and out towards—

kim fucking jongin.

seunghyun is frozen for a moment, paralyzed entirely except the ability to merely blink once, his whole brain grinding to an absolute halt as their eyes meet; seunghyun’s wide, deer-in-the-headlights aesthetic meeting jongin’s, half-lidded and calm. they stand just a few feet away from each other, but seunghyun can already feel a heat in the air, some sort of toxic radiation from his younger half-brother and to say he was scared of the shorter male would be an understatement. he’s seen what jongin can do, what he has done, what he’s capable of--and anyone who’s seen that should be scared of him.

his blood runs cold before racing through his veins like it’s a competition and he struggles for a moment to force air into his lungs. jongin is everything seunghyun hated about high school, every torment, every nightmare. younger than him by two years, jongin has managed far more intense feats than seunghyun even wants to try for. he’s heard all the stories, all the rumors, all the snide remarks and evil plans. he’s personally witnessed jongin beating people until his knuckles and his clothes are bloody, giant grin on his face, insanity lurking in the corners of his eyes.

he takes a step forward and seunghyun wants to shrink back, but he doesn’t. maybe it’s the fear rooting him in place or maybe it’s his body reminding him that if you run from a rottweiler, they feel more compelled to chase you. he stands his ground though, his figure unmoving even though the worry is very apparent on his face, while jongin comes up and casually takes the lighter from his hand, holding the flame up to his own cigarette before breathing it in.

“i uh… i’m surprised.” seunghyun finds his voice, even though it’s a bit too breathy. “don’t you usually light your cigarettes with hellfire or something?”

he’s not sure why he’s just made that joke, but jongin does turn to him and give a half-grin anyway. although, knowing jongin, that still might not be such a good thing. “usually i do, over a bonfire of my enemies’ corpses.” he tosses the lighter back to seunghyun, who catches it without dropping his eyes from the other. it’s a joke... right? just him bolstering up his own reputation of course...

for an awkwardly long while, neither of them speak. seunghyun does his best not to creepily stare at the other, pinning his eyes to the ground while jongin looks out over the view of the camp, everything seeming much smaller and more manageable from this distance. they both sip on their cigarettes and listen to the bugs and the birds around them. he doesn’t know what to say or how to break the ice—isn’t sure whether this is jongin making some kind of peace or effort to reach out to him, and whether or not seunghyun will reciprocate it. he hadn’t let him come to their father’s funeral, which had been a heavy blow. seunghyun isn’t sure he wants to accept any sort olive branch from someone so selfish. but then jongin speaks and the confusion ends abruptly.

“so i know we all hate gossip girl, and some of us more than others, but she does on occasion make some interesting points and the reason i’m here right now, forcing myself to breathe the same air as you, is because i just want to make sure that one particular point she’s made recently is wholly and entirely false. and i want to be clear about this, i’m not doing this out of some grand gesture to check up on you or anyone, this is merely me reminding you where the line is between what you can have and what you cannot have.”

“what?” seunghyun squints. “what are you talking about?” honestly, the sheer audacity--

“sehun,” he turns his head and looks directly into seunghyun’s eyes. “you’re not fucking him, are you?”

“I—what?” the world stops. it could collide with a meteorite right about now and seunghyun wouldn’t be able to notice.

“see the post said he seemed unhappy about you getting engaged to little miss park and while i thought it was hilarious, i’ve got to wonder why.”

seunghyun feels stuck like a bug, motionless and bleeding somewhere he can’t see. revealing his relationship ( or dysfunctional mess ) with sehun to anyone would be disastrous, especially to jongin. if sehun, the devil’s own best friend, is scared of him and what he might do.... “i, i don’t… that’s not anything to do with me—that, he might have just been upset because of sooyoung…” and then he winces because it sounds like he is trying to shift blame onto one of his oldest friends. he doesn’t want to put her in the warpath of someone like jongin.

but his little brother is shaking his head, his eyes glowing eerily, the corner of his lips tilted upwards. “you and i both know sehun’s preferences don’t swing that way.”

seunghyun gulps. he tries to think of something to say but nothing comes. his brain is full of broken gears that refuse to turn. his throat starts closing up.

“alright let me make this clearer for you,” jongin sniffs, breathing in the smoke and shifting entirely to look straight at the other. “i’m doing you this as a favor, actually, given the fact that you don’t really know who he is or what he’s done. see, me and my people are sharks, we own the ocean, we’re apex predators. and you always have been and always will be just a whale…” seunghyun winces a bit at the old insult that followed him around through his years at cheongnam. “you don’t belong with us.”

being insulted like this, using that old nickname once again to make him feel inferior, actually bolsters something inside seunghyun, catching alight like a pyre. his eyebrows thread together in a glare that sharpens as jongin steps closer to him. he wants to tell him to fuck off, even with how unwise that is, but he has to think about sehun in this equation as well. there’s a reason sehun always has to pick on him in public, there’s a reason they’ve kept themselves secret this whole time. seunghyun grips a fist tightly. “there’s nothing between sehun and i,” he finds his voice, albeit still quiet. “and even if there was, he isn’t your property—“

but he’s cut off by jongin’s laughter, a short outburst that reverberates from his throat, like a cackle but darker, and it sends a shiver down seunghyun’s spine. the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes. “of course he is. there’s no real backing out of a situation with me, once they get involved. i’m like cancer; i’m never really gone and there’s always a chance for a relapse.”

“that’s just stupid.”

“for them, yeah,” he looks back at the campsite, still grinning. “but then, i never really force myself on people, they end up liking it well enough on their own.” something simmers in jongin’s pupils as he drags on his cigarette. “i mean, just ask your friend jiyong.”

for the second time in the last ten minutes, all of seunghyun’s blood runs cold, the world turns a sickening grey. there’s an implication there in the way he says jiyong’s name, more than just a secret between them, more than just a past life in high school. something’s happened. what? what?! WHAT?! “wha….. what are you….”

“oh he didn’t tell you about our little ‘ride’ in his lamborghini?” jongin feigns a look of surprise. “i thought you two were best friends?”

seunghyun’s chest feels like it’s a thousand pounds and he can’t even wrap his brain around, not just the idea of the two of them together or that jiyong failed to mention this massive fuck-up, but that he got involved with jongin after knowing the relationship between him and his brother? why... why the fuck doesn’t jiyong ever care about staying away people who genuinely hate seunghyun? at least showing some measure of wariness, of caution, or even a moment’s hesitation? suddenly seunghyun is on fire, and he finds enough rage to bring him a step closer to the shorter male. “what the fuck have you—“

“speaking of fuck, he’s pretty good, but i’ve got to wonder if his parents know how nasty and gay he is. or his newest, pretty girlfriend. bora is quite a nice piece, huh? didn’t you like her at some point?” jongin drags on his cigarette once again, completely unaffected by seunghyun’s anger. “don’t worry, hyungie, you’re not the only one hurting over her choosing mr. enigma-- seems she’s got quite a few wet dicks up her ass.”

“i’m not hurting!” seunghyun’s voice raises, his frustration boiling over, his heart hammering against his chest. “you stay the hell away from them, you leave jiyong and bora alone! and all of them! you’re goddamn curse, jongin! they’re not your toys—not jiyong, not sehun, not even yoori!”

up until that last moment, jongin’s face was pretty placid and more or less just amused, but then the name yoori falls out of seunghyun’s lips ( an accident really, simply because he’d met yoori and been contacted by her recently to help her out with her finances, and her situation had been on his mind ), and something deep and dark and cold shifts inside jongin. his whole demeanor changes, like a sudden eclipse, all the amusement vanishes as his countenance sharpens.

jongin isn’t called the devil simply because he is fiery and prone to anger. there is something deeper inside him, something inhuman, an unfeeling, black mass, a hole where his heart should be.

“you don’t know anything about yoori.” his voice is calm but the words sound like they’re being spat out by a void.

“i know she doesn’t want to be with you. she’s doesn’t love you.”

“love is irrelevant. is that what you think i’m talking about? something that pathetic?” jongin tilts his head and seunghyun gets another glimpse of that pure, inhuman remorselessness inside him. “i don’t give a shit who loves me or not. love me or hate me, doesn’t matter, she still belongs to me. she always will.” he closes the distance between them tighter, coming up to closer to seunghyun’s frown, not even bothering to match it, as though his frustration is simply irrelevant. “just like sehun. you think he loves you? loves you, while he’s sucking cock in dark alleyways and going on dates with strangers? at the end of the day, i have what he wants. not you. i’m not lying to you, the truth is always worse, so trust me when i say; he’ll always be more mine than yours.”

“why do you even care so much?”

“because that’s what sharks do. they rip their victims to shreds.”

seunghyun doesn’t say anything to that, can’t force words past his lips because he knows he’s a bad liar and anything else he can think to respond with would only be futile and unnecessary. plus there’s too many thoughts in his head, too much white-noise, too much overload of information he would rather have died than find out about. he’s not wrong; there is something inside seunghyun that feels torn up now, attacked for no reason. but he meets the devil’s eye, stands his ground and doesn’t flinch or loosen his clenched fist, even as jongin steps away from him, passing him and heading back into the woods.

“you know the thing about whales, jongin?” seunghyun asks, motionless as one of the trees, not even bothering to look at the other. he can hear as his half-brother’s footfalls stop, although he’s sure he’s too proud to turn and look back at him also. “you can ask any marine biologist on the planet and they’ll tell you… great white sharks are deadly, but they’re actually no match for killer whales.”

he can feel more than hear jongin’s grin and the light laughter as he resumes walking away.

[becomingstrong1289]

5/17/17

Ive been sad lately. I’ve been sad for a long time. Years i think. Maybe decades at this point. Life is so hard. This bipolar thing is really starting to make sense. Its like I’m so depressed and then i get an energy about me and i want to do everything all at once and then i get too overwhelmed and irritated and go right back down to depressed. Is it normal to feel like this. It surely is affecting my life. My job is on its last leg, my relationship with Shawn is all over the place, i lose it with the kids and dont have enough energy to be what they need. But this is who ive always been. In highschool i was a depressed mess. Growing up the way i did really didn’t give me a good baseline. is that possible to not have a healthy baseline. 

Work: My plan has been for awhile, go to coding and find a job in that. Annie said it started at $17/hr. Eventually figure out how to go home to work. Once Owen is in school go back for nursing at Saint Anthony’s for my bachelors. It seems so easy. Cardiology is just a cluster fuck with a lot a lot of attitude. I hope this new girl comes in and makes it back to the way it was. I was thinking about attempting to take over putting on holters. Maybe that will get the nurses off my back. Its just unfair to me that i spend so much time on something that isnt necessary and then on a whim get asked to do something for someone else when no one is willing to help me. They only room pts if it is absolutely necessary. I guess nursing is all in the computer now. They cant even look away for a moment. i know there are better ways to deal with things. Today i wanted to figure out how i was going to take a lunch break. That meant asking Tana for help. But she had a meeting at noon and wouldnt be back until 3. So i thought i was fucked. She said i could go at 11, i was so negative and pessimistic i didnt see any other option. I feel like ive been sick for 3 weeks and its bringing me down. I got strep, the antibiotics affected me very negatively, and then i thought i was pregnant for like 2 weeks. One test even came out slightlly positive. Then i finally get my period and it is awful. The pain today was almost enough to make me go home. My body is throwing me for a loop. Im scared to take this stupid medicine for my thyroid, i feel sick, i have a fever constantly, my head is crazy, i have depression and anxiety, this divorce is killing me, i dont want it, i never did but its just happening anyway. i got the paper work. josh is starting to become a stranger to me. its just the weirdest feeling i hate being a single mom of two kids. im so tired and stretched thin. i put all my effort into things like cooking healthy and making sure they bath and brush their teeth twice a day correctly and doing natalies hair nicely and keeping my house clean for us. i see other people who dont do these things. Jodie said i should be more proud of myself for what i do. its hard to be proud and exhausted. is it worth the effort. are there things my energy could be put forth. is health and hygiene and cleanliness so important. Im so down, its getting harder and harder to see the joy in things. im so scare of getting on antidepressants. i dont want to be a zombie. i dont want the sexual dysfunction that comes along with that. I guess i just need to get through work and do everything i can. if someone asks me to do something, just do it. if i get behind on charts, just work until i get it done. if i have to not take a lunch break to get it done, then thats how it will be. a new coworker and a new boss might help the situation. who knows. im scared of the future i have there. i know i had it cushy with jeanette. i dont see it being like that with Laura. Bosses named laura are always “fun”.... just work hard. get yourself out of this rut. stop talking about outside life too. just focus on work. stop with your phone. i deleted fb off my phone. i need a break from that. dont let them see me on my phone. be perfect so theres nothing they can say. fake it til you make it i guess. 

Kids: Owen is thriving i think. Hes a good little boy, eats well, understands and communicated well, funny and loving. Natalie is a ball of anxiety. i want so much to get into her head. my goal was to always have an open relationship with my kids that they would be able to tell me anything. that is definitely not the way it is. She doesn’t tell me anything. Its all a secret and then i get made because its a secret. Today she had an accident and tried to hide it from me. she trashed my bathroom. Im not sure why my 6 year old is having accidents. thats scary in its own right. i am perpetually scare my kids could get molested or something without me ever knowing about it. anyway, i got mad when i went into the bathroom and saw what she had done. there was shit everywhere. just everywhere. Later when things were calmed and she did her punishment i asked her why she has been getting in trouble at school. she opened up when i asked if she needed more attention. she actually got emotional about it. she doesn’t think her teacher spends enough time with her, she doesn’t get enough play time, and the recess people are mean to her. She genuinely teared up over it. i asked her what she needed from me. she wants me to play more games with her. i bought a deck of cards a few days ago, i was going to teach her how to play some games. its so hard to fit all of it into a night. i get home at 530. i have to make dinner by 630. its been nice so weve been spending a little time outside. soon ill have my garden i would like to stop there a few times a week before we go home. anyway. 645 is bath time. They stay in there for about 30 mins 715. then its time to relax. I guess this is a good time to read books. Im so freaking tired by this point. but 715 to 730 would be good for books. and 730 to 8 would be good for games with natalie. sometimes they have been going to bed later. for 730-45 for books and 745=815 for games. by 83o everyone is in bed. i guess ill see how that goes tomorrow. i want the one on one time with natalie and owen. i enjoy it so much. i love friday afternoons with owen. its amazing to have him all to myself. and then when me and natalie are alone its really nice too. we need more of it. i dont know how to be someone she can come to honestly and authorative. i want a relationship that she knows the rules but stays open about if she broke them and takes responsibility for it. I have no idea what any of that looks like in real life. Maybe that kind of thing only exists in movies and adulthood. im her mom, not her friend, i know that but i need her to feel comfortable talking to me and she isnt. The mental health group class i went to talked about “has anyone taught you how to deal with being sad”. No one taught me. it was looked down upon if i was sad or emotional. it annoyed my mom and she made me go away. i remember when my aunt died. i was fine until i saw her daughter and realized she didnt have a mom anymore and i wanted to cry but i had to excuse myself because i was taught inadvertently that is how you deal with sad. i didnt even feel comfortable crying at a funeral. thats sad. and even now, my sadness is isolation, crying alone and hiding everything. and how guilty i feel, just this weekend natalie got sad that we were going to pull out her tooth with plyers, we said it as a joke, and she started crying. i asked her why she was crying but she just clammed up. i was so frustrated i sent her to her room. im my mind i thought it would be a way for her to cool off but now i think if i would have just given her a hug and reassured her we were just kidding she may have opened up to me. im going to put more effort into her. 45 mins per night will be directly spent with them and only them. Im not going to take it away if they were bad. we need time together whether they misbehaved or not. i need to research better discipline methods. besides beating children i was never taught how to properly discipline a kid. time out was good before but natalie is too old for that now. i know things like cleaning and going to bed shouldnt be a punishment because then cleaning and going to bed normally will always be a punishment. i take away her snack but that makes me scared she’ll see food as a reward also. just how the fuck do i discipline a kid that doesn’t affect the rest of her life. one guy i knew made his kid run when she was bad. well i bet exercise will be a punishment when she gets old and shell die of heart disease from being sedentary her whole life. im going to bed. i hope getting some of this out of my head makes for a better tomorrow.