#i suppose it was drawn on my phone after all so the resolution is probably worse than normal

[texasflowers]

@royasuka said nothing more than "slugma" but I still took it as a request

[bluegarners]

By popular demand, I have written a Part 2 for mainstay for @viceturtle. Thank you so much @newsical for being an immense help with this!!

Part 1.

This chapter was inspired by this conversation between @bigskydreaming and @fuyunoakegata

ao3

There’s a lot to be said about his stubbornness. 

He thinks everyone has at least some degree of it within themselves. A refusal to move or consent to something. Sure, some don’t hesitate long. They give. They bend. They break. But the stubbornness is in that hesitation. That moment of ‘Am I really doing this? Should I be doing this? Why in the world should I do this?’. It’s about the pause, is what he’s trying to get at, that makes stubbornness so inherent to each individual. 

It breathes in the form of grudges. Arguments. Games of she-said-he-said-they-said. Right or wrong. I told you so’s and I’m not sorry’s. 

Jason does all of those things like it's second nature. He’s not going to pretend like he’s some saint who can understand the other side and reason with them. If he thinks he’s right, it’s not a matter of if the other person is actually right or wrong. He knows he’s right, so it doesn’t matter in the end. He knows what he knows, and if he doesn’t— whatever. Immovable object and all that.

So, yeah. There’s a lot to be said about his stubbornness. 

He calls Red Robin anyway.

“He’s gone.”

“Sorry, what? I need context for this. There’s a lot of people this could apply to—”

“Dick. Dick is gone.”

“Oh. Like, just now he left?”

“I don’t know. Some guy came and took him.”

“As much as I love vague conversations, this isn’t helping me and I don’t understand why you’re calling in the first place.”

“Dick is fucking. Gone. What do you not understand about that.”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Jason. What, is he not supposed to be gone? He said he was going to leave again. He already said ‘hi’ to Damian, so I don’t see why he would stick around any longer.”

“Hm.”

“Fuck me, didn’t you know? This was all just- just some visit for him. Sure, he’ll be back eventually, but fuck knows if he’s actually—”

He hangs up. Pockets his phone. Listens as the rain continues to drench the world outside of his little apartment. His shoulders hurt. There’s a bruise on his chest. Right between his fifth and sixth ribs. He has a split lip. He put ointment on it earlier but it still stings. His knees ache. He has a distant memory of his mother complaining about her knees too. Something about the weather making them act up.

He’s twenty-three.

He’s getting old.

On the table next to him is a box of cigarettes. Low-tar. Filtered. In his right pocket, there’s a lighter he got from someone years ago. He doesn’t know. Maybe he stole it. Found it. 

He pulls it out. Shakes a cigarette out of the thin box. Holds the paper wrapped nicotine between his lips, lifting the lighter and thumbing the flink strike. 

Click. 

He shakes the lighter. Tries again.

Click.

Gotham hasn’t had this much rain in a long time. It’s nearing October. Maybe it’s in season or whatever weather does. He doesn’t know the term.

Click.

It’s raining outside. Jason can see it. There’s raindrops on his window. He can hear it clattering against the fire-escape. Gray and black and mixes of yellow from street lamps below. Jason is inside on the comfort of his couch. Sure, it’s not the best apartment, but it doesn’t leak. The ceiling is fine and he hasn’t had any problems with it before. His face is wet though. He doesn’t know why.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The cigarette falls from his lips and lands with a thud on the stained carpet. The T.V is on. Says the storm over Gotham will last for the next few days. An unprecedented seven inches of rain predicted. The GCPD is advising everyone to stay indoors. Crime is expected to rise with the water levels.

Click.

His clothes are still soaked. He’s probably ruining his couch. He can’t remember if he took his boots off or not. 

Click.

Jason sighs. His chest feels heavy, like someone is sitting on top of him. It’s just him though. Only him in his apartment. He likes having his own space. The neighbors get loud sometimes, but it’s not as if he’s a five star resident either. It’s always been like this. He is…. Alone.

Click.

Dick was gone. Came back. And now, Dick is gone again. Did he do that? Did he drive him away? Is this his fault? Jason doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t know if he doesn’t care at all, but at least the rain is nice to listen to. Yeah. The rain is really nice. Consistent. Steady.

Click.

He didn’t take off his boots.

 ~oOo~

One month is all it takes. 

One month and Nightwing is out spotted in Bludhaven, his photo splashed across every news outlet from Gotham to Metropolis. New Jersey missed its boy in blue and cheers at his return.

Nightwing stays in Bludhaven though. Red Hood stays in Gotham. Just as it used to be. Back to normal. Yeah.

The rain stopped a week ago.

Jason misses the noise.

 ~oOo~

“Won’t you come?”

“No.”

“Please, Master Jason? We would love to have you here. It has been too long.”

“I can’t.”

“I thought you loved turkey. There’ll be plenty of leftovers and I know you’ve been meaning to return the tupperware from last time. It’ll be good for you to leave that apartment of yours.”

“I have better things to do than play nice and talk politics in Brucie Wayne’s mansion. I’m not coming.”

“I know you have your own quarrels with Master Dick, but—”

“It’s not about him. I don’t give a fuck about what he’s doing or what stick Bruce has up his ass this time. I am not walking into the line of fire just to save everyone else an evening of beating around the bush. I. Am. Not. Going.”

“. . . Then won’t you at least visit? I miss you. I worry about you.”

“I’m sorry, Alfred.”

“I am too, my boy.”

  Click.

 Jason spends Thanksgiving out in the Narrows. He’s not rich, doesn’t want to be, but he has money. Plenty he doesn’t need to spend on himself. He goes grocery shopping. Fills two, three carts worth of canned food and rotisserie chickens. Goes home, carries the bags in all at once. Organizes them. 

Single. Partners. Family.

He leaves his apartment. He is not Jason Todd. He is not Red Hood. He’s just some guy out in the Narrows. 

He hands out the bags. Has the decency to look the people in the eyes, knowing he was that street kid once. Seeing his mother in each dirty, beaten face he comes across. Pitying the drunken men and the addicts. They accept his offerings. It would be stupid not to. No one says thank you. He doesn’t need them to.

He goes home. His arms are sore. The bruises have completely faded.

The apartment is empty.

  Click

 Sometimes, there are days where he doesn’t know why. 

That’s a big concept: why? 

He thinks it carries too much weight. Maybe if he had survived past tenth grade, he could’ve signed up for a philosophy or debate class, maybe shed some light on that particular question, but he didn’t. Survive. So, he only has his own mind to ponder the concept. He’s read a couple books. Never fully understood the words he read though. He would’ve liked to, but he didn’t. Understand. 

But it’s up to interpretation right? So, here’s where he’s at.

Jason doesn’t understand or know why sometimes, and it becomes a problem.

He doesn’t understand why he got such a bad hand for parents. Why Bruce didn’t grieve like Jason wanted him to (so desperately yearned for, screamed for, died for). Why someone thought it was a good idea for him to live out a second-still-the-same life. Why he came back so different. (Was he? Different? He doesn’t think he came back wrong but he doesn’t know a lot. Well, he does. But, if he came back wrong then that means he wasn’t right to begin with and he’s always right and if he’s wrong then—). 

He doesn’t know why he punched Dick. He didn’t want to. Not really. But he did. Want to. Badly so. Wanted proof, wanted penance, wanted forgiveness, wanted retribution, wanted that sting that comes with reality and the regret of a little something called mortality. Horse drawn carriage alongside Death, patting the seat next to it. 

Okay, he knows why .

He doesn’t understand why, though.

Jason doesn’t understand why he gets so angry sometimes. It doesn’t feel good, doesn’t feel right, like he’s supposed to be feeling something else but he’s just flipped upside down so there’s no point in trying to right himself. He’s always right anyway. Yeah. Yeah.

He doesn’t understand why he says things, why he opens his mouth at all when he regrets them so quickly after. He yells a lot. Raises his voice and spits mean words and cusses worse than anyone else he knows and regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. But he doesn’t learn. Doesn’t rethink it, doesn’t look back and remember the lesson he taught himself. You can’t be taught if you’re always right anyway, so what’s the point? Why regret it when he’s just going to do it again? 

That’s a big word: why.

There are answers attached to the word. Reasons for the question being asked. Explanations and solutions and resolutions.

Jason is good at solving problems, is quick to work around it and get the job done. And a question is just a problem being asked, right? It’s verbal, that’s the only difference, so if he’s such a good problem solver, if he’s such a goddamn good thinker and understands things like philosophy and literature and great big concepts and words—

Why did he do that? Why did he say those things? Why can’t he make up his fucking mind? Why is he the way he is? Why does he just push and shove and drive away everyone and everything? Why did he come back different? Why did he come back wrong? Why didn’t Bruce love him enough to end things? Why was he worth a second chance when he screws up and regrets so much? Why do people still fucking try with him? Why can’t he get one goddamn thing right? Why is he always—

Click.

“Why didn’t you come to dinner?”

Click.

Red Hood is in Gotham. Nightwing is too. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The air is cold and there’s ice in the wind. It’s a clear night. A quiet frost coats the rooftop and Jason can hear his brother’s footsteps.

“We missed you, you know. Here, Agent A wanted me to give you these.”

Jason turns. Dick is holding out a duffle-cooler. He stands six feet away.

“They’re just leftovers. Turkey, sweet potatoes, casserole, pie; the fixings.”

Jason doesn’t move. Neither does Dick. To anyone else, it would look like a stand-off between Nightwing and Red Hood, neutral ground tensions. They both know it’s not.

It is cold and there is ice in the wind and the rainy season is long past. When they breathe, it erupts out of them in the form of white vapor and Jason can only think of the fact that it looks like smoke. His lighter still doesn’t work. It sits in his right pocket. He wants to take it out. Hear the click. 

“There’s some beer too,” Dick adds softly, voice carried away and twisted in the sharp air. “I have a bottle opener.”

Nightwing walks a few paces away to sit against an A/C unit, shielding himself from the wind. He sets the cooler down beside him, unzipping the duffle and pulling out two bottles of a brand Jason doesn’t recognize, and pats the space next to him. Horse drawn carriage. 

Why is a big concept. A big word. Maybe one of the bigger questions in the repertoire. 

He doesn’t know nor understand why he takes the offered seat. He just does. It feels right to do so. Jason takes the offered bottle too and opens it himself. Hands back the blade. Takes a sip.

It’s cold. It warms him. 

He doesn’t understand:

“Why?”

Dick swirls the alcohol around, bubbles rising to the surface. “Why, what?” 

There’s a lot of things Jason could say. Could ask. He’s had two months to think about a question that would fit the answer he’s trying so hard to get; one that would satisfy the cavern that just keeps getting wider and wider, this empty presence that digs deeper inside him. He likes to think it would be a really intelligent question, one that would stump his all knowing brother; the one with all the answers in the world and a smile to accompany it. Dick had been on this pedestal for as long as Jason can remember. Had been placed so high above himself, even now, it’s impossible for him to reach, fingers a thousand miles away from ever grazing the top.

A lot of people would tell him he’s done this to himself. That the things he decides to do, his actions, what he says to other people and what they do as a consequence; all a product of his own creation. Even the cavern inside of him, filled with stalagmites and cobwebs and so many empty boxes, perhaps he did that to himself. He— He did that. To himself. 

But Jason doesn’t like being wrong. Doesn’t like the fear that invades every nerve in his body when faced with the possibility of being so far off from the mark that it comes back and strikes him in the face. He’s paid the price for being wrong, has the scars and the memories and the stories to prove it, but he’s also been right, over and over again, and it feels so good to be right.

It felt good to punch his brother.

It felt good to have a reason to do so. 

The anger, the fear, the possessive guilt that clung to him in those months where Dick was dead and he was at the wheel, knowing he was going to crash and burn eventually and probably take everyone with him. He played the long game and knew the end result. Jason had fooled himself with the thought of taking Dick’s place, thinking he could climb up that enormous pedestal he had placed there himself all those years ago. Torn down and resurrected today.

He doesn’t have a question though. Not a singular, all encompassing question that would piece together every missing hole inside of him and fill the void. His mother used to tell him he talked too much, that a big mouth like his would one day get him into trouble. She also told him that he was smart and curious and kind and so much more than anything she would ever be able to give him. Jason doesn’t understand why she said so many contrary things.  Wishes he could ask her, have the opportunity to finally get the answers he wanted from her when he left everything behind just for a chance to do so. He can’t though. She died. He died too.

Dick didn’t.

“Why did you leave?” 

His brother stops swirling the contents of his bottle, choosing instead to release a heavy sigh that travels into the air in a thick cloud of tired gray and remorse. “I wasn’t in a good place at the time. Leaving felt like the only good thing left I could do. Batman gave me the mission and I… I took it.”

“What part of letting us all think you were dead was ‘good’? How does that translate to ‘good’ in your world?”

“I wasn’t a part of that decision,” Dick says pointedly, setting down his beer and thunking his head back to rest against the unit. “I was still comatose by the time Batman had broken the news to everyone else. I told you, Hood, I had no choice. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it was all that made sense to do.”

He pauses, a hand coming up to scrub at the sides of his face. “Robin had just… died. Protecting me. I got captured by people with faces I’ve known my entire life and couldn’t escape them. I let myself get hooked up to that- that machine and exposed my identity to the entire world. Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to you all, had I stayed? Everyone knew who Nightwing was under the mask. It would’ve— People would have figured the rest out soon enough. When Batman offered me the opportunity to at least make something right, I took it.”

Something unsettles inside Jason’s chest. Leaking, fracturing. It feels wrong. He feels- “So, what? You left because you felt bad ? Gallivanted off as soon as the opportunity was presented? Oh, I’m sure you’d love to do that again. Hey, Nightwing, tell me, are you feeling bad right now? Would you like a one-way ticket to Spain? I bet that’d make you feel much better.”

Dick frowns, head swiveling to look at Jason. “If that’s how you’d like to picture it, then fine. Yeah, I felt bad about exposing my entire family’s identities. I felt bad about letting down Batman and getting myself taken. I felt bad about dying and not being—”

“Quit fucking saying you died! You didn’t. You put on a good show, I’ll give you that, but having a model that looks just like you being buried in the ground doesn’t qualify as you dying. Get the fuck over yourself.”

A sharp crack meets his words and Jason snaps his head over to see Dick’s bottle broken against the ground, the older man having knocked it over with his hand.

Nightwing’s white lenses are staring at him and Red Hood meets his gaze unflinchingly, if only for the reason that he can’t see his brother’s eyes. There was something to be said about clear eyes in a city full of smog and endless voids, and Jason has looked enough people in the eye to know when to blink and walk away. The dark does not have a gaze to collapse within and yet there is empty white surrounding them.

“Come with me.” 

Why is too big of a word.

 Jason follows anyway.

He’s at the end of his rope in asking questions he knows no one will be able to answer. Knows that the answer he wants is not one anyone is willing to give, or even can give. See, Jason knows why. Has an understanding with the concept in a personal way unlike anyone else will ever have. He knows, understands, gets exactly what the question demands with all of its little fallacies and conundrums and ever so many follow ups. If he could, Jason would shake hands with it, an agreement to never speak a word of its existence ever again. But, how could he ponder the question when he himself cannot bear to fathom his own existence?

Nightwing is already scaling down a fire-escape, duffle-cooler slung over his shoulder, and Jason watches his head disappear below the roof line. He stands up, feet numb and hands feeling bitten, and side glances the broken bottle and the one he’s leaving behind. Even with the bleak, gray weather, the glass twinkles and shimmers in the ice, and, just faintly, Jason can smell the alcohol in the wind. Gotham is a city filled with muck, grease, scum, and litter. There is no difference in adding their own to the ever increasing pile, and yet Jason cannot help amend himself with the thought that at least their trash is beautiful in the cold.

He walks over to the edge of the roof, peering down to where he can see Nightwing traveling up a different, rusted ladder, ready to seek a new vantage point for wherever it is he’s decided to lead Jason. He doesn’t have his helmet on tonight, just a plain domino to hide his face, and the frost cuts against his nose and lips. A shiver runs through his body and Jason slides down into the alleyway below, keeping his brother in eye-sight. Nightwing launches a grapple, clinging to another building about 200 meters away, and Red Hood follows suit, the chill buffering inside of his jacket.

They arrive at one of those motel looking buildings, the outward appearance completely abandoned. Bruce had built this many years ago, one of the first of several safe-houses, and for all intents and purposes, it served to only attract the kinds of people that knew how to keep their mouths shut. The “general office” is where Dick walks into, a separate facility from the boarding rooms. He waits for Jason to enter, having taken a back door of four inches of solid steel, and locks it behind them once the younger has entered as well.

Dick throws the duffle onto one of the chairs inside the room, and rolls his shoulders in a circular motion, a long sigh escaping him. Somewhere, Jason can hear the heater kicking on.

He thumbs his lighter.

Click.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing, waiting by the door for Dick to make the first move. His brother says nothing though, continuing to move his joints around and rub his hands furiously together. He doesn’t even glance at Jason as he leaves the main room, entering another side door and into, what Jason assumes is, a bathroom. Left alone, Jason keeps his boots on and sits down.

Click.

He waits. Peels off his mask and winces at the pull on his skin. Rubs at his eyes and forehead. Sighs.

Click. Click.

He stares at the domino in his lap, regretting having taken it off. Dick could look him in the eye now. He didn’t— He doesn’t like that. You only look people in the eye when you want to convey something, be it emotion, honesty, or purely how much you don’t give a shit. Jason doesn’t know what it meant when he looked at all those people in the Narrows a few days ago. Doesn’t know what it meant when they looked at him. Who was he, then? He was no one. No one. 

Click.

The bathroom door opens and Dick steps out wearing a thick tank top and a long pair of joggers. Just beyond the cracked doorway, Jason can see his Nightwing suit hung up against a rack. The remnants of irritated skin also pepper his brother’s face, red and splotchy. 

Dick looks up and meets his gaze.

Click.

“This the part where you try to argue yourself right?”

His older brother frowns. “No, it’s not.”

Jason looks away.

Click. Click. Click.

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“Just some old lighter. It doesn’t work.”

“Ah.”

The stiff silence reverberates between them. Normally, when conversation isn’t invited, Dick would go off somewhere and find something to do; something in his head urging him to seek out an offering. It was a tactic the older man used often, something to hold or something else to focus your attention on making an otherwise shaky atmosphere comfortable. When he was still Robin, it was a ploy Jason found himself enjoying sometimes, where Nightwing would meet him on some pre-designated roof carrying hot chocolate or donuts and Jason would gripe to the older man about Bruce’s latest restriction or Batman’s newest growl. Their conversations would last well into the night and it was their secret they kept together, a fall-back to go to when things were too uncertain or days were too long.

Those memories were nice. Fond, even. 

Dick does not have an offering this time.

“Did you believe I was dead?”

Jason sucks in a breath, fingers stilling against his lighter. “Yes.” Pause. “I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Jason fires back. “It was on live television for Christ’s sake, Dick! Half the world watched you die.”

“It’s not as if doctored film has never been done before, even if it was live. At some point, it cut off too. I’ve watched the video myself. My death wasn’t shown on screen.”

“There was audio. I could hear your heart stopping on the machine.”

“There was a lot of fighting going on. It was chaos.”

“Fine, I didn’t see you die and the video was shit. But Bruce told us you were dead. Batman told us you had died.”

“And Batman doesn’t lie.”

“Fuck you.”

Dick sighs, leaning back against one of the walls. “Look, I’m not trying to pick another fight with you. I don’t want to.”

“Then what. Do. You. Want,” Jason grounds out, rising from his chair. “I’m sick of this. I am so sick of not knowing what the fuck is going on with you and Bruce, with all of your little secrets and fake-deaths and—”

“It wasn’t fake,” Dick interrupts, standing his ground. “It may not have been for long, but my heart did stop. I died in that machine, Jason, and I’m upset you guys accepted that.”

“Well, what the fuck else were we supposed to do?” Jason erupts, flinging his arms wide. “Fucking poke at your body until you were alive again? Wait next to your corpse in the morgue with your suit on hand, just in case you decided to wake up?”

“You could’ve at least doubted, ” Dick hisses. Jason can hear the heater still humming. The room is cold though. Bitter. “At the very least, you guys could’ve looked into it. Bruce isn’t the perfect, untouchable beast we’ve made him into. He left a trail. A trail that would have led right to the fake body he created while I was comatose. A trail that would have shown the Batmobile needing repairs it shouldn’t have needed. A trail that would have shown the documents he forged to get me into Spyral. There were so many things, Jason! So many goddamn things that would have shown you guys I wasn’t dead!”

“If you wanted to be found so badly, why didn’t you tell us?” Jason snarls, that leaking fracture in his chest pooling into his lungs. “Why didn’t you say a single word if you were so desperate for someone to notice?”

“I already told you,” Dick says quietly. “I needed to make things right. Bruce offered a way to do it and I needed that; the space, away from everything, everyone, in my life that I knew I had failed. I don’t regret it, and I am sorry it caused so much pain, but—”

Click.

“—was it really so wrong to want someone to save me?”

The leak implodes and Jason stops breathing.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“I know it sounds ridiculous. I should be able to handle these things, but I— there was this moment where I convinced myself that none of what was happening was real and that it was all some nightmare I was watching.”

The blows had stung and burned in the way only rusted metal against bone and flesh could. His left eye was bleeding and his nose had been broken long ago. After the thirtieth strike, Jason had somehow convinced himself it wasn’t real. That he wasn’t there, in that old warehouse, and that he wasn’t some child-soldier-hero being beaten to death by a maniac who laughed and giggled at his pain. 

“When I woke up, I really believed that. I-I was so convinced and then Bruce showed up and gave me this mission and, god, Jason, how could I have ever said no? I had failed. Bruce told me I failed. ”

He remembers that sadistic clock in the corner. Silent up until the last ten seconds. It had its own little tick, a click, and it was the stupidest looking bomb Jason had ever seen, bright red and just any old alarm clock with a few extra wires. A nightmare. All just a nightmare and Jason had begged the universe for him to wake up. For someone, anyone, to save him. For Batman to come swooping in and rescue him from his stupid fucking mistakes but—

Click.

Dick breathes out, a shuttering exhale that rocks him to his core. “Spyral, the mission, everything after… It was my penance, I think. Bruce’s way of forgiving me for failing. There was just no other way, Jason. It was all I had left. I guess I had just hoped someone was still in my corner, even after fucking it all up, you know?”

He does. Jason does know with a clarity that haunts him every morning he wakes up and finds the events unchanged. There are cobwebs and old boxes inside his cavern, the place where his soul used to be, but he knows. He knows he came back wrong. That he came back different. That something inside of him was missing when he opened his eyes to mystic green and an emptiness that plagued him until he came back to Gotham; rage, fear, and a deep sadness taking up that empty space inside of him. He doesn’t know how many times he’s asked himself ‘why?’ only to ignore the answer given to him. Too many. 

And maybe Dick has asked that same question as well. Maybe he has his own cavern deep inside of him, filled with his own fragmented cobwebs and starved crates, ghosts that continue to follow his every step, and whispers that forever ring in his ears. Perhaps the dead carry memories and questions wherever they go, and perhaps that is their sole purpose. They only stay to recount and wish and want and only breach the word “if” and “maybe”. 

But they are alive now. They live. They breathe. 

Jason thought death connected himself to his elder brother, but perhaps it was the voids inside of them both that bound them together. The desperation that clung to their beings, seeking approval, seeking retribution, seeking out anything that’ll make them feel whole once more after having been stripped bare and left in the throes of Death's carriage. This was the tie that bound them together. It wasn’t Bruce. It wasn’t Robin. It wasn’t death.

It was simply the missing pieces inside of them. Brothers not by blood, but by the very nature of their search for meaning. And that was all.

“Yeah,” Jason says, the molten gravity of this answer leaving him boneless. “Okay.”

Dick stares at him with the same clear eyes he’s looked at his younger brother with since day one. Something passes behind those eyes, a shift in the monumental focus that is Dick Grayson’s ever present gaze, and the heater continues to thrum in the background, just as ubiquitous as Gotham always was and always will be for them. There was a fundamental alteration inside them both, something taken from them that can’t be replaced, and Jason feels as though he is not alone anymore. There is another presence, another existence, in his life full of betrayal that shares the same scars and the same emptiness that has captured him since the day Bruce stopped hoping for him.

“Okay?” Dick repeats quietly, and Jason can hear the echo inside his chest. “Is that all?” 

“No,” Jason murmurs, easing back into the chair he had left. “No, it’s not. But I… I can’t do more of this right now. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t either,” Dick sighs, the exhaustion from his own ordeals weighing down his shoulders and causing him to slide down the wall. “It’s— I never wanted to, Jason. You know that, right?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I guess- We deal with it, right?”

Jason wants to laugh. Maybe give a little less weight on his back to the warm air around them, but it sounds like a lot to do. He exhales instead, something maybe interpretable as a tired grin lifting his mouth. “Another time, then?”

Perhaps that is a statement that can’t be guaranteed nor promised. Time is scarce in their world, more so than anyone else's, but it is a scarcity they are well accustomed to. Death had departed in Its carriage, the seat left warm by their presence, but for now, they had left and that was all that really mattered. Why they left, why they need time they don’t have, why the caverns inside of them exist. All questions that have been answered before. Maybe when the sky isn’t gray, or when the rain isn’t pounding against fractured ceilings, they can begin to make amends and go from there. But the safe-house is warm.

It is warm.

“Another time.”

[miraculousmarifan]

Felinette Month 2020 - Day 19: Fallen Angel

Happy @felinettenovember! Can you guys guess what prompts I spend more than one day writing? I almost decided to try drawing the akumatized Felix before remembering that I haven’t drawn in nearly 10 years (maybe I would be better off painting it?) and wasn’t really good at people before that point... So I did this instead!

Almost 1900 words and if requested, this could have a continuation for some resolution later this year or early next year and/or potentially a piece of art to try showing Felix as an akuma and/or the object that inspired his form

Felix was close to flipping tables. Marinette had to be an angel from above with how she was handling being bullied by this Lila girl. How was it that even after the school was notified that Lila supposedly had a disease that made her compulsively lie but wasn’t antisocial personality disorder (?), the teacher refused to step in and help one of her star pupils? He shouldn’t be surprised. This was the same teacher that condoned Chloe’s defacing of Marinette’s present to count as them working together on it, even though Marinette had put actual effort into it. This was the same teacher that tried to convince Marinette to be a doormat, in the name of “setting a good example,” as though that has truly changed people that benefit from wronging others.

What he really couldn’t understand was how her friends weren’t more cautious about the liar. She had temporarily gotten Marinette expelled by claiming that she had not only cheated on a mock test, but also stolen the liar’s necklace, AND pushing the witch down the stairs. The class didn’t believe that it sounded like Marinette and YET after Marinette is returned due to the supposed uncontrollable lying diagnosis, they don’t question Lila's integrity? He couldn’t quite fathom why they wouldn’t take the things she said with a grain of salt after that very public and obvious set of lies, especially about Marinette.

And yet, here he was. Standing outside the classroom, waiting for a phone call from his driver, when he overhears the liar whispering to a few girls from the class. Marinette had been gone for an appointment the last period of school and apparently that wasn’t enough for Lila. He heard Alya exclaim, “That doesn’t really sound like Marinette…” and then a sad reply along the lines of how she knew Marinette was friends with all them but she couldn’t believe Marinette said that to her and just wanted to understand why by asking their closest friends. So on so on. Even with her verbalized doubt, it was clear from the tone she used that Alya believed it possible that Marinette had something to Lila, even if it wasn’t as severe as the liar had made it out to be. Felix didn’t need to be any closer to smell the fake crap Lila was spreading. He was sure it would have smelled over a mile away.

Rose exclaimed how she couldn’t believe how much Marinette was starting to act like Chloe and how they really needed to shake Marinette out of this. Alya volunteered to talk to her about it and encouraged them not to do anything crazy before then. It was the first time Felix felt a decent amount of respect towards Alya. Apparently she is starting to learn not to jump immediately to conclusions when it comes to Lila and Marinette. Unfortunately their other friends hadn’t gotten that much insight from the previous incidents and believed that Lila wouldn’t possibly exaggerate or make up anything and cause drama unnecessarily. Alya told the group that she had texted the girl and was going to head over to their place to hang out later that night.

Alya left, muttering how it sounded too extreme to be what Marinette had actually said. Felix had to give it to her, even if she had too much faith in the Italian, it was nice to see she wouldn’t fully discount her friend without any true evidence. Unfortunately with Alya’s departure, the voice of reason had left these girls and they were left with a snake. Felix decided to move slightly closer, just to keep an ear out for danger.

“I don’t think having a talk with her is really going to change Marinette’s mind. I mean she already knows about my health conditions and she’d rather discriminate against me than admit that I’m just trying to be friends. I reached out in good faith, painting her a picture, and she destroyed it and told me we could never be friends. It was just shockingly mean! She’s so nice to you guys so I thought this would help, especially since we like so much of the same stuff! I can’t help it if Adrien rejected her for me!”

Felix wanted to gag at that reasoning again. Marinette had worked to move on from Adrien long ago and especially hard when he had started dating Kagami over a year ago. She even started having tea and snacks with his girlfriend at least once a month, since Kagami didn’t get out much and Marinette didn’t want her to feel left out. As far as Felix knew, Marinette had long since given up on Adrien and was more focused on her personal projects than on boys, something her friends should have known by now.

“We know it’s not your fault and she should realize that too!” Rose tried to cheer up Lila.

“It’s so hard to imagine her destroying someone else’s art when she preaches about how people shouldn’t touch other’s work! Plus she has to know how much that sucks, after Chloe ruined her present for Ms. Bustier a few years ago…” Alix sounded angry enough to act impulsively and it didn’t sit well with Felix.

“To me, it just doesn’t seem like talking to her is going to be enough for her to really think about her actions, but you guys know her the best!” Lila managed to get a small amount of wavering into her voice, to convey hesitant worry and unsuccessfully attempted optimism through her small shrug. Felix may have thought that some of her lies should be relatively easy to dismiss but he had to admit that sometimes she could be a good actress.

“If we left her a message along with doing something, she wouldn’t ignore it right? Especially if she knows that if she ever does something like that again, we won’t stay friends with her…” Alix suggested. Felix felt his stomach sink. This was going bad but he couldn’t just walk in there right? He waited a moment longer to hear them start planning how they were going to ruin Marinette’s personal art project that she had been working on during her study hall, as it was sitting in a drying area of the art room. He had enough information to go talk to Damocles about what he had heard.

After hearing Felix’s concerns and hearing his stern insistence that this was actually at risk of happening, not just girl’s venting, Damocles accompanied him to the art room to check into the security of the projects inside. By the time the pair arrived though, they were too late. Nobody was in the room anymore, however Marinette’s project was beyond repair. 

She had sculpted a human-like angel with arms raised with peace and joy captured remarkably on its face, an orb in its hands being presented to the sky like a holy gift. The wings had been formed into individual feathers and Marinette had just put the first layer of paint on it that day. The base color of the wings was a lovely shade of light pink, her dress had the first layer of white, the skin left a gray tone, with a small amount of darker gray and lighter gray added to certain areas to imitate how light would fall if emitted from the orb. The orb had a strange tone of light blue-green for the base. He had been enthusiastically anticipating her final painting work since she had finished the sculpting step.

Now the angel was missing a wing, the orb that had barely rested on the carved palms was separated from the hands, and the arms were no longer connected. He picked up the body of the statue gently before looking up at Damocles sadly.

“It’s too bad we didn’t get here sooner. I guess we will just have to check the school’s cameras to figure out who did this.” Damocles took a step towards the stand that the statue had previously been set on, picked up the note left on it, and read it out loud.

“‘This is for ruining Lila’s painting. You should’ve accepted her peace offering rather than blaming her for Adrien’s rejection and if you keep acting like this, you won’t have any more friends here.’--” he cleared his throat in displeased surprise, “-- I will need to take this note as evidence in this. Also, we should probably take some pictures of the damages before getting this cleaned up.”

Felix helped set the pieces of the statue on the table next to each other before the principal took out his cell phone and snapped a quick picture of that and of the note. Before the man could leave, Felix volunteered to clean up the classroom as he was sure Marinette would still want the pieces. He was also sure that Damocles would actually proceed with this investigation due to his involvement and firmness regarding the need to supply a punishment. While the punishment would not be sufficient, there would at least be some record of this incident.

Before sweeping up the tiny pieces that he didn’t expect her to care about, he sat down in a chair and held the body of the statue. His fingers ran over the one remaining wing despite the paint smearing on his skin, feeling the texture his classmate had managed for the feathers. It was an amazing work that would be difficult to replicate, if Marinette even decided it was worth doing again. Part of him hoped she would redo the remarkable piece. He felt anger bubbling just below the surface of his sadness, anger that the girls that were supposedly her friends would do this. Anger that their school was not secure for her. Anger that he wasn’t able to protect her, even having heard the plans. Grief over being too slow to protect her. Crushing sadness that she couldn’t trust her classmates, her supposed friends, to even ask her about a situation before trusting another’s words about her. Someone that had very publicly lied to get her suspended just the last school year. He was so busy with his thoughts and the statue that he missed the purple butterfly coming towards him until it settled into the statue.

“Hello Ange Déchu. I am Hawk Moth. The people around you pass judgement on the innocent and work on behalf of the wicked. It must be frustrating to watch them work to break the people you care about. I will give you the power to understand people’s intentions and apply your chosen consequences on them so you can protect the ones you love. In exchange you would give me Ladybug and Chat Noir’s miraculous.”

In this akumatized form, he could not only protect Marinette but also help her get revenge on the manipulative witch. She would be his queen, his direction, and she would be able to decide how she wanted to apply justice.

“Yes Hawk Moth. I will deal out Marinette���s justice and get the miraculous for you.” The akumatized Felix, called Fallen Angel, unfurled his black wings and pushed off the ground to fly to Marinette’s side. He would protect her first and foremost. Then they would deal with the witch and her flying monkeys however she saw fit.

[preciouspeterbparker]

the warmest bed i’ve ever known

finally got this bitch finished! 

based on “tis the damn season” by taylor swift. i was also listening to the phoebe bridgers cover of “christmas song”, “last christmas” cover by pale waves (recorded @ spotify), and “home alone, too” by the staves 

also this is only my 2nd time writing starker so lmk what you think plz?

happy holidays! - bloo

word count: 6.07k. this was intended to basically be a porny blurb...instead there’s so much fucking plot it’s probably overwhelming and minimal porn. i’m sorry

warnings: angst, depression & anxiety, drug use (that good kush ft some hotboxing & shotgunning), smut, character death (not tony or peter), tony’s kind of country lmao. despite all the aforementioned things, there is in fact a happy ending! 

summary: peter makes the trip back home for christmas and once again finds himself caught up in deep brown eyes and a charming smile. tis the damn season. 

Peter had forgotten how cold New York winters were. He’d grown used to the year-long warmth of Los Angeles. He supposed the cold was appropriate- it was as if the weather was in cahoots with the solid, frigid thing that was sitting in the pit of his stomach. The last time he’d spent Christmas in Aurora, the last time he’d seen him… Tony.

Just thinking the other man’s name made Peter flex his hands anxiously as he slid out of the driver’s seat of his black Mercedes AMG GT into the amber glow of the streetlight, gently shutting the door closed behind him, still in the overly cautious period of owning the new car. He wondered what Tony would think of it. Last time Peter had come home, he was still driving May’s old Subaru. It’d been almost 2 years to the day, now, which felt like both a century and no time at all. He wished it wasn’t so hard. He wished they hadn’t been caught in this song & dance for so long. It seemed like no matter how good Peter’s intentions, it always came down to one thing: he was so damn scared. He always ran away, no matter how badly he wanted to stay. 

Scuffing a boot through the slush in the street, the brunette straightened his shoulders and made his way toward the brick building, a quick smile quirking half his mouth up as he read the neon red sign above the closed garage door. Stark’s. Memories came flooding back, the countless nights he spent cooped up in the little shop during high school, sketching elaborate ensembles and daydreaming about having his very first collection while surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the sounds of tinkering. The bell above the door jingled merrily as Peter stepped through and wiped his feet on the mat. The pleasant sound of Frank Sinatra crooning the words of “The Christmas Waltz” met his ears. Another small smile flitted over Peter’s face. That was something that tended to happen when he was around Tony. 

“Just a second,” came the slightly muffled voice, a little strained. The man in question was bent over, headfirst in the engine of his old 1979 Chevy C10, the one he’d gotten senior year of highschool. The collar of a heather grey henley peeked out from under a deep red and green plaid flannel stretched over his shoulders as he leaned a little further under the hood, using a wrench to tighten what looked to be a lugnut to Peter from his spot by the door, too nervous to go further inside. 

“I can wait,” Peter replied softly, trying not to stare at Tony’s jean-clad ass and anxious of the older boy man’s reaction. (It looked like Tony had done a lot of growing up over the past two years, no longer the boy he remembered. Peter supposed the same could be said about himself in a way, though he wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse.)

And apparently he was right to be cautious.

Tony promptly smacked his head on the underside of the hood as he jerked upright at the sound of Peter’s voice. “Fuck.”  Moving more carefully, Tony stood upright and turned around, his dark eyes wide. “Peter,” he said, visibly and audibly surprised. To be honest, it hurt Peter a little bit, how surprised he sounded. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Did they not do this nearly every year over the past seven? Had- Oh god, had something changed? Fuck, did Tony finally get tired of-  Had he found-

Peter resolutely cut that train of thought off before he could panic. “Hi, Tony.” He swallowed drily, making eye contact for a moment, before casting his eyes away only for them to make their way back to the open face in front of him. “Think you have time for a quick bite to eat?” He slipped his left hand into the pocket of the new, warm wool coat he bought expressly for this trip. “It’s almost dinner time. And I have a treat,” he intoned, tapping his right pointer and middle fingers against his lips.

Tony beamed and immediately reached for a shop rag to wipe his hands, the black grease and oil smearing on the probably-used-to-be-white-at-some-point fabric. One of those hands came up to scratch at his facial hair, a new addition that made something simmer deep in Peter’s gut. The older man's brown eyes twinkled as he paused to glance at Peter. “You had me at ‘hi, Tony.’” He then proceeded to move about the shop, swiping his phone from atop a chest of metal drawers, Sinatra’s voice coming to an abrupt stop. He pulled on his old lined jean jacket (the one Peter was constantly mending in high school; now it just had small tears in some places, and what appeared to be Tony’s d-i-y patchwork in others). The sign on the front door was flipped to ‘closed’ and Tony pulled a keyring from his belt loop, locking it and flicking off the lights. The streetlights outside the building and the colorful holiday lights strung along the edge of the roof provided just enough light for them to be able to clearly see each other, the sun having set early, around four o’clock. Peter had forgotten about that as well. 

He moved to grab his car keys from a pocket but Tony spoke up, patting the dark green paint of his truck’s hood and walking over to the garage door. His hand hovered over the button that would open it. “Actually, I just finished giving Delilah a tuneup, mind if we take ‘er for a spin?” 

“Sure,” Peter agreed without hesitation, still feeling relieved (and grateful) that his invitation was accepted. 

Tony pushed his palm against the button and paused to do a double-take after the metal door lifted completely. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Peter’s car parked in the small lot beside the shop. “Damn, L.A.. Not worried about your fancy new car?” His tone was slightly teasing, but there was a bit of shock mixed with something else as well, and it caused Peter to go hot, feeling insecure. (What if Tony didn’t like who Peter was, now? Peter didn’t exactly like who he was now.) Tony must’ve noticed his discomfort, because he cracked a grin and bumped his shoulder against Peter’s as he made his way to the driver’s side, yanking the door open. “C’mon, Parker, ‘m just fuckin’ with you. Hop in - how’da some burgers from Delmar’s an’ a trip out to the field sound?” 

***

They grabbed food from the hole-in-the-wall diner down the road (the one where sixteen year-old Peter burned the shit out of his hand on his first day and promptly quit) and once they were bundled back in the truck with their burgers, fries and one banana milkshake (“yeah, but these are your favorite,” Tony had said in response to Peter’s exclamation that it was too cold out), Tony drove them out to the field behind the old high school. He parked the car under the lamppost, leaving it running in order to keep the heat on. His thick mechanic’s fingers began to fiddle with the temperature controls. Nat King Cole was playing quietly on the radio. 

Peter shifted the paper bag of food in his lap, searching for words but not knowing what to say, and plucked the joint and lighter from his coat. The paper-covered filter found its way between his lips and he inhaled softly as he lit the tip. Satisfied with the light, he french inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. The first hit was always the best. Peter loved the way he could feel it all the way in his bones. He didn’t know how to describe it other than deep. When he opened them, he made eye contact with Tony in the dim light, and immediately cut his gaze away as he felt the heat rush to his face. He could feel when Tony looked away a moment later.

The lull continued and Peter gingerly held the joint between his fingertips as he exhaled, hand outstretched.  

Worn fingers plucked it away, and Peter’s eyes were immediately drawn to the slightly chapped lips that wrapped themselves around the filter. “You stayin’ at um, at May's...old place?” Tony faltered as he inhaled, as if he wasn't sure what the most sensitive way to talk about it was. 

“Yeah," Peter said softly as he looked down at his lap. Spending his first night in the house alone last night had made him feel the loneliest he'd ever been in his life, and that was saying something because he’d been feeling pretty miserable lately. Peter saw May everywhere he looked, waiting to hear her call for him to come taste some new-fangled recipe from the kitchen, or to please, for the hundredth time, rinse the dishes before he put them in the sink. He missed her more than he thought possible, her death earth-shattering after having already lost Ben when he was 17, back when this mess all started. When he left for the first time. When he started running away. “It’s- It’s weird but I’m...adjusting. It’s honestly not that different to when she was alive, though. Y’know- recently.” He cut himself off, not sure if he wanted Tony to know the full reality of his existence, now. 

Because it was true. It killed Peter to admit it, but his relationship with Aunt May started going downhill around the time of Ben’s death, too. By the time she had her heart attack a little more than two years ago, he hadn’t seen her in over a year, or talked to her in nearly as long. It was the biggest regret of his life, pushing May away; the second was the way he essentially did the same thing to Tony, however drawn-out it had been. 

Peter reached out for the joint and his fingers brushed against Tony’s, sending a jolt up his spine. “How,” Peter started, swallowing as he twiddled the lighter between his fingers not holding the joint. “How’ve you been, Tony?” He was scared to ask what he really wanted to know. Have you finally had enough? Did you stop waiting on me? Am I too late? To distract himself a bit, he cracked the window so he could ash the joint before taking another drag. 

"Same ol’, same ol’,” came Tony’s reply, his voice weary. “I mean, you already know this, but nothin’ really changes here." The quiet way he said it was slightly self-deprecating and the younger man hated it, hated that he had something to do with it. (Peter remembered the way he spat the words at Tony in the wee hours of the morning oh so long ago. "I've gotta get out of this fucking town- I can’t stay here, Tony! You might be okay dying here, a nobody with nothing, but I'm not!")

That’s why I had to leave, he thought, chest tightening. I was trapped in this town. It was never you, Tony. You were perfect. You’re perfect. 

"..Yeah," is what came out instead. Peter took another hit before he handed the joint back to Tony and began rifling through the grease-splotched bag, passing the older man his burger before unwrapping his own. He took the top bun off in order to lay down a handful of fries from the bag, smooshing the top back on afterwards. A moan left Peter’s mouth at the first bite, and he heard a chuckle bubble up from Tony’s chest. (He would never admit it, especially not to anyone back in L.A., anyone who didn’t know him before, but this was his favorite meal in the world.)

“Funny that you still do that. So, um,” Tony began again, stuffing a few fries in his mouth and chewing as he spoke out the side of his mouth. “I saw your new collection. It looked nice.” He licked a bit of salt off his thumb. 

Peter’s ears burned as he swallowed his bite and raised an eyebrow at the man across from him. “You pay attention to fashion, now?” He fought off a smile at the thought of Tony delicately flipping through the pages of a high-fashion magazine. 

“Not like- I’ve tried to keep up with your work,” Tony mumbled, swallowing, his own face taking on a bit of a rosy-hue. “Like to know what you're up to all the way out there.” The joint touched his lips for a few seconds before it made its way back to Peter’s fingers. “I do know how Google works.” 

Peter shivered as he felt something flutter in the pit of his stomach at the salt grains that touched his tongue when he took his next pull. “Tastes like salt,” he breathed on the exhale, locking eyes with Tony through the smoke that had accumulated in the car. 

Something flashed in the older man’s eyes as he stole the weed back and took a large hit, crooking his salt-sprinkled fingers to beckon Peter closer. 

Peter’s own reddened eyes widened when he caught on to what Tony wanted, his heart picking up speed. They hadn’t done that in years. Still clutching his burger in his left hand, he used the right to support himself as he leaned over the console to press his mouth against Tony’s. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, fighting the urge to slip his tongue somewhere it didn’t belong. One of Tony’s hands came up to pull his head closer for a moment, his tongue having the same idea as Peter’s, causing him to whine into Tony’s mouth. His pants were getting tight as he licked right back in response, feeling a slight burn from exhaling through his nose. He missed this. Nobody kissed him like Tony did-

“Shit!” Tony pulled away sharply, and Peter’s heart stopped for a second. But when he realized what was happening, he couldn’t contain the surprised cackle that erupted as he saw the joint land in the other man’s lap. “Quit it,” was Tony’s reply, though he was grinning as he said it. He grabbed what was left of the joint off his jeans and stubbed it out the rest of the way on the dashboard. “It burned my fuckin’ finger.”

“Oh poor baby,” Peter shot back, shifting in his seat and taking another bite of his burger. He willed the slight chub to go away, but knew it was a lost cause. He pretty much signed up for it; he was always turned on when he was high around Tony (and most of the time when he was sober, too). Some kind of conditioning or something, he thought deliriously. 

“Ya better hush up, Parker,” Tony snarked and dipped some fries into Peter’s banana shake. He rolled his neck a bit, reaching for his burger. “So, kid. Tell me ‘bout L.A..”

***

Peter was basking peacefully in his high, humming along to whatever was playing through the speakers. He and Tony had both finished their food, chatting about this and that, but nothing of real substance, their earlier stilted conversation far from their minds. Shooting the shit, as Tony called it, over some weed and a meal was their normal routine when they were younger, and it came as naturally as breathing. Peter had never met anyone else he could simply coexist with on this level, simply enjoying the other’s presence for what it was. I love you, he thought as he looked at Tony, who was leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and nodding his head along with the beat. I’m so in love with you and it scares the shit out of me. 

The younger man’s eyes roved over Tony’s face as his mind raced. What was he doing? Would something be different this time? He wasn’t that angry seventeen year old anymore- now he was twenty-four, clinically depressed, and living someone else’s life. Would it be so bad to finally leave that all behind, to finally let himself have what he’s denied himself for so long? Didn’t he deserve to be happy, after all this pain? And even if it wasn’t in the cards for them, if Peter was destined to be alone, wouldn’t even the most miniscule amount of time with Tony be worth it? 

Tony’s gravelly voice startled him back to the present. “I should probably be gettin’ you home, huh, Peter?” The bearded man opened his eyes and began sitting up, turning to look at him. The expression on his face was unreadable, and Peter didn’t know if he should agree or protest, so he merely lifted a shoulder in faux indifference, shooting Tony a half-smile.

Please, call me Pete… Just Pete, Peter begged in his head. Tony calling him by his full name made the ugly thing in his chest wriggle uncomfortably. Last time he was home, before he said those awful things, Tony hadn’t called him Peter in years. Yet another beautiful thing that he’d taken for granted and ruined for himself. 

“Could also drive around for a bit if you wanted, see some lights.” Damn Tony and his ability to read Peter so well. The suggestion was soft, and he looked down as he said it, almost as if he was feeling shy. 

Peter shook his head minutely and shifted a little in his seat, gently biting his lip. “I’m getting a little tired, haven’t smoked in a while,” he lied through his teeth, but the smile on his face was real this time. 

Tony grinned right back at him.

(“What would we even do on a date? There’s nothing to do here, Tony,” Peter said with a laugh. “I dunno,” Tony replied, snuggling the lighter-haired teenager closer into his chest as they snuggled on the couch. “We could go look at the Christmas lights, get some hot chocolate… I could tie some mistletoe to the mirror in the truck. There’d be sum kissin’ involved….” He trailed off as Peter’s lips found his own. “Or we could do the kissin’ right here,” he murmured, sinking into the kiss.)

***

The drive back to May’s house was spent with Tony catching Peter up on everyone in town as they passed various houses. (“Remember Happy Hogan, the butcher?? Him an’ that pretty florist, Ms. Potts, got married last year. Think they’re havin’ a baby,last I heard.” “Rhodey’s mama died this spring, she got cancer, but he an’ Mr. Rhodes still live out here now that Rhodey’s moved home. Honorable discharge last fall. Done got himself a new girlfriend now too, Carol; he met ‘er in the Air Force.  She’s a sweet one, I think you’d like ‘er.”) 

When they pulled into the driveway, Tony cut the engine and hopped out. Peter did the same, grabbing the bag with their trash and patting his pocket, double-checking for his keys and lighter. He stepped around Tony, who had stopped at the bottom of the front steps, and walked up to the door, fumbling for a minute with his keys under the porch light to find the right one (it had robin’s egg blue polka-dots of May’s favorite nail polish). Tony’s footsteps followed him up the stairs. 

Peter stuck the key in the lock and opened the door a crack before turning to face the taller man. “So.”

Tony’s eyes searched his own as they gazed at one another. “So,” he parroted back. His index finger went up to rub at his nose as he took a hard sniff in. There was a beat of silence. “Thanks for the joint, and uh, the company. It was good seein’ you,” he said at last, a hint of his signature lopsided grin curving his lips. 

Peter felt the goodbye that was coming before it even left Tony’s mouth, and something in him broke. “Don’t leave me here alone.” The words came out of Peter’s mouth in a mumble, and suddenly he couldn’t make eye contact with Tony, losing focus and staring at his own feet instead. He felt the harsh burning of tears as it hit him again just how alone he was about to be when he walked inside, how alone he already was. He was always so fucking alone. 

Even in L.A., so much bigger than fucking Aurora, New York, surrounded by thousands of people, Peter still felt invisible, insignificant. He had no friends. Sure, he had a publicist, and connections, and celebrity acquaintances & clientele. But without his money and his clothes, what would he have? What did he have when he was just Peter Parker, rather than Peter Benjamin, semi-famous designer? Nothing. (When he got the call about May, and he’d broken down in the bathroom during a business meeting with representatives for Tom Ford, he realized he had no one to call. No one to comfort him or tell him it would be okay. He’d sobbed into his pillow that night, screaming his throat raw with Tony’s number punched into his phone, ready to be dialed. He never called.) He had nothing and no one, and it was all his fault because he was so stupid, and maybe this is just what he deserved. If he hadn’t pushed everyone-

“Hey- Hey, Peter, no. Never,” Tony was saying gently, cautiously pulling Peter into his strong arms and out of his anxiety attack. “‘m not goin’ anywhere if y’don’t want me to, baby.” He tucked Peter’s head under his chin, a chill running down his spine due to the chilly evening air. “S’okay, everythin’s okay.” 

Peter sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, trying to calm himself. His forehead dug into Tony’s shoulder painfully but it helped to ground him. The soothing sensation of Tony’s fingers tracing circles on his back helped, too. Peter’s breath was still hitching every so often, so he shut his eyes and tried to synch his breathing with Tony’s. It felt so nice to just be this close to someone- Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held. Tony had probably been the last one to do it, though. (He’d had sex in L.A. of course, but it was all superficial. Nothing real. Nothing like what he had with Tony- not even close.) Shifting slightly, he buried his nose in the crook of Tony’s neck, searching unconsciously for the smell he loved so much; a mix of gasoline, teakwood, and something smoky. The scent sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, and that hot feeling simmered in his stomach again. He’d always joked that he would bottle Tony’s smell if he could. Tony would just laugh and jokingly tease Peter for always having his nose in his neck or armpit.

Now Tony just hummed lightly in response, tightening his hold for a moment before relaxing. “‘Yer’okay,” he whispered, once he could feel that Peter’s breathing had evened out for the most part. 

Peter pulled back a bit and stared at a spot in the middle of Tony’s chest, thinking. He decided to go for it. Worst that could happen was Tony saying no, and leaving Peter here alone, but he knew he’d end up alone eventually. But he’d delay the inevitable as long as he could.  “Kiss me, T,” he said quietly, leaning in before he could change his mind. His lips brushed Tony’s and he pulled back, trying not to go cross eyed looking into the other’s eyes. “I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Tony stared at him for a moment before their mouths met again, and Peter nipped gently at his lip before clumsily walking backwards through the cracked front door, pulling Tony with him with their mouths still connected. Tony’s foot kicked it closed behind them, bathing them in darkness, and he tripped a bit when Peter clutched at the lapels of his jacket a little too hard. Cursing under his breath, he leaned back against the door and tugged Peter along, using the support behind him to balance as he toed his boots off. They disconnected momentarily as the shorter man did the same, hands still gripping the denim. 

Peter licked his lip as they stood in the dark entryway. Looking up at Tony, he shrugged his coat off, letting it fall to the hardwood floor beneath them. He reached out and gently pushed the denim jacket off the taller man’s shoulders too before leaning in, stopping just before their lips made contact. “Come upstairs with me,” he whispered. 

Tony’s mocha eyes flitted around for a minute, searching his face for something. Peter couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw, but Tony kissed him again before taking his hand. “Your room,” he questioned, taking hold of the banister and leading Peter up the stairs. 

***

“Fuck, Tony. Right there, right there, ohhhhh.” Peter was on his back with one leg thrown over Tony’s shoulder and the other bent off to the side, the ball of his foot pushing into the mattress. The mechanic’s uncut cock was stretching his lubed hole. Tony was leaning over him and one of his hands was clutching at Peter’s hip, the other at the leg up by his face. His facial hair scratched deliciously against the pale skin on the inside of Peter’s knee as he pressed a kiss there. 

(Tony had kissed and licked and sucked praises into the skin of his neck, chest, stomach and thighs as he’d fingered him open at a torturously slow pace. “So good fer me, Pete. Look at you. You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Peter had whimpered and whined the whole time as he tried to fuck himself on the thick digits whose pads were caressing his prostate.) 

A moan left the older man’s lips as he looked into Peter’s eyes. “You feel so good, baby. Always feel so- fuckin’- good,” he grunted, thrusting further in the tight, wet heat. “Love fuckin’ your ass.”  He dug his fingers tighter into Peter’s skin, sure to leave bruises. 

Gasping, Peter arched his hips up, toes curling, cock bobbing against his stomach with every thrust. He could feel Tony deep inside him, in that place that only he had ever been able to reach. Fuck, why had he ever let this go? Never letting you go again, Tony. You can’t leave me alone. I need you. I love you. He whined, baring his neck in a silent plea and bringing his leg down so that both were wrapped around the man’s thick waist. Tony reacted accordingly; his hands moved up to clutch at Peter’s near the headboard and his mouth latched onto the column of Peter’s neck, sucking. A wounded noise escaped Peter, his hole clenching, and Tony bit down harshly at the sensation. Peter keened again, going limp on the mattress as his legs fell open to the side. “Shit, Tony, god!” 

Hot, wet breath tickled Peter’s neck with every ragged exhale that left Tony’s mouth, causing the smaller to whine lewdly, squirming. “Yeah? Are you- mine? Y’gon be mine- huh, Pete?” Peter heard the unspoken question, the twinge of desperation in Tony’s voice. Will you finally be mine? He sounded tired, that deep-in-your-bones type weariness, Peter noticed as he felt his own chest start to get tight. He’d really done a number on the person who deserved it the least. And for what? To come crawling back years later, expecting to be forgiven? 

Yes, he thought in response to Tony’s question, hating himself for it. One of his hands tangled itself in the crown of Tony’s head, fingers pulling the strands at the root possessively as teeth sunk into his neck again. Yours. Always yours. He let out another moan, rolling his hips in an attempt to get some friction on his neglected cock that was weeping precum as Tony continued to thrust in and out of him. “Please, please- Tony, please.” If Peter had any shame left, he’d probably be blushing at how needy and wrecked he sounded. Instead it just turned him on, knowing just how gone he was for the other man. 

With a grunt, Tony redistributed his weight and brought two fingers to Peter’s lips. “Open up fer a minute, baby,” he requested softly, slipping the digits inside. Peter laved them with his tongue, coating them with thick saliva and Tony groaned at the feeling, dick twitching in Peter’s ass. Once they were sufficiently wet, he pulled his fingers away, a thin string of drool stretching to connect them to Peter’s slick lips. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, Pete, Christ.” His calloused hand wrapped loosely around the hot, rosy cock between them. “Fuck my hand, baby.” 

Peter complied without hesitation, rocking his hips and pressing his shaft in and out of the slick tunnel that was Tony’s hand. He cried out when Tony’s thumb caressed the underside of the head as the cock inside of him nailed directly into his prostate. The pressure had already been a lot, but the pleasure was suddenly overwhelming in a new way. He was so close and Tony hadn’t even been touching him for thirty seconds. “F-fuck, Tony, I’m gonna- Ahhhhh-”  

“Yeah, cum for me, Pete,” Tony’s warm breath heaved into his ear, tongue sneaking out to lick the outer shell and dip inside briefly at the same time he tightened his grip on Peter’s sensitive member.  “Fuck, cum for me, baby, cum on my- Cum on my cock- God-.” 

And with a cry, Peter did just that, biting into Tony’s shoulder as the tension in his gut snapped, hole twitch relentlessly around the hard cock inside him as his own shot spurt after spurt of hot cum on his chest; some reached the hollow of his throat and his chin. “God, Tony, shit, shit, shit.” 

“Yesssss, Pete, holy fuck.” Tony buried himself inside one last time, his mouth latching onto the column of Peter’s neck as he reached his orgasm, shoving himself inside as deep as possible. His dick twitched, painting Peter’s insides with his spend and making him groan. 

They stayed that way for a moment before Tony pulled back to look into Peter’s eyes. “Lemme clean’ya up,” he offered gently as he carefully pulled his softening cock out of the heat of the younger man’s ass. There was a slight burbling sound, and he brushed his lips against Peter’s when he saw the embarrassment flash across his face. “Hol’ on.” Climbing out of the bed, he made his way to the bathroom that was adjoined to Peter’s room.

Peter’s heart was beating uncomfortably in his chest as he lay among the sheets, bringing his hands up to his chest to fiddle with each other anxiously. It couldn’t be over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to be alone again. 

When Tony walked back in, he got back on the bed, gently wiping the cum off Peter’s chest with a warm rag, smirking at the full-body shivers that ran through the young man in response to the cloth being swiped lightly over his nipples. Once his chest was clean, Tony moved down to run the fabric between Peter’s ass cheeks, collecting the milky-white substance that was leaking out of the hole. 

“Stay,” Peter whispered, once Tony had thrown the washcloth in the hamper and climbed back into bed at Peter’s invitation of patting the spot beside himself in bed. He wiggled so that his back was pressed up against Tony’s front. His fingers tangled themselves with those on a slightly larger hand and as he let his eyes slip shut, he felt Tony’s lips press a kiss into the sweaty curls at the back of his head. 

*** 

When Peter woke up, it was well past noon. The bed was so warm that the heat from his and Tony’s bodies trapped up under the fluffy comforter would be sweltering if he didn’t crave it so much. 

Peter swallowed drily as he looked at Tony’s face in the afternoon light, peaceful in sleep. At some point during their sleep, they had shifted to where they were facing each other. He wanted to trace his fingers along the strong facial features in front of him, but he refrained, not wanting to wake the older man. He knew he needed to talk to Tony. He knew that Tony deserved better. But maybe Peter could be selfish just this once... It was Christmas after all. Tis the damn season and all that. 

Leaning forward, with a hand pressed gently against Tony’s chest, Peter pecked his lips against the sleeping man’s in a kiss. He got no response, so he did it again, adding a little more pressure. Tony began to stir; his arm wrapped lazily around Peter’s naked waist, pulling their bottom halves together. 

“G’mornin’,” Tony mumbled sleepily as he blinked a few times before his gaze focused on Peter. His voice was scratchy and rough, and Peter’s hips jerked slightly in response as he whispered back his own greeting, partially because Tony had begun to get hard. The mechanic brought up a hand and took hold of Peter’s chin, pulling their mouths together as he ground their burgeoning erections together. 

Peter wrapped a leg around Tony’s waist as they lay there on their sides and began to gently rock his hips. “Tony,” he mewled, eyes screwed shut. The words were bubbling up inside him, just like the arousal was blooming in his gut. One of his arms wrapped around Tony’s neck, pulling their bodies together as close as they could get. 

“Yeah,” came Tony’s breathy reply. His eyes were roving over Peter’s flushed face as he undulated his own hips, thumb coming up to press against the younger’s spit-slick bottom lip. “Whadisit?”

Peter took the digit into his mouth for a moment and they made eye contact as he swirled his tongue around the tip, fellating it. He released it from his mouth with a pop, biting his own lip. “Am I too late,” he asked quietly, burying his face in the muscled chest before him, pecking tender kisses on the heated flesh. “Do you still love me?” His voice shook as he continued, breath faltering as well as the sensations built up. He squeezed his eyes shut even though Tony couldn’t see the tears building in his eyes as he chased his pleasure, preparing for the inevitable pain that was sure to follow. 

“Pete.” The way Tony said his name was reverent, like he didn’t see Peter for the walking mistake that he was. He was breathing heavier now, too, with the exertion of frotting their hard cocks together. “How could I ever stop, baby?” He craned his neck in order to meet Peter’s eyes. “Was just waitin’ on ya t’come home.” He pressed their lips together as Peter’s leg tightened around his waist. “Was always just waitin’ on ya t’come home,” he repeated. A particularly hard thrust had them both groaning, clutching desperately at each other as they chased that euphoric feeling. “’Course I love you, Peter. Now cum for me.”

Peter couldn’t help but obey as a sob burst from his lips, Tony following him over the edge. “I love you,” he cried, as their bodies shook together. “I’m s-sorry Tony, I love you- Don’t go, don’t ever leave me. I won’t- I promise I won’t go again. I can’t go again, I can’t leave you again. I won’t.” Tony’s thumbs came up to wipe the tears from under his eyes, and a kiss was pressed to his temple as he felt himself be pulled into those strong arms. 

“I’d never leave you, Pete.”

***

The bed was cold when Peter woke again. He lay there, watching the sunset through his bedroom window. Gentle creaks could be heard as the house groaned under pressure from the falling snow. He rolled over, grimacing at the pain in his lower half and pulling a pillow to his chest. It still smelled of teakwood, smoke, and gasoline. He smiled, burying his face further into the intoxicating scent. “I love you,” he whispered to the empty house, feeling lighter than he had in years. 

(Yes, the bed was cold, now. But Tony would be back to warm it up. And he’d have burgers, fries, and a banana milkshake when he returned. Maybe even a joint. Peter was glad he didn’t have to wait long. They’d had just about enough of that over the past seven years.)

[peaceoutofthepieces]

Sink Or Swim

tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @saraben00 @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane

~^~

Sunday, 12:40

Song: Peter Manos - In My Head

Lucas is surprised his dad hasn’t come to tell him how pathetic he is yet. He supposes it isn’t necessary. Lucas is more than aware of it himself.

He’d dragged himself out to go to the bathroom and get breakfast and managed to avoid a run-in. Now he’s curled up in his bed with the covers pulled up to his neck, trying not to feel too sorry for himself.

It isn’t easy.

He’s tempted to call Kes, but he’d called him yesterday, and he doesn’t want to be so needy. He’s thought about messaging Isa, but he isn’t really sure what he would say. He’s sure they’re all busy anyway. Possibly even hanging out together. Without him. As is likely the new normal already.

Lucas had been so sure he’d found his new normal already, too, but nothing feels normal about his situation anymore. He feels more stupid than anything. He doesn’t know what he’s been thinking. He doesn’t know how he has managed to mess everything up so massively already.

Jens was offering him friendship, and of course Lucas went overboard with it. Of course he’s a fool.

He’s spent the weekend rewatching the vlogs. He’s already in that deep.

It goes against all his rules, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He can’t get any of it out of his head. He can’t stop feeling Jens’s hands on his hips, or his breath on his ear. He can’t stop remembering the pump of his heart when Jens has done nothing more than smile. He can’t stop imagining what Jens might have done, if Lucas hadn’t pulled away from their dance, if Lucas had made up for it when Jens pulled him down to sit in front of him by leaning right back against his chest. He can’t stop considering all the possibilities that have never been possible in the first place.

He can’t stop seeing Jens with her, looking entirely at home.

He’d avoided Instagram entirely yesterday, resisting the temptation to open Jens’s message or stalk his page or Jana’s for any possible torture. He hates how dramatic his heart is being. He knew not to expect anything, and he’d let himself get much too carried away anyway. Jens had just seemed so close and so possible. Now Lucas is realising the boy is probably even more like Kes than he thought.

Lucas is long over that, but there’s still a leftover sting regardless, even as he cringes at his own thoughts and thoughtless actions. It makes him feel worse, sometimes, now that the feelings have slipped away, to look back at it, but he can’t quite bring himself to regret it.

It’s given him plenty of time to come to terms with everything. With himself. He can’t exactly bring himself to regret something that taught him so much.

It just obviously hasn’t taught him enough.

It’s in moments like this where a little of that self-hate returns with full force, and he can’t help wishing that he was just normal. It wouldn’t feel like this, if he was just crushing on a girl who didn’t return his feelings.

He might have no proof to back this up, but he feels pretty sure of it all the same.

It would be fine, if he thought it wouldn’t mess anything up with Jens. He’s mostly angry with himself because of how much he’s already letting it affect him. He had run from the party without even saying goodbye, and he hasn’t responded to the message that Jens had so sweetly sent him afterwards. Or to the second message Jens had sent him yesterday, saying that he hoped Lucas got there safe and was having fun. He’d laughed at the irony of it. He doesn’t know how to explain to Jens that he’s completely miserable, and that he hadn’t gone anywhere in the first place.

He’s lying in his bed in Antwerp, and he’s giving in and clicking on Jens’s Instagram story.

It’s a video of him at the skatepark, flying up the ramp towards the camera, grinning as he jumps off his board and pushes the person away. The responding giggles sound like they come from Robbe. He looks as beautiful as ever, and Lucas wishes more than anything that he could join them. The pained twist of his heart isn’t entirely strong enough to make him want to stay away. It’s just an additional ache.

He escapes the app in a rush and opens Spotify, hoping to distract himself. His fingers twitch, tempted to draw, but there’s already a cramp in them. It was all he’d done yesterday. He’d needed to get his thoughts out, needed to put his emotions on paper, in something real, and endless sketches had poured out, inspired by the past few weeks. He’d sketched Sander first, stood in the art shop with his camera and his smirk. He’d sketched Luca, taking care with her curls and her glasses, one eye closed in a wink, adding extra details as he refused to pour out his mind’s main focus.

It still hadn’t stopped him from creating a dozen sketches of Jens, most only half-completed, the image lost midway as another one came to the forefront.

He needs a break from feeling like this, for a while. Before he remembers that he has to return to school tomorrow, where it will be unavoidable.

He doesn’t get very far, unable to make up his mind, before a notification pops up at the top of his screen and destroys any notion of forgetting his feelings.

Jens has messaged him again. Undeterred, it seems, by Lucas’s previous lack of response.

hey, you’re probably still busy but I was wondering what time you would be back? I’m at the skatepark with the boys, and we’ll probably be here until late, if you wanted to join for a while

Before Lucas can even take this in, another message appears.

you’re probably staying with your friends until the evening though, so don’t worry about it

Lucas blinks at the message with furrowed brows. At first his heart twists, thinking Jens has changed his mind and is politely telling him not to come after all. But the rushed manner in which it had been sent makes him doubt himself, and he rereads it again, searching for the purpose of it. The meaning behind it. Another thought comes to mind, but he can’t quite let himself entertain it. That can’t be right.

There’s no way that Jens is nervous.

It sounds an awful lot like he might be, though, the more Lucas reads it over. He begins to feel a little bad. He hadn’t thought too much on what his distance might feel like to Jens. He hadn’t considered the idea that he’s being unfair. It isn’t Jens’s fault, that Lucas feels hurt. He couldn’t possibly know. Lucas hopes that he doesn’t know. To Jens, it probably feels like Lucas is ignoring him now that he’s with his friends in Utrecht. That he simply takes a back seat. Lucas is the terrible person for knowingly hurting him this way.

He can’t help but smile slightly, and then his hands are moving on their own, opening the message and typing a reply.

I’m already home

It appears as ‘seen’ almost instantly, and it takes just as little time for the typing bubble to appear.

you left early? is everything okay?

I never went

He watches the texting bubble appear and disappear a few times before quickly typing out another message.

came home to my dad waiting for me. he found my (very small) stash. wasn’t pleased.

The typing bubble doesn’t appear for long now.

shit

grounded? I was wondering why you hadn’t replied

Lucas hadn’t even realised that he was creating the perfect out for himself. It’s that simple. It probably makes sense, that his grounding would include a lack of phone privileges. It isn’t too extreme, especially if it includes the idea that he’d already gotten it back. He could let Jens believe that his father had dished out that mini, extra punishment. He won’t even be lying. Not really. He just won’t be mending Jens’s incorrect assumption. Skipping over a tiny detail.

yep. I am to remain in this house indefinitely

fuck

he couldn’t be convinced to let you out for even an hour?

Lucas blinks.

Could his father be convinced?

Can Lucas?

He doesn’t have to think about it too long.

let’s check

He locks his phone and slips out of bed, suddenly eager. Determined. Still, he’s slow and quiet as he opens his door, and he winces at the faint creak of the hinges. He tiptoes up the hallway towards the kitchen, running through what he should say, giving himself a bit of extra time. He needs to go into this with patience. He needs to stay resolute. His father will shut him down the instant he blows up, so he simply needs to keep his cool. Throw in some persuasion. It’ll be difficult, probably, but not impossible. Hopefully.

Only his father isn’t in the kitchen, or the adjoining sitting room. Lucas furrows his brows in confusion and moves back down the hallway. The bathroom is unlocked and empty, and his father’s door lies open, proving without any doubt that the room is unoccupied. He’s completely alone in the flat.

His heart thrums and his mind races in time with the quickening beat. He’s not the most passive person in the world, and he wouldn’t let himself be walked over, and he’s not a model citizen. This isn’t too far past his realm of disobedience.

His father is already beyond pissed, and while Lucas initially cringes at the thought, he shrugs it off.

Might as well go the extra mile.

He heads back to his room and pulls a sweater on over his t-shirt, a light pastel green Isa had once bought him. He snatches his denim jacket from the hook by the front door and swipes up his keys as he shrugs it on. He hesitates for half a second before returning to collect his skateboard from his room, and then he’s off.

I’m on my way

Jens’s response is instant.

fucking nice :D

Lucas’s lips quirk, and he shakes his head slightly, and feels unbearably fond. Jens is so easy. Everything he does is so easy. He’s a steadily burning flame, bright and warm and sure, and Lucas is another brainless moth. Drawn in and set alight.

He doesn’t even know how he’s managed to develop such a ridiculous crush so quickly. He just hopes he can get rid of it in the same manner. Maybe he should be giving himself more time, especially now that he has a genuine excuse. He could have stepped neatly away from Jens for a while with the excuse of his imprisonment and Jens would understand. Lucas knows he would. He knows that would be the best thing to do. It’s unfair to Jens and himself to indulge these feelings, the excitement and the urgency and the pleasure at the mere idea of seeing him.

But Lucas has been miserable the past few days, and it’s starting to make his head whir in much more dangerous directions. He just needs to appease it for a moment. He just needs to see Jens once and let his heart quiet.

He’ll be pleased, at this stage, to see any of them. It makes sense for him to want to join as many of these outings as he can. He’s just beginning to fit into this friend-group.

The skatepark is relatively full, as to be expected for a Sunday afternoon, but it takes Lucas no time to find them. His eyes seek out Jens automatically and he finds him easily where he’s now sat at the top of the half pipe, laughing at someone Lucas doesn’t bother looking at and occasionally glancing at his phone. Lucas has to pause for a second and gather himself, squashing down the mixed emotions that bubble up and plastering on a smile.

It’s only when he’s halfway towards him that he does a double take, catching sight of white-blonde hair. His smile slips into something more real, and some of his familiar bounce returns to his step as he heads towards them.

“Yo, Lucas!” The cheer comes unexpectedly from Moyo, and Lucas twists around until he can see him, jogging in the same direction to meet him as he finally stops next to Jens, kicking up his skateboard and catching the tip in his hand.

Jens smiles up at him, left eye squinting more than the right against the sun. He’s still wearing just a shirt and a deep red hoodie, but he looks soft and warm and pleased as Lucas sits down next to him. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Lucas returns, feeling uncharacteristically shy, nerves twisting in his chest. The party and the hours before it skim through his mind, and then the hours after and all of yesterday when he’d attempted to purge himself of all unwanted feelings, pushing this boy away in the process. He doesn’t deserve the easy friendship Jens has handed him. He’s taken advantage of such an innocent thing, and Jens has absolutely no idea. He wouldn’t look so fond if he did.

“You got grounded?” Moyo questions him as he swings up next to them, dropping down on Jens’s other side with furrowed brows.

Lucas shrugs, twisting his hands together in his lap. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“What? Why?”

Lucas twists around to look at Robbe, who has finally detached himself from his boyfriend long enough to notice Lucas’s presence and migrate over. Lucas catches Sander’s gaze over his shoulder and Sander brightens, slipping around Robbe to greet him. Lucas allows him to clasp their hands together with a grin, but ducks away when he moves to ruffle his hair.

“My little protégé. I was starting to think these idiots were never going to let me see you again.”

Lucas huffs, shaking his head as Sander simply drops down to sit cross-legged behind him. Robbe looks at Lucas and rolls his eyes fondly, and Lucas watches with a twist in his stomach as he sits down behind Sander, wrapping his limbs around him and letting him settle back against his chest. “You say that like I listen to them.”

Sander raises his brows at this, nodding approvingly, and this is when Jens makes a small noise in the back of his throat, strangled with confusion.

Lucas looks at him to see him glancing between him and Sander in deep concentration. “Have you already met?”

“Yeah, on Thursday at the art shop,” Sander says easily. “We had a very educational chat.”

Lucas snorts, thinking of the mini lesson Sander had given him on all his favourite dead, supposedly-gay artists as he led him around the store and then to an ice cream stand down the street, instantly winning Lucas’s heart. It may not have been the most educational experience, but it had been enough for Lucas to learn that Sander is someone he could get along with.

Jens swivels to look at Robbe. “You knew about this?”

Robbe hums. “Yeah?”

“Since when?”

“That night?”

Sander takes in Jens’s expression of utter betrayal and snorts, and Lucas can’t help but raise his own brow in amusement as Jens turns his pout towards him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lucas tilts his head. “Why was I supposed to?”

Jens struggles to form a response to that, pout deepening, and Lucas really wishes he’d stop doing things like that. He wishes he would stop treating them as if they are so close, the way Robbe and Sander are close, sharing everything automatically and having a sunk-in understanding. He wishes Jens would make it easier for Lucas to let go of this idea of something more between them.

Sander knocks his leg against Lucas’s arm to get his attention, and his expression is dramatically serious. “Jens just gets a little jealous,” he mock-whispers, loud enough even for Moyo to hear him and let out a snort.

Jens’s pout shifts into a scowl and he rolls his eyes, and Sander knocks a leg against him instead in some semblance of apology. He raises his brows at Lucas, however, in a silent ‘told you’.

“What, you don’t seriously think Sander is going to steal me away or something, do you?” Lucas can’t help but tease, raising his brows in interest.

Moyo butts in with a laugh of his own, gesturing at Sander and hitting Jens’s arm. “Sander is basically a part of the group anyway, man. Where would he go?”

“That’s not the point,” Jens mumbles, mostly under his breath. Before anyone can question him on it, he’s turning back to Lucas and asking, “How’d you get your dad to let you out, anyway?”

Lucas shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t. He wasn’t there, so I just left.”

“Ahh, a little rebel,” Sander teases.

Robbe huffs a laugh. “A match made in heaven.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Jens protests, leaving Sander sticking his tongue out at him. His gaze turns concerned as he looks at Lucas. “Won’t that make it worse for you when you get back?”

Lucas isn’t sure it can get much worse, but he can say with certainty that this is the happiest he’s been this weekend. It’s bad. This familiar warmth flooding through his chest under Jens’s gaze. It would probably be best for him, to be locked up at home.

But he can’t bring himself to regret this, either.

He gives another shrug, allows himself to smile, allows himself to enjoy how easily Jens returns it when he says, “It’ll be worth it.”

[jencsi]

Let’s Talk- Finn and Russell;

From the very beginning, we get the hint, notion, presence of a deeper connection between Julie Finlay and DB Russell. In Seeing Red, when she hears him, not even having to look and know he’s there during the crime scene reconstruction, just his voice alone makes her roll her eyes, gets her fired up with some sort of passion, anger, emotional reaction. As evidenced from their conversation about the blood spatter case, her resistance to proceed further with him again shows she is not quite over what has happened to them in the past and it makes viewers want to know, what the heck happened? What could this seemingly unbothered hippie like guy have ever done to cross this already sullen yet spirited woman? Despite her futile attempts to deflect him, she cannot help but be drawn to the case, he sought her out after all, he must be desperate. When she retrieves the file he leaves behind and it piques her interest, she gives in, with probably a lot of hemming and hawing off screen, before venturing to CSI for the first time.

That single solitary scene cemented in my brain their dynamic from that day forward. There was no going back for me. Whatever they had in the past, whether that be something romantic, friendly or just work related, my soul ached to know more and even better, my heart yearned to watch them more, to listen, to observe the bantar, the sarcasm, the snark, the sheer and utter pure honesty that comes from their conversations. DB Russell is not trying to trick Finn, he’s not trying to make her figure out some silly puzzle or game, he just wants her expertise and guidance. Once she accepts his offer, her personality begins to shine via her work (Should I wrap it up and take it back to the lab? Took the words right out of my mouth smart ass” “You know me so well” “And you know blood, better than anyone I know”) her bonding with her colleagues, and even better, the little hints at what was between her and Russell back in Seattle.

When we finally do get to see that past revealed, ripped open like a fresh wound, via CSI on Fire, we see the headstrong and overheated Finn on a mission, prove that Tom Cooley is a killer and bring justice to the families of his victims. Of course that journey is not without complications and wild accusations, of course Finn would never kill anyone, that I firmly believe, unless of course it’s to save a friend or colleague (saving Greg from that supposed innocent victim of the Gig Harbor Killer in The Twin Paradox) but Cooley rattles her, gets under her skin in a way different from Russell. In fact it’s Russell warning her to be careful, to go with caution, but her typical rebellious nature of “I’m not listening” pushes her further to the truth and to danger at every turn.

Her tone when speaking to Russell about the discovery of Cooley’s body in his hotel shifts our thinking that maybe she isn’t the same person she was two years ago. If what we are observing right now is the casual cool collected Finn, just how reckless was she in Seattle? She feels the disappointment from Russell in his tone, the way he looks at her, and she hates that, she doesn’t want to disappoint anyone, especially him. His presence in her life since the Seattle days has created this combination of not wanting to let him down or disappoint him mixed with her fierce loyalty to the truth, to the victims and their families, clashing with her exuberant personality.

With CSI on Fire resolved, Finn melts back into a rhythm with her ex-husband, also a component of her former life in Seattle, all seems right between Russell and her, a trademark of their friendship, forgiveness and acceptance.

Looking at their dynamic from the perspective of the actors who portray them, Ted Danson has referred to them as the bickersons, like oil and water, but at the same time, Finn/Elisabeth and her characters intrusiveness helps him do his job better and see things clearly when it comes to cases as well as other aspects of his characters life. Elisabeth meanwhile seemed to enjoy the back and forth dialogue and the testiness of their relationship, she seemed invested in their past in Seattle and wondered where the writers would take that.

In Homecoming, the season 12 finale, we see corruption and problems arise amongst the police force and Russell apologies for seeming to drag Finn into this mess and bringing her there to work but she states that she makes her own decisions and doesn’t seem bothered by the issues until she is thrown into the chaos of it all when she trails Crenshaw and stumbles into the violence they have created around them with the assistance of McKeen and Kimball.

The Finn and Russell dynamic gets tested here when Katie, Russell’s grand daughter is kidnapped and Finn attempts to save her. In the chaos, she sends Katie out into the unknown alone while she does battle with Crenshaw (a violent but epic struggle, major kudos to the stunt work they did here, it felt so real and made me love Finn even more, seeing how far Elisabeth was willing to take this character) Russell is devastated to learn Finn let Katie escape alone but is also distraught knowing both were hurt and in danger. His anger at Finn boils over when she insists she’s fine, how he refers to her as “Finn” on the phone instead of the sweeter Jules we are used to hearing, and when she discusses the case with him in the bedroom where Katie was taken from and he punched the wall, leading to a missed clue. Despite the resentment towards her, they figure out Katie’s whereabouts and stop McKeen from carrying out his plans. We can see and feel Finn’s guilt deep down for her mistakes, even if everything works out, the way she stands holding the phone, the way she looks at Moreno who tries to assure her it will be okay.

At the end of Karma To Burn, Finn and Russell reconcile again, not so much with words but in the way she snaps him out of his fantasy of ever having to use his gun in a real life situation, of how far he was almost pushed to the brink when it comes to saving his work family, not just Katie. His use of the nickname Jules on several occasions, something she claims to hate but also doesn’t, comes back when Barbara inquires if she will stay for dinner. All is well again.

The final blow and perhaps the deepest cut of their relationship occurs with the reopening of the Gig Harbor Killer case. From the get go, we start off with a bang, literally and figuratively. It is Russell who is at the mercy of Winthrop who demands he admit they did not capture the correct killer in order to relinquish Finn from the confines of her bomb invested car. With much reluctance, he admits their mistake and Finn is spared. The hug they share in the parking lot after she is freed breaks me every time and just further adds to the complicated but always present nature of their relationship. The next go around, Maya, Russell’s daughter is targeted, but this time, she is used as bait to try and lure the copycat out to play and be captured. When that fails, Finn unwillingly becomes the next target and once again Russell is thrown for a loop. This time however, there is no mercy, no chance at redemption, Finn is ripped from him violently and with no regard. Worse still, we get to see a tiny bit of his life afterwards, via CSI Cyber, when he observes another coma patient in Hack ER. Avery Ryan takes notice of his demeanor and quietly brings up Finn. Russell’s memories play out in quick flashbacks and we see where his heart belonged the entire time. He speaks of reading to her, hoping she’d wake up, then darkness, never to see her eyes pierce him again, no more bantar, no more snark, no more intrusiveness. The fact that almost a whole year later we get a resolution for Finn and get to see Russell pine for her one last time gives us closure and really showcases how strong this bond was for three and a half years.

I will always wish for a better outcome for Finn, as originally scripted, but somewhere in the chaos of writing and producing, we lost her. I will always be sad we didn’t get to see more of Russell at her bedside waiting for her to wake up. That emotion would have been so raw and real coming from Ted. These characters deserved a proper ending and reunification because it just wasn’t justified to wreck their metaphorical ship that was so strong and sailing along fine before colliding with the iceberg of violence. Nevertheless, this dynamic holds strong in my heart to this day. There are plenty more examples to pull from the show, every time they chatted about cases and made progress just by talking it out, every time they fought about their thought processes and reckless behavior, every soft sweet utterance of “Jules” will forever gut me, weaken me, bring me to my knees, but somehow give me strength. That’s how powerful their relationship was and appeared to me on screen, they were a paradox, love, hate, push, pull, oil and water as Ted stated before, give and take, and boy did they give me so much more than any naysayer could ever attempt to take from me. No matter where anyone stands on the fandom line, so much heart and soul went into Russell and Finn, and when you really sit down and watch and listen with perspective and acceptance, you can see it and feel it. I think that type of power transcends just your typical acting alone, it truly feels real. Give me that dynamic everyday, sign me up. I don’t think I’ll ever be as lucky as I was to witness such greatness on the screen between these two. Good things don’t happen twice, as I have unfortunately learned the hard way over the years, once it’s gone, it’s gone.

But in the heart and soul of Russell and Finn is an incredible ability to keep a stronghold on viewers like me, or maybe not, maybe I’m just crazy, but here were are, years after things have ended and the screen has faded to black.

[writethelifeyouwant]

Dive Bar, Ch. 4/?

Pairing: Dean x Sam,  Dean x OFC (Dany) x Sam (previous chapters)

Rating: 18+

Prompt/Summary: @spnkinkbingo square - Gay Panic (eventually, I don’t know how to write short things, so the gay panic comes later). Dany and Dean hit it off at a bar and Dean is confident it’s a sure thing. But Dean doesn’t know that Dany’s has a dare to complete, and he definitely didn’t imagine his night would end with his pull inviting his little brother to come home with them too.

WC: 2262

Warnings: angstttt, mentions of incest, brother/brother incest, mentions of blow jobs

Beta: my enabler - @negans-lucille-tblr​ 😘😘

Chapter 3

                                                            ***

At their next stop off, for a dinner that was slightly more substantial than their gas station lunch, they still weren’t talking. There was nothing to talk about besides what Dean resolutely refused to address, so Sam stuck to his silent treatment. 

Sam wasn’t sure why he wanted Dean to talk about the previous night so badly. If Dean turned around and asked him how he felt about what went down, he wouldn’t have a good answer. It was probably unfair of him to expect Dean, of all people, to be able to process it if not even Sam could. Okay, it was definitely unfair, Sam thought to himself. But in true little brother fashion, there was no way he was about to own up to that. 

Why did he have to make it such a big deal? Like Dean said, so they banged the same chick, so what? 

But that’s not all you did, that voice in Sam’s head pushed in again. You blew your big brother. Looked the man in the eye, the man who practically raised you, then sucked his cock down your throat. What the hell made you think that was a good play?

Dean had enjoyed it though, hadn’t he? It definitely sounded like he had. But how does that make it better, Sam, seriously? 

It does, he argued with himself. It does because if he enjoyed it too then it’s not just me that’s screwed to all hell. 

                                                              *

Dean could tell Sam was up in his head, obsessing over the night before. And the longer Sam stayed quiet, the more Dean worried about what he might be thinking about it. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what they’d done last night wasn’t normal. Wasn’t good. Except it was. It had been so fucking good he’d felt the ghost of Sam’s fingers and lips on his dick every time he had the misfortune to think about it again. And that had been a lot. That’s why you did the right thing shutting Sam up earlier, he reminded himself. Not the time to be popping random boners like a teenager. But the silence was making him self conscious as fuck. 

Once he’d made it through his burger, Dean pulled out his phone and started cold calling hunters, asking around for any leads in the midwest. They got a dime about a string of mysterious deaths about 100 miles south; violent and fairly improbable deaths. Very distracting. Thank god. 

The Impala was a little less tense now that they had a problem to solve. Their voices sounded a little less strained when they ran through the typical gamut of supernatural evil that could be causing all the mayhem they were driving for. 

When they made it into town, it was late enough that most reputable establishments would have been annoyed with them trying to get a room at that hour. Luckily, they didn’t stay in many reputable establishments, and the motel Dean pulled up next to didn’t bat an eyelid when two guys walked in with next to no luggage and wanted to pay in cash. They saw that a lot. 

Right now, Dean wasn’t wild about what they must have thought they were there for, and his insides were screaming out - Not here to fuck, I swear! Just your standard monster hunt. Nothing to see here. Not brothers sleeping with each other, that’s for sure. But as he couldn’t reasonably set the record straight, Dean left it, and strode back to the car to grab his duffle before cracking into their motel room. Sam followed close behind, slinging his own duffle onto his chosen bed. 

                                                            *

Exiting the bathroom after he’d gotten ready for bed, he was met with Dean holding a bottle of bourbon and wearing a conciliatory expression. Still silent, Sam nodded and accepted the glass Dean handed him a moment later. 

Sam settled onto his bed, already in just his t-shirt and boxers, and sipped quietly at his drink. Dean set his glass down on the table between them and took his own turn in the bathroom. He emerged in his typical sleep gear which, Sam all of a sudden remembered, was just his boxers. 

Jeez, put a shirt on. Sam tried to look anywhere other than at his very nearly naked brother, but it picked at him that if last night wasn’t a big deal, this shouldn’t bother him. It had never bothered him before. Although… Sam thought to himself. He had looked before, noticed the muscle definition, the odd freckle that hid behind the hair on Dean’s chest.  

Sam gulped down nearly half the bourbon in one go in an attempt to burn that thought out of his mind as quickly as possible. That is not how little brothers look at their big brothers. That is not how he looks at Dean. It’s just because he likes guys, at the very least he likes having sex with them. That much he’d come to terms with at college. And it’s not like there’s many dating opportunities in hunting, and Dean didn’t know anything about Sam’s broader sexuality so he wasn’t about to hook up with a guy at a bar when Dean was expecting him to take home a pair of boobs; or more typically, sulk off to the impala while Dean and his guest got their motel room for the evening. Dean was just the only guy around most of the time, that’s all. And since Jess, and then hunting, it had been years since he’d had the chance to to really look at another guy like that. So yeah, he looked, because Dean was not a bad thing to look at. 

But right now, Sam’s brain was at war with itself, one side wanting Dean to pull on a shirt and the sweats he’d wear when it got cold, and the other side wanting to peel off the last bit of fabric covering Dean’s skin so he could get a real look. And maybe another taste. And with that, Sam downed the rest of his drink, flicked off the table lamp, and quickly tucked himself under the covers with Dean at his back, who was left to stare blankly at a lump of blankets and messy hair, his full glass of whisky in his hand. 

                                                             *

Even though they’d driven a fair bit south of where they’d been yesterday, the grass still crunched under his boots when Sam trod across it the next morning. He’d already been out for a short run, and arrived back at the motel to find an empty room, with Dean presumably out looking for food. Sam settled himself with his laptop on a picnic table and rebooted the pages he’d had open the previous night at dinner when they started looking into this case. He brought up a new window to look into a thought he’d had on his run earlier. 

“This is a crappy park.” Dean arrived with their coffee and shoved a paper cup towards Sam, which he took gratefully.

Sam chuckled incredulously when he looked up to his brother, attention momentarily drawn away from his laptop screen. “The park is fine, Dean.”

“No swings. You gotta have swings in a park.” Dean shoved half his donut into his mouth.

Sam fixed him with an admonishing stare for a moment before letting out his amusement in a sharp exhale. “Okay, sure.”

“The swings were always your favourite. You don’t remember that?” Sam shook his head puzzledly. “Yeah,” Dean huffed in the way he does. “When you were a rugrat I couldn’t pull you off those things. Said it felt like flying.” 

Sam stared at him for a moment with something behind his eyes that Dean couldn't work out. He ran out of time to try; Sam’s hair fell back in front of his eyes when he looked down to his laptop again. 

“Hey, so, get this. I’ve been looking into the local lore and I think our victims -”

“How do you have wifi right now?” Dean asked through a mouthful of the other half of his donut.

“Phone hotspot. Want to focus for a second, Dean? People are, you know, dying here.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean grumbled. And he tried to focus on what Sam was saying about the creature that might be hanging out in the woods that he ran by that morning, Dean swore he was trying. But deciding to focus on Sam’s lips as a means to concentrate on the words that were coming out of them proved to be a thoroughly misguided strategy. Because the second he looked at Sam’s lips all he could think about was what they had looked like wrapped around his cock. What they’d felt like dragging across his skin. When Sam’s tongue flicked out to catch a drop of coffee that had beaded on the rim of the cup, Dean’s own tongue went dry, his breath caught in his throat. 

What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole? Dean hoped his distress wasn’t showing on his face. It seemed like he was doing a decent job at convincing Sam he was listening, because Sam was still talking. This was really gonna bite him in the ass later if he had no clue what Sam was saying this whole time. 

Maybe you want Sam to bite you in the ass? Fuck, no, stop it. Dean was used to arguing back and forth with some semblance of a moral compass, though it usually lost, but this time he needed it to win. He had just been sitting there remembering how he used to push a little Sammy on the swings when he was squirt sized. Jumping from that, to wanting him to suck you off does not make you a good brother. Know what it makes you? An asshole. He was supposed to protect Sammy, take care of him, not take care of him. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice saying his name cut through the noise in his head, and he looked up at his little brother. He hadn’t realised he’d been scrubbing his hands across his face, no wonder Sam was looking at him like a sad puppy right now. “You okay, dude?” There was a hint of annoyance but it was mostly concern.

“Yeah,” Dean blinked and ran his fingers up over his face to scrub through his hair. “Totally awesome.” 

“Okay, well,” Sam didn't seem convinced, but maybe he wasn’t in the mood to push it. “Let’s go get our fed suits on and head over there.”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.” Dean swung off the picnic bench and crumpled his coffee in one hand, tossing it to the nearest trash can. Sam snickered when it bounced off the rim, and flung his own to the same can from further back, landing it dead centre. Smirking, he set off with his laptop under his arm and Dean pulling faces behind him the whole walk back to the motel. 

“Where we heading again?” 

The glare Sam gave him made it clear he wouldn’t be getting an answer. 

                                                             *

By the time they’d made it to the local bar and restaurant that evening to grab some food and scrutinise the local wildlife for signs of supernatural proclivities, Sam was seriously confused. Dean had been acting off the whole day. And not just in the typical evasive act he pulled when he didn’t want to talk about his feelings, he was spacing out of conversations about perfectly mundane things. Witnesses had started getting annoyed with him after the third time he asked the same question Sam had literally seconds beforehand. When they’d been let into the room of one of the victims, a girl about their age - just out of college, he hadn’t made any jokes about her extensive stuffed animal collection (those bears were freakin’ everywhere man), or the vibrator not so skilfully hidden down the side of her bed. When Sam had switched the music in the car, no warning and no asking for permission, Dean hadn’t batted an eyelid. And Sam had changed it to smooth jazz. 

Now Sam was standing, bewildered, by a barrel serving as a table that he’d been about to sit down at, because when he’d grab Dean’s shoulder to direct him towards the one empty table in the vicinity of the bar, Dean had broken his grip so fast you’d have thought Sam had insulted their mother. Dean came back from the bar with two beers and some menus, dropping all of them unceremoniously onto the barrel-top, and that’s when Sam noticed. 

This was the first time Dean had taken off his fed jacket all day and now he was rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie, unwinding from the persona and his bracelets were gone. This was the weird thing to end all the weird things that Dean had done all day. Since Sam had given Dean those stupid bracelets nearly a decade ago, he couldn’t remember a single day when Dean wasn’t wearing them. 

It wasn’t like they were valuable or anything. It was wooden craft store beads and elephant-hair cord that Sam had strung together at a summer camp when he was twelve. And he’d been embarrassed to give them to Dean when he got home, wondered why he thought Dean would want some lame homemade souvenir, but Dean had coaxed the presents out of Sam, and insisted that he loved them. And that was that, they’d been on his wrists ever since. But not today. Sam’s lungs deflated. 

Fuck. 

***

Tags: @negans-lucille-tblr​ @hawkerz12​ @babybrotherandthedemon​ @dylansbabygirl24​ @mineshinamary​ @popsensationnicole23​ @spn-problems​ @donthateme454​ @doyouknowsamw​ @peridottea91​@delightfulbakeryaliendeputy @fictionallemons​ @petitgateau911​ @natastic​ @marvelfansworld​ @delightfullykrispypeach​ @akshi8278​ @crashlyrose​ @miufel​ @lyarr24​ @itsthedoctah10​ @kiss-my-peachy-arse​ @leftlokiofpuppy​ @tftumblin​ @devilsbby​ @alice101macwil​ @caitlinvd​ @j-ai-adore-dean​ @disneysloot​ @half-closeted-bi-girl​ @deandreamernp​

[brasskier]

Inspired by a prompt from @gods-no-longer-tread-here​, wherein Jaskier is tripping balls, Geralt is a recovering addict, and they’re both idiots. 

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. That was the point, he realized ironically somewhere in the murky crevices of his mind. The walls shuddered in careful tempo with his every stuttering breath, one of his friends mumbled about something languidly to his side, and if he stared long enough he was confident he might be able to count enough pixels to gauge the exact resolution with which he viewed the world. Colors melted into each other, into the music - Drake, maybe? He hadn't picked it - that floated somewhere in his periphery, into Jaskier himself. He was incredibly thirsty, so, so thirsty, and all he could remember were some cans of PBR and La Croix stocked haphazardly in the fridge that he wasn't sure he'd be able to tell apart anymore. He stumbled gracelessly, feet shuffling and knocking into each other.

"Jask?" His friend called to him - which one, he wasn't sure - and he froze, or at least tried to, pitching forward and catching on the doorframe. His friend faced him, and it was Essi. Or, it should've been Essi. Half of her face was gone, replaced by a black void accentuated only by an intangible flash of yellow where her eye should've been; the other half was skinned and charred, all blackened tendons and oozing blood. Jaskier stumbled back, tripped over the doorframe, sprawled his arms out in a clumsy, futile attempt to catch himself. 

"What the fuck," he panted, watching in horror as the black hole devoured the rest of her face until she was gone altogether. His breath heaved and caught in his throat while the walls continued to rattle with him. Time, already limping along sluggishly, seemed to screech to a halt completely. He ran a hand through his hair - it felt thick and wet like the black trash bags of spaghetti "intestines" they used to prepare in boyscouts for their annual haunted house. His heart bucked uncooperatively in his chest, and for a moment he thought he might just faint. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. And this was not a good trip.

No matter, no matter. Just get something to drink. If it's the seltzer it'll hydrate you; if it's the beer maybe it'll ease the comedown. He dragged his legs until they're beneath him and, brain buzzing about airily in his skull, gave up on walking and resolved to crawl his way to the fridge. Except, he just couldn't fucking reach. He jutted a hand out, fingers outstretched and grasping, but it's just past his fingertips. And every time he thought he'd drawn closer it was still just shy of his reach. He wanted to cry, but while the tears burned away at the corners of his eyes they refused to escape.

He needed to get out of that dingy campus apartment - fuck, was it his? Essi's? Was Valdo with them? - or at least have someone talk some damn sense into him. He staggered back to the living room, called out the names of friends that might be with him blindly, too afraid of what he might see if he dared look. He could see in 1080p, the pixels, he'd counted them, though he thought he'd read otherwise, but who was he to argue with his own math. 

"Look at it," a voice commanded somewhere, and he could just scarcely determine it was real and tangible and not a hallucination. "Don't you see it?" He tried to mouth the word no, but no sound came out. What was he even supposed to be looking at?

"Wanna watch something?" Another voice sneered. 

"Mmm, that Netflix show? That fantasy one, witches or something?" Jaskier didn't want to watch TV, he wanted to breathe again. He slid back, head resting on what he aimlessly realized was the couch. He could call an ambulance, but his fingers felt too rubbery and boneless to pull his phone out of his pocket, let alone actually command it. Besides, he couldn't remember the number. It's fine. He just needs to close his eyes and focus on his breath and he'll be just fine.

Jaskier was not just fine. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. He needed to get the fuck out of that apartment, out of his skin, out of his head. He's suffocating, drowning - wait, no. Shit. He's burning. His skin is bubbling and his lungs choke on thick black smoke and he's going to fucking die. He tears off his thrifted plaid flannel, claws at his sweaty gray tee but can't manage to get it over his head. Stripping wouldn't help him. He's on fire. He needed to leave. He needed to go to the hospital.

The hospital. It's a fucking college town. Oxenfurt's sprawling university hospital is looming and unmistakable. He'd been there before - the bike accident where he broke his arm, the bout of pneumonia where the doctor successfully convinced him to quit smoking (only lasted a few months, alas), the alcohol poisoning he dared not speak of. He could find it. Just had to escape. Left foot, right foot, that's it. He fumbles with the door handle, stumbles through and onto the sidewalk. It was dark out, but the street lamps were the sun, sulfurous yellow glimmering against fresh snow. The apartment behind him was ablaze, melting even; he could still feel it, and this renewed urgency propelled him forward. 

He ran, or at least his calves felt like he was running, but time marched so slowly he couldn't discern one pace or another. The sky was so dark, black even, gaping and never-ending, but the lights of apartments and buildings and street lamps were blinding. There was a 7-Eleven, and then he needed to make a left. Or maybe a right? He needed to turn, and then keep pushing, and then he'd be at the hospital and he'd be okay. He could get his burns treated and hope the scars didn't render his hands stiff and immobile - he was a jazz trombone major, after all, and he needed those hands.

The 7-Eleven was in view. It had been in view for hours. He wasn't sure if he was close or far or on another plane of existence from it altogether. But it was there. Which meant he had to turn. Right was a dead-end. It had to be left. He just had to cross the street. He looked left, and then right, and vomited into the snow from the dizziness of it all for a moment before trying again. Right. Coast is clear. Just move.

There's a flash of light and a squeal of rubber on pavement, and Jaskier watched his pitiful life flash before his eyes. When he opened them, he wasn't in the street but on his side in the snow, and it felt beautiful and cold and practically holy against his skin. Had he been hit? Had he never even stepped off the curb? How long had he been there?

"Hey!" A voice cried, and he fought against his twitching muscles to roll over and face it. "You alright?" It was a man, tall and broad and built like a mountain, with silver hair pulled into a messy bun and amber eyes and a worried scowl.

"Fire," Jaskier managed to mumble, curling tighter into himself. "Am I dead?" Recognition seemed to shine in the stranger's eyes.

"What did you take?" He drew closer, crouched next to him, and Jaskier recoiled frantically. He held his hands out, fingers tightly curled and nails digging into his palm, batted at the man blindly.

"Mmm, no!" He gasped, shoulders heaving with the effort. "Fuck off."

"Look, man," the stranger dropped his voice, low and hushed and gravely. "I know you're tweaking. I've been there. Just tell me what you took so I can fucking help you." He reached a hand out, calloused and worn and firm, and rested it on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier jerked - the burns, he couldn't touch them, they'd get infected, it would hurt, he can't - fuck, wait. There are no burns. The stranger kept his grip on his shoulder, and he could just faintly make out the slightest hint of track marks peeking out from the cuff of the man's sleeve.

"Acid," he muttered finally, following it with a long, shaky exhale. There are no burns. His mind reeled over the memory of the tab, bright green and printed with the smiling face of Bernie Sanders before melting away on his tongue.

"What are you doing out here?" The gruff voice commandeered his attention. 

"Hospital. Apartment was on fire." The snow ebbed and flowed beneath him, altogether more like a boat on the ocean than a snowbank in the middle of Oxenfurt University.

"Right. I'll take you there." The man wasted no time waiting for a response from Jaskier, simply snaked his arms around him and yanked him up. Jaskier struggled against his grip as he carried him to his awaiting car, overcome by the scent of cedarwood from the man's deodorant. "Chill out." The movement stopped finally, and Jaskier felt altogether too hot and freezing cold all at once.

"Feel sick," he managed to grit out past a clenched jaw. The man managed to ease him back to the ground in time for him to heave unproductively for a few more moments. 

"Name's Geralt, by the way," the voice rumbled, vibrating in Jaskier's chest as he was once again hoisted up and then deposited into the back seat of an unfamiliar car.

"Jaskier." Focusing on what the man - Geralt - was saying was too much effort. He let his head loll to the side, idly watching the lights streak past his window in a burst of fluorescent color before disappearing into the dark.

Geralt knew a tweaker when he saw one. While he'd never touched the shit in his nearly two years of addiction, he knew plenty of meth-heads adjacently. So when he spotted a young man trembling on the side of the road, brown hair and Oxenfurt t-shirt clinging to his skin with sweat even in the cold late-November night, he could guess what was going on. He didn't want to stop, he really didn't. He was four months clean, just coming off a late night security gig, and those people were bad news. He knows; he was one of them. But the kid - and he really did look like just a kid, probably not even 21 yet - didn't look ravenous and mad. He looked scared and sick and alone. So Geralt stopped.

The kid's pupils were blown to hell and back, confirming his suspicions when he got close enough to really get a good look. His cheeks were flushed a stark pink against pale skin and red-rimmed and dark-circled eyes. The kid was combative, but not as much as he would've expected, and he could feel him relax when his eyes ghosted over the track marks on his forearm. If the kid wanted to view them as kindred spirits, as cut from the same cloth, so be it if it calmed him down.

Acid. Huh. So he was a little off base. Leave it to the ex-junkie to leap to conclusions. But acid, meth, molly, it didn't matter. Either way, the kid was shaking like a leaf and strung out of his mind and Geralt reverted back autopilot from years of crashing on bathroom floors and dirty backyards. 

Jaskier hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he woke to find himself being jostled, carried, and blinded by bright, buzzing fluorescent lights. He struggled for a moment until the arms carrying him tightened their grip and a disembodied voice hummed his name, and memory came flooding back. The acid, the trip, the fire, the stranger. Geralt.

"Geralt?" He mumbled sleepily into the man's chest. "Where?" He gave up trying to manage the full sentence, chose instead to hope he was understood nonetheless.

"ER. You're safe." Jaskier did not feel particularly safe, but he was too exhausted to do much about that, so he just let himself remain limp and pliant in Geralt's arms. Geralt and other out-of-sight strangers talked around him, but he couldn't follow the conversation, couldn't track them as he was moved about. Before long he was deposited into a bed, heard the scrape of metal and rustle of fabric as the curtain was tugged closed, and finally blinked his eyes open at the introduction of a doctor hovering over him.

"I'm Dr Chireadan." A mouthful of a name Jaskier realized he was far too tongue-tied to pronounce. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Jaskier." He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, choosing to ignore the mottled bruises and scrapes where his fingernails had dug into his palms. "Jaskier Pankratz." 

"Alright, and can you tell me what's going on?" Could he? Just the thought of recounting the events that led him to that moment sent panic drumming in his chest.

"Did some acid with friends," he explained shakily. "Thought the… thought the apartment was on fire, thought I was burning." The doctor nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. Geralt longued in a chair pushed against the wall, phone in his hand but not looking at it.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Now? Like I got hit by a campus bus," he quipped, enjoying the raised eyebrow it elicited from his new companion. 

"Well, that's not terribly surprising. Your temperature is a little elevated, but your heart rate is coming down nicely, so we're just fighting dehydration at this point." Jaskier bobbed his head as if he was really particularly processing his statement. "A nurse is going to swing by, take some blood so we can make sure nothing else was mixed in there, and then get you on some IV saline. That'll have you feeling much better." 

"Sounds good." Jaskier was sleepy, unsure of what time it was at this point, and still distinctly disoriented. The doctor moved back towards the curtain, swung it open but stopped with one foot still in the room.

"One of our social workers will be down to talk to you," he added. "Psych evaluation. It's mandatory." Then he turned his gaze to Geralt, gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and with that he was gone. Jaskier wasted no time before flopping to his side, curling up, and falling asleep.

He was roused again by a nurse gently tugging his arm free from where he had it wrapped tight around his middle. She was chatting idly with Geralt, and there seemed to be some level of familiarity between the two.

"There you are, honey," the nurse remarked, fiddling with syringes and vials and whatever else was laid out on the little steel tray. "Deep breath for me?" He obliged. "Alright, and a quick pinch." The needle disappeared into the soft skin on the inside of the crook of his arm, and he watched the blood flow out of his body in a trance. "How are you feeling? Stomach bothering you?" She nodded at the hand still clutching at his abdomen.

"A little," he admitted, diverting his gaze, counting ceiling tiles. "Just tired." 

"All done," she announced as she withdrew the last vial, hooking up the tubes that dangled from the floppy bag of clear liquid he could reasonably reckon was the saline. He returned to the fetal position, tucked his chin to his sternum. "Here. In case you need to be sick." He cracked an eye open, took note of cardboard basin now resting on the bed beside him, and offered little by way of acknowledgement.

"Thanks." Someone tugged the blanket up to cover him, and he didn't terribly care whether it was Geralt or the nurse. The pair, seemingly under the impression that Jaskier was asleep, resumed their conversation. 

"What are you doing, Geralt? You're supposed to be staying out of trouble."

"Trouble found me." Jaskier suddenly felt impressively guilty. What a fuck-up he was, dragging a total stranger into his stupid mistakes. "I couldn't just leave him there. You understand."

"You have to be careful," the nurse scolded him. Jaskier felt like a lame dog, the kind that most drive past, until eventually someone bothered to sweep him up, drop him at the vet's, and then go on with their life. Should've just put me down, the darker recess of his mind supplied, and he pushed away the thought as quickly as it had cropped up. "You can't jeopardize your recovery."

"I'm not," Geralt argued back. She tutted, and Jaskier could hear the sweep of the curtain again. He drifted back to sleep.

The hospital was on fire. He could taste the smoke and tears and copper tang of fear. He bolted upright in his bed, but - for fuck's sake - he was restrained. They thought he was crazy, bound his wrists and ankles in leather shackles. He jerked and pulled, thrashed about in the bed, kicked and screamed. Anything. He had to escape. He couldn't do this again. He had to get free. He had to--

"Jaskier!" That voice. He fought to find it, locked eyes with Geralt, and clawed his way back into reality. The hospital was not on fire. He was not restrained. Angry red scratch marks streaked up his wrists. "Breathe with me." Jaskier exhaled in a rush of stale air, a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and rooted around blindly until he found Geralt's hands and clasped on. "Good. In four, out four." In four, out four. He could do that, it was no more than the breathing exercises he used to practice every day back when he marched drum corps. 

"Sorry," he choked once his breath had finally settled. He did not let go of Geralt's hands. "Nightmare."

"I know. Just take it easy." Finally, Geralt managed to worm his hands free of Jaskier's white-knuckle grasp, settled back into his dutiful bedside vigil while Jaskier dropped back to sleep.

The hours (were they hours? Time was still weird) passed in a dizzying barrage of dreams and nightmares punctuated by occasional bursts of lucidity. He overheard the nurses, the doctors - it sounded like Geralt was popular amongst the hospital staff. There was a phone call, an even deeper voice presumably belonging to Geralt's father on the other line, reminding him that he was supposed to stop messing with Jaskier's "kind".

The psychiatric evaluation was the worst of it, however brief if might've been. For whatever godforsaken reason he demanded Geralt stay, then limped through an explanation of his exhausted psyche in front of the virtual stranger. The very nice, very attractive stranger. (Shut the fuck up, Jask. Keep it together.) Yes, he had borderline. Yes, here's the self-inflicted cigarette burns welted into the flesh of his upper arm. Yes, he drank, but he was 22 (Geralt made a surprised noise at this revelation) and well within his right to. Yes, he dabbled with drugs, but why not when you're too numb most of the time to fret about the consequences? 

Eventually, finally, he was discharged. He still felt foggy and altogether not great, and he'd have to remember to email his professors and let them know he was taking a sick day before he went back to bed. It was morning light when Geralt helped him back to his car, a beat-up old Corolla probably as old as Jaskier himself. When they finally made it to Jaskier's apartment, Geralt fished around for a pen and scribbled his number onto the little Narcotics Anonymous meeting card the social worker had slipped him. Jaskier uttered his thanks, smiled fondly, and disappeared.

It was two weeks later when he found himself in a meeting, awkward and lingering in the back of the room, clad in his Conservatory of Music hoodie and black skinnies, cast in orange by the low light. Eventually someone managed to talk him into speaking, and though he young and naive and stupid he agreed. His mom always said he had a way with words, after all.

"I'm not addicted to acid," he began tentatively. "Or any other one drug, for that matter. I'm addicted to escaping. Even a bad trip is better than facing reality." He raked an unsteady hand back through his hair. "It doesn't matter the drug, I'll take it. Since I started smoking at fourteen, self-medicating a disorder I wouldn't even be diagnosed with until eighteen." He scanned the crowd of attendees, understood wordlessly he was in the company of addicts who probably had it far worse than he could ever know, who probably found his struggles trivial and petty. And yet, there was nothing but quiet understanding and empathy on their faces. "But now I can't get through a weekend sober. Can't write for my composition classes without getting high first." His gaze settled on Geralt, tucked in the corner, eyebrows knitted in sympathy. "So I'm not really too sure how I'm supposed to get clean when the problem isn't some drug, but my personality, who I am." He sucked in a deep breath, flashed the slightest smile at Geralt. "But I have to do something." 

He left as soon as he'd finished speaking, still reeling from the vulnerability of it, denim trucker tugged tight against the winter chill. A hand caught his wrist, and god, could he recognize those rough fingers anywhere.

"Jaskier." It was Geralt, just a step or two behind him. "Do you want to get coffee?" Jaskier's shoulders relaxed; at least he hadn't offered to get drinks.

"Yeah. I'd like that." He busied himself with fixing his jacket and hair, falling into step beside Geralt. He couldn't help but smile. So much for staying out of trouble.

[need-a-fugue]

We Grow Together - Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right? 

Warning(s): some angst, some emotional and mental turmoil… some bad language words... much fluff

Author’s Note: It’s Christmas in July! This is the second in the Supernova Series -- an AU wherein Bucky Barnes gets the girl, and a chance at a new life after finding Steve post-Winter Soldier. -- and it all begins with their first Christmas together.

“Yeah, I know,” he hears her say, voice muffled behind the door. Then, “I know. I didn’t forget,” after a long pause. She must be on the phone, he realizes when no other voice sounds in response. He knocks lightly before letting himself in.

“I will,” she says in an exasperated tone as she turns to face him, showing him a one minute finger. “I promise.”

He sets the grocery bags down on the counter and starts to unpack them while she finishes her call.

“Yes. I love you too,” she intones with a slight laugh. “Okay. Merry Christmas.” And she hangs up the phone. “What is all this?” she says with forced cheer as she turns back to face him.

“I’m making you dinner,” he mumbles, as he twists around, looking for somewhere on the cluttered countertops to set things down. “This place is a disaster.”

She pulls up a stool at the breakfast bar, rests her chin on her hand, and watches him work. His brow furrows in either confusion or disgust, or maybe both, as he shifts piles of papers and empty cans and bottles to make room.

He looks up at her and notices a melancholy, far off look in her eyes as she follows his movements. “Who do you love?” he asks simply.

She startles a bit. “What?”

“On the phone,” he states, pulling out a garbage bag from the cabinet. “You said, I love you too.”

He starts to toss the bottles and cans into the bag. “I’m recycling those,” she says, pointing to the trash in his hands. “Don’t throw them in with the trash.”

“Recycling,” he utters under his breath. It’s still a new concept to him. Of course so is all of the plastic people use nowadays. “You shouldn’t drink this crap anyway,” he says, holding up a few empty energy drink cans. “It’s poison.”

She rolls her eyes. “You sound like Natasha.”

He ties up the now full trash bag and stops everything else to gaze at her. She looks down, has for days. The holidays can have that effect on people, he’s no stranger to it himself. But he misses her smile. “So, who do you love?” he asks again, an impish quality to his voice.

“Just a friend,” she singsongs. “No need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried. I just thought you might be talking to your family.”

She sighs, long and drawn out. “Yep. My family.”

“Or is it just a friend?”

“Same thing, I guess,” she says before propping herself up on the stool and leaning over the bar to look at the food he’s unpacked. “What are you making me?” she asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Christmas dinner,” he says with a nod. He turns around to flip on the oven and begins rummaging through the cabinets of the small galley kitchen. He comes up with a couple of small pots and a large roasting pan that she honestly didn’t know were even in there. Pepper had made sure that everyone’s apartment was fully stocked before they moved in. But she’d been here for more than two years now and had never come across those items before. Of course, she didn’t often go looking for cooking utensils. What would be the point in that when there was a perfectly good cafeteria downstairs and a common area upstairs that was always stocked with food?

“Christmas is tomorrow. And I think Tony’s expecting everyone in the grand hall,” she says, referring to the small ballroom just below the penthouse where their parties were typically held.

“Well,” he says turning to face her, leaning his hip against the oven, “tonight is our Christmas.” He shoots her a sly but genuine smile and she can’t help but return the expression.

“And you can do that?” she asks, leaning so far over the bar that she’s practically crawled on top of it. She’s looking through the piles of fresh vegetables and herbs that he’s laid out on the counter beneath the bar. “You know how to cook all of this?”

He walks over and lightly slaps her hands away. “Yeah, Tess. I can cook carrots and potatoes.” He side-eyes her as he gathers the produce and takes it to the sink. “You really have no idea how to cook anything, do you?”

She shrugs. “Never really came up.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I never really had to learn.”

She never talked about her family or where she came from or how she grew up. And other than a few questions here and there – because he was genuinely curious – he never pushed. It was obvious that her past was a bit of a sore subject, and no one understood that concept better than him.

She leaves her perch and comes to stand beside him at the sink. “You wanna wash these?” he asks, handing her some carrots. She takes them and runs them under the water. “You know how to peel?” he inquires, holding a potato in front of her.

“I can probably figure it out.”

He sets her up at the sink with a vegetable peeler – which she’d never seen either, oddly enough – and moves to the opposite corner to start prepping the chicken.

“Your mom taught you how to cook?” she asks quietly.

He nods, “She did. She said that she’d feed me ‘til I was 18, then I was on my own. And since she didn’t expect that I’d find a good woman to take care of me for a long time, I’d better learn how to fend for myself.”

Tessa laughed lightly. “Sounds like she knew you well.”

Bucky smiles to himself as he thinks back, remembering his mother’s words, her coy, crooked smile as she said them. “Yeah, she did.”

“I never knew my mom,” she says so softly, he almost doesn’t hear her. “Or at least I don’t remember her.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder at her and sees that she’s still bent over her potatoes, hyperfocused on peeling them just so. She makes no move to look at him, and he’s pretty sure that’s by design. It’s almost a test – seem too eager to know more and she’ll shut down completely, say nothing at all and she might never bring up her family again. He plays this game himself sometimes, not on purpose of course, but he’s noticed himself doing it just the same. Over the last year, since being brought into the fold here, he’s become more aware of how his struggles with his past affect those around him.

“Who raised you?” he asks, turning back to the chicken. It seemed safer to ask something like his than to push her on what happened to her mother.

“My grandfather for a while. Then Scott and Alex took us in.”

“Us?” he asks. He hears the peeler hit the side of the sink as soon as he says it, and he shuts his eyes, mentally kicking himself. She was talking and now he’s gone and ruined it. Is this how people feel around me? he wonders briefly.

She’s silent for a long moment as she retrieves the peeler and rinses it off. “Me and my sister,” she says finally, the words clipped short.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Maybe we come back to that later, he thinks to himself before asking, “Who are Scott and Alex?”

“My brothers,” she volunteers, this information coming out a little easier. “Well, adoptive. Sort of. After my grandfather died… no one wanted us. We didn’t have any other family. And no one would adopt a mutant.” She stops for a moment and he thinks that she might be done talking altogether. He’s just about to ask something else, anything else, just to keep her going, when she starts up again. “Most mutants don’t see their powers develop until puberty. I was four when it started. My grandfather never told anyone. But… I don’t know… I was just a kid… I don’t know how people found out. But Scott found us, or we found him. We met in a children’s home outside of Chicago. He was an orphan too. And Alex.” Bucky turns around to see her, watch her as she slowly, carefully peels each potato while talking about her brothers. “Scott was 15 at the time and he was just trying to find Alex, who’d aged out of the system.” She sets the peeler down and looks up at the cabinet in front of her, clearly gazing at nothing as she recalls, “He took care of us. He became our big brother. And when Alex found him and said he was taking him away to some school in upstate New York, Scott said that we needed to go with them.” She braces herself on the counter and shakes her head at the memory. “It was more… complicated than that, of course. But eventually Alex was able to become our legal guardian – after the Professor pulled a ton of strings. And then… well, I grew up at that school.” She turns around to face him, not at all surprised to see him watching her from across the small kitchen. “Hence not knowing how to cook.”

“So it was like a boarding school?” She nods. “I always thought you’d have to be crazy to go somewhere like that. I always figured they were like the Army, like basic training, only with more books and tests.”

She laughs a bit and leans back on the counter before saying, “Sometimes, maybe.” Then, shaking her head slightly, “It was a good place. With good people.”

He considers only briefly whether or not to ask the question begging to be asked. “So why are you here then? At Christmas… why aren’t you with your family?”

She looks at him long and hard before saying in a measured tone, “Same reason you aren’t with your family. They’re all dead.”

He sees the pain in her eyes when she says it, but he can also see the resolute tilt of her chin, the firm line of her lips. She’s doing all she can to make it seem okay, to fight off the sadness. That’s a trick he knows all too well. He looks away, knowing he can’t do anything to take away her pain breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.

She merely nods in response. “So,” she breathes out after a moment, “am I supposed to cut these up now or something?” She indicates the peeled potatoes on the counter.

He pushes off of the counter and goes to fill a large pot with water. “Nope,” he says, placing the pot on the stove and holding his hand out for them. “Now we boil them.”

She wrinkles her nose while handing over the potatoes. “Boil them?” she asks with a face. “That sounds gross. Are you sure we aren’t supposed to fry them or something?”

He chuckles. “Don’t you know how mashed potatoes are made?”

She thinks for a moment, making a totally new, completely adorable face. “From a box?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, doll,” he laughs, shaking his head.

She scoots a bit closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder. “So you boil them and then you mash them?”

“Basically. Add butter and cream,” he replies, leaning his head onto hers.

“We’re not boiling the chicken, are we?”

He smiles wide. “No room in the pot.”

She steps back suddenly, cocking her head at him in an assessing way. “This isn’t my Christmas present, is it? A sarcastic cooking lesson?”

“You were expecting a present?” he asks, unable to hide the coy smirk on his face.

She rolls her eyes at him rather dramatically and he steps away from the stove to stand directly in front of her. His hands fall to her hips as he presses his forehead into hers. “Presents are for later,” he says softly. “It isn’t Christmas yet, remember?” He pulls back a bit and places a kiss on her crown. “And I’m not giving you a lesson. I’m making dinner.” He gives her a little shove with his left hand as he turns her toward the kitchen doorway. “You are going to take a bath,” he says, all but forcing her out of the room.

“Why? Do I stink?” she tosses over her shoulder with a wink.

“I don’t trust you in here. Go relax.”

She leans back over the breakfast bar on her way to the bathroom and says, “It’s been a long day. You might want to check on me to make sure I don’t fall asleep in there.”

He glances back at her and notices just how tired she looks. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says before throwing his chin in the direction of the bathroom in a shooing manner.

                                                          000

An hour later, she’s back in the kitchen, this time cutting up apples for a pie. “Can’t you buy this stuff in a can?” she asks before letting out a long drawn-out yawn.

“That’s disgusting.” He absently scoots a little closer to her, unconsciously drawn to the clean honeysuckle scent clinging to her damp hair. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

She snorts out a laugh. “Just because it’s harder doesn’t mean it’s better. I’ve eaten ready-made pie filling before. And it was delicious.”

He stops pressing the dough into the pan and turns to face her, a look of utter horror on his face. “You ate pie filling?” he asks. She nods without glancing up. “As in, just the filling?”

“It was college. I was poor. Those cans were cheap.” She tosses the last pieces of apple into the bowl between and them and cocks her head in his direction. “I had a can opener. I had a spoon. And I have to tell you, that shit is de-licious.”

He shakes his head as though he might be able to fling the thought of her eating that crap out of a can like a deranged homeless person right out of his head. “We’re never speaking of this again.”

They work in silence as she tosses the apples with the melted butter and sugar he set out and he checks the potatoes. It’s nice. He can’t remember the last time he cooked a big meal like this. And while he and Steve sometimes have to dodge each other in their kitchen while putting together meals, he hasn’t really cooked with anyone in a long, long time. Actually, this whole evening reminds him of cooking with his sister. Being so much younger, she was always at a bit of a loss for what to do. Like Tessa, she turned her nose up at raw chicken, couldn’t fathom how myriad ingredients came together to make food, and spent a good deal of time pilfering anything mixed with sugar.

“If you keep eating them, there won’t be anything to fill the pie with,” he says softly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She holds her hands up in mock surrender and takes a step back from the counter. He hears the apple crunch in her full mouth and can’t help but snicker as she attempts to choke down the evidence. “I’m hungry,” she whines then. “I can smell the food, but I can’t eat the food. It’s terrible.”

He dumps the apples into the pie pan before she can go back for more, sets the pie aside and washes his hands. “It’s almost ready,” he says, reaching for her. “You’re being very patient.”

She snuggles into his chest as his arms wrap around her. “Thank you for noticing,” she says with a smirk.

It’s actually more than hour before they can eat, but that isn’t entirely his fault. Yeah, the chicken took a little longer than he thought, but she’s the one who got a call and ducked out for “just a second” to check on something happening in the lab.

“Helluva second,” he says to her as she stomps back into the apartment almost an hour late. He has the table set and is sitting there with a beer in his hand and a smug smile on his face.

“I’m starving,” she drawls out, dragging herself dramatically over to the table.

“Why is anyone even up there?” he asks, referring to the research lab upstairs. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

She slumps into the seat across from him, rests her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands. “It’s Stark Industries. Places like this are built on people who work holidays. Well, people who work all days, really. Every. Single. Day.”

“I remember having Christmas dinner with Howard,” he says, a far-off look gleaming in his eye for just a moment as he grasps at the old memory. “I think.” The memory is fuzzy, like so many others. But he’s sure that Howard was there, sure that he bought in turkey and roast potatoes and red wine – damn the rationing. He’s sure that he stood and gave a speech that lasted at least 10 minutes, even if he can’t recall a word that was said.

“Are these my plates?” she asks, pulling him from his reverie.

He looks up to find her examining the china closely, confused look on her face. He reaches over and plucks the plate from her hands. “They were in the top cupboard,” he says. “You’re probably too short to ever been able to find them.” He picks up his dish too and goes into the kitchen to prepare their plates. When she makes a move to get up to follow him, he turns and throws up his left hand in a stop gesture, waggling his index finger as a directive for her to sit back down.

“I’m not short,” she mumbles, resuming her head-in-hands position at the table. “I’m above average height for a woman.”

“Well then maybe you were too busy eating out of cans like a hobo to notice that you had fine china,” he intones from the kitchen.

“No one says hobo anymore.” She’s raises her head to look at the table in front of her, see if the silverware is at least the same that she normally uses. It is. The wine glass in front of her is a utensil she is more than familiar with. She perks up a bit, noticing the light liquid inside. “What’s this?” she asks, picking up the glass and taking a large inhale. Oaky. And… peachy?

“I don’t know,” he replies, returning and setting a full plate in front of her. “But the lady at the store said it was good.”

“It is,” she declares, as the just-dry-enough chardonnay slips down her throat.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up in a small, crooked smile as he takes his seat across from her. “Good.” He looks over at her and watches her eyes close as she takes another sip. He can tell that she’s enjoying the wine, and he’s pleased about that, but he can also see the exhaustion on her face, the dark circles under her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. “Eat,” he directs, more than a little upset with himself for telling her it was fine to go check in at the lab.

She sets down her wine glass and picks up her fork with an excited, almost beaming expression on her face. They eat in silence for several minutes, Bucky eating like a normal person and Tessa shoveling mashed potatoes into her mouth like a starving toddler.

“You’re gonna choke,” he says finally, laughing.

Her mouth is full when she replies. “No.” Then, following the massive gulp, “I didn’t know this was what mashed potatoes were,” she says with a big, dumb smile. “And the chicken too…” He looks down as the food in front of him, averting his eyes as an unwelcome blush takes over his face. “It’s soooo good.”

“It’s really not that hard,” he says, shyly shuffling the vegetables on his plate with his fork.

He feels the top of her bare foot slowly creep up his leg as she says, “I’ve never had a guy make dinner for me before.”

“Really?” he asks incredulously. Her foot continues to slowly stroke his calf, which only adds to the redness in his cheeks.

“Well, Steve made me pizza once. And chicken soup. Oh and we experimented with sushi one night,” she recalls, waving her fork in the air. “But I guess that doesn’t really count.”

He looks up at her pointedly. “It better not.”

“Does that mean that pizza and sushi don’t count as dinner or that Steve doesn’t count as a guy?”

“Yes,” he says simply, feeling his cheeks cool as the sound of her laughter fills his ears.

Her foot has made the move from his calf to his inner thigh, and while the blush of embarrassment may no longer be on him, another awkward-for-dinner-time feeling is starting to take over. “You have no idea,” she starts in a low, seductive voice, “how much I’m looking forward to filling my mouth,” she continues, leaning forward, her toes creeping along the inseam of his pants, “with that apple pie.”

Her foot drops suddenly as she leans back in her chair, popping another bite of chicken into her mouth with a smug, satisfied smirk. He rolls his eyes as a deep chuckle emits from his chest. “You are…”

“Amazing?” she tries, mouth still full. He shakes his head and purses his lips like he’s trying to come up with the right word. “Perfect?” she asks with a swallow.

“Definitely not.”

“Beautiful?”

“Not quite what I was thinking.”

She sighs long and deep. “Brilliant? Sexy? Smart? Loyal? Coquettish?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Honestly, I just keep coming back to amazing,” she says with a shake of the head.

He gazes at her from across the table, crooked smile slowly widening as she takes another bite and lets out a tiny blissful moan. “I was going to say a real jerk. But I like amazing,” he says with a nod. “It fits.”

“Yeah, it does,” she says with a smirk.

They finish the meal without words, just enjoying the food and enjoying knowing that the other is sitting right across the table. As soon as Bucky leans back in his chair, plate clean in front of him, Tessa gets up to collect the dishes. His hand comes up and takes hold of her wrist when she reaches in front of him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and easily slipping his grasp. “Need another beer?” she asks, grabbing the empty bottle along with the plate. He nods happily and settles back in his chair.

His gaze drifts towards the window as she heads into the kitchen. “It’s snowing,” he says, almost to himself. He hears the clatter of dishes hitting the sink and cringes. “You okay in there?”

She appears suddenly around the corner, beer in hand, bright smile on her face. “It isn’t Christmas without snow,” she says, completely ignoring his question. She offers him the bottle and he grabs her wrist instead and pulls her into his lap.

“So what was Christmas like at mutant military school?” he asks as she settles herself in.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Quiet. Quieter anyway. A lot of the kids would go home for the holidays.” She takes a quick swig of his beer and lays her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she repeats before going silent.

He brings up his right hand up to her head and runs his fingers through her hair. “I remember snowball fights,” he says. “And my mom yelling at me about catching pneumonia after coming home with wet mittens.” He chuckles a bit at the memory, but feels a surge of sadness at the same time. Because it’s one of just a handful of memories he still has of his mother, and of his childhood in general.

“Will you cook me Christmas dinner every year?” she asks softly.

He can hear the hesitation in her voice and it makes his chest constrict a bit. They don’t talk about the future. He’s still not entirely sure that someone like him can even really have a future. And sometimes he thinks she feels the same way about herself. But there’s not a doubt in his mind that if he gets a real chance at a future at all, she’ll be in it. “Every year,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on her head.

She turns in his lap to face him. “We could go have a snowball fight, if you want,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Work up an appetite for pie?”

He laughs heartily and she takes that as a yes, jumping up from his lap and running into the bedroom to find her boots. “It just started snowing,” he calls after her.

“I don’t care,” she yells back. Then, stumbling out of the bedroom as she struggles to get her boots on, “We can just take a walk until it builds up.”

He stands up and moves over to her, wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her in close. She hugs him tightly back, burying her face in his neck. He breathes in the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo, feels her fingertips grasp his shoulder. “I love you,” he says into her hair.

Without missing a beat, without even acknowledging that this was something new, something neither of them had ever said before, she grips him a little tighter and utters in return, “I love you too.”

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

The Mothman Prophecies

I know nothing about this gem from 2002, but Wes requested I review this, and I am very excited. Here are my initial questions - is it a man that looks like a moth or a moth that looks like a man? Only time will tell, I suppose. This movie is supposedly based on a true story of some weird happenings in West Virginia in the 60s, and the Mothman legend has persisted for decades - they even hold a Mothman festival every year (during non-Covid times of course). So who is this mysterious figure who goes bump in the night? And what exactly is he prophesying? Well...

Let’s just say the movie is playing fast and loose with some kinda sorta weird stuff that maybe possibly happened to a few people one time. Basically, based on some Wikipedia research, this movie is probably about as accurate as a Maury Povich lie detector test. The summary of the movie is that John Klein (Richard Gere) and his wife Mary (Debra Messing) are a normal happy suburban couple when something weird happens to Mary - she sees something strange, gets into a car accident, and subsequently passes away. As John grieves and searches for answers, he finds himself inexplicably in a small town in West Virginia even though he was on his way somewhere completely different - and this town is experiencing the same kind of weird stuff Mary did before she died. John begins investigating, and eventually he starts getting contacted by Mr. Moth, and that’s when things REALLY go off the rails. 

Some thoughts:

First clue that this is an early 2000s relic: Richard Gere is a “star reporter” and he and his wife are looking to buy an enormous new house. Second clue: the credits, which feature out of focus streetlights, a time lapse of a clock ticking down the minutes, and music by a musical arrangement called tomandandy.

Side note - I think “Tom an’ Dandy” would be an excellent name for an old timey vaudeville act.

Ohh get it, the shape on Mary’s CAT scan turns into wings with red eyes. LIKE THE MOTHMAN. 

Incidentally, I’ve been saying “Moth-mun” in my head instead of Moth Man, and that’s really been adding to the experience for me. 

Now they’re trying to make the reflectors at the top of construction barrels seem menacing. We are already stretching the suspension of disbelief that moths can be scary, now construction barrels?  

They’re really pulling out all the stops. When Richard Gere gets bad news, the heavy strings kick in alongside the sound of a beating heart that abruptly stops. Do you see - because Mary’s heart stopped. I know, this is groundbreaking stuff. That’s just a subtle filmmaking tip from me to you - it’s free, I won’t charge you for it or anything.

When a movie character flips through a disturbing journal full of angry sketches or words written over and over again, all I can think of is how much fun the art department had making that journal.

This movie does a great job of portraying what it feels like to be a stranger in a small, broke, busted town. The curious looks, the feeling that you’re just not wanted. 

These transitions are....a choice. I can’t tell if they’re aping The Ring or if director Mark Pennington cut his teeth on music videos for groups like Trapt or Breaking Benjamin, [ETA: I was close - 76 directing credits on IMDB and at least 60 of them are music videos] but he’s throwing everything at the wall and seeing what sticks. We’ve got full red filter obscuring the screen, just a general focus blur, sometimes the transition looks like that shitty Photo Booth filter on old Macbooks that looks like you’re drawn in pencil. It’s distracting as hell and just so....not the atmosphere this story deserved. 

I say that because the story itself is incredibly compelling - I think most horror and thriller films work best when they’re rooted in grief because nothing is more terrifying than the threat of losing that which we love most. And the events are ambiguous enough that you can’t tell how much of it is the trauma John is experiencing, and how much of it is legitimately supernatural. That being said, I wish the scares were more effective? As soon as Mr. Moth starts calling on the phone (under the alias Indrid Cold) things get decidedly weirder but also less...coherent. 

This movie feels particularly relevant as we watch John descend further and further into his obsession. He rejects any and all rational explanations for the events taking place and the “prophecies” he’s receiving. Where his obsession is fueled by grief and the need to understand the un-understandable, I see the same fear in him that I see in the QAnon supporters who are fueled by white supremacist rage and fear at losing their position in the world. The difference is, John’s delusion really only destroys himself. Not so much with QAnon, unfortunately. 

Laura Linney is absolutely wasted as a small town cop who gets drawn into John’s schemes. She has more of an arc in her 8 minutes of screen time in Love Actually than she does in this. #JusticeForLauraLinney

Did I Cry? I teared up once the wheels of the final prophecy started in motion. For all the other bonkers choices in this movie, this sequence is genuinely terrifying and so drawn out that it feels like you’re actually trapped in the middle of a disaster along with everyone else. It’s absolutely horrifying. This is BY FAR the strongest sequence in the film. It reminded me a lot of the later Final Destination films that really draw out the tension during the initial disaster sequence to an absolutely exquisite, agonizing degree.

This is a weird one. There’s no real resolution or catharsis, no explanation for all of the weird things we’ve just seen. Just a lingering sense of unease. It’s not...unsatisfying, but it’s not really satisfying either. Obviously I went to Wikipedia right after this was done, and that kind of dashed my hopes of the enduring mystery of this legend. It sounds pretty uh...not real. Which is a bummer, because I’m very into reading about weird paranormal things, and if things had happened the way the movie said they did, I would be a Mothman Truther 4 Lyfe. As it stands, this is one cryptid whose legend leaves something to be desired. Looks like nothing can replace Nessie as the cryptid of my heart <3. 

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[jemej3m]

radio silence (chapter 2: andrew and aaron)

andrew starts taking his medication and aaron hates it just as much as his brother does, especially seeing as the pills wont even let him say it 

(heavy tw for mentions of matricide, canon-typical violence, sexual assault (thanks giving, andrew’s perspective), medication and drake’s murder) 

*

Andrew supposed he’d deserved it when Aaron went silent on him after Tilda died and Andrew forcefully shut Aaron into the bathroom of their new place to get clean, but it was still never silent.

There was always someone there at the other end of the line. Someone breathing down the phone, waiting to hear whatever you said. It was comforting only because it was all Andrew had ever known, unable to fathom what it was like to be completely alone.

When Andrew had been forced onto his medication after his perhaps over-enthusiastic response to Nicky being pushed around by a bunch of assholes outside Eden’s, a new kind of buzzing filled his head. 

Static. Grainy, grainy static. An external pressure, squeezing around his temples like his head was stuck in the clouds, thousands of miles above normal altitude. He hated the way it felt but there was nothing he could do about it, the grin curling on his lips without consent.

The first time Aaron had spoken to him in months was in the quiet of a dark kitchen. Nicky was asleep in his room. Andrew was making hot cocoa and unable to sleep because he’d taken his dosage too late. He’d noticed Aaron lingering by the kitchen’s entrance and refused to say anything, letting the false cheer dangle off the tip of his spoon as he watched droplets of hot cocoa slip off the aluminium surface, back into his mug. It’d long gone cold.

“I can’t hear you,” Aaron said, finally finding his spine to talk to his loony twin. “I can’t—reach out to you. It’s silent.”

“Well,” Andrew drawled, tempted to laugh. “Isn’t that a shame?”

“I hate it,” Aaron hissed, contradictory in every way. “We’ve never—we’ve never been apart before. I hate it. Can’t we—can’t you appeal?”

“Oh, Aaron,” Andrew lamented, hand over his heart. His brother’s vulnerabilities were cute, but there was no way Andrew would share his own. Not out loud. “You should go cry to someone who’s capable of caring. Because that person is definitely not me.” He grinned, arching an eyebrow.

“This isn’t you,” Aaron said, resolutely. As he paced back into the hallway, he repeated himself. “This isn’t you.”

Andrew simply laughed.

*

“On one condition,” Andrew said, pointing at Wymack and almost poking the old man in the chest. “My brother and cousin come on the team, too. And I get to come off my meds for games.”

Aaron startled. It was the first time Andrew had ever hinted that he, too, hated the loneliness.

*

When Kevin stumbled into Wymack’s apartment with a shattered hand, Andrew had laughed, pointing at him with a bottle of booze in his hand.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” He crowed. Kevin glared and did not laugh.

Pity. Aaron probably would’ve appreciated that.

*

Andrew, Aaron had whispered, sickeningly relieved as the curtain between them parted, their minds severed no more.

It would only be for another half hour or so, before Andrew had to take his dose at half time. He looked at his brother, watching the way relief wormed down Aaron’s spine and had him grip his racket harder.

It was their first game on the line. Most of the team hated Andrew and his merry band of monsters, of which had grown from three to four when Kevin promised Andrew that he would find him something to live for after his medicated euphoria eventually wore off. It was a lousy promise at best: Andrew had no disillusions about finding satisfaction in his life, and no desire to lie to himself either. Kevin’s miserable obsession with Exy couldn’t fill the gaping wound that’d been carved into Andrew’s chest the minute that Tilda left him in the plastic bucket of baby rejects.

The connection with Aaron strengthened as the withdrawal kicked up, sped up by the gruelling game. The Foxes lost, because of course they did, and Andrew faked a laugh to convince everyone in the arena that he wasn’t deviating from his parole.

Until next game, Aaron said, as Andrew swallowed the pills. He was too physically wretched to stifle the weak nod. Kevin looked between them, eyes narrowed. He’d probably figure it out, just like Nicky had a long while ago, but neither of them would say anything. It was best to just pretend that the twins hated each other, just like everyone else assumed.

Andrew was comfortable in the shadows of those assumptions. The four of them settled into the strange routine, dodging Riko and his Ravens and spending nights under the haze of cracker dust and alcohol.

Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, he knew Aaron was counting down the days till Andrew could come off the medications.

He, admittedly, was too.

*

Andrew was suddenly glad that Aaron could not hear his loudest thoughts most of the time, when Neil Josten rocked up, a bundle of lies and a bigger bundle of threats.

He was brown haired and brown eyed and barely tall enough to fit all his too-intricate stories within, and yet there he was, able to tell the difference between him and Aaron immediately, running away from Columbia in a feverish demand for freedom, stood in Wymack’s living room with half-truths tolerable enough for Andrew to swallow.

If Aaron could hear the way Andrew’s mind twisted and turned over Neil Fucking Josten, he’d be mighty suspicious.

Worse was when Neil began asking. And Andrew let himself answer. Worse was the way Neil practised honesty enough to keep Andrew intrigued but continually lied like an animal licking a wound it should just leave alone.

Thanksgiving came and went.

The real nightmare was the weekend after.

Andrew had never grown used to the static, not in the four years he’d been medicated, especially not when he let his shield against the world drop occasionally, for games or for nights at Eden’s. It was enough that neither him, nor Aaron, really got used to the absence. The absess.

He walked up the stairs to where Luther had promised him liquor, opening the door to Nicky’s old bedroom. It was dark, curtains drawn and the rust on the lock suspiciously etched, like it’d been tested recently. If Andrew was capable of conjuring warning bells through the cloud that surrounded him, he’d be hearing them ringing like they did in a bad man’s chapel on a Sunday morning.

One moment, he was staring a fully-fledged nightmare, dead between the eyes. The next his bottle of Blue came careening through the air, and the trickle of liquid down Andrew’s scalp was a strange concoction of hot blood and iced spirits, glass shards just to make it interesting.

It was like a waltz. One, two, three. One, two, three. One: Hand around Andrew’s neck. Two: Whispered words in his ear. Three: Seconds Andrew had to contemplate why him, like he was thirteen again. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two—

“Andrew,” Aaron snarled, more terrified for Andrew than he was of himself. He’d always known exactly who Drake was, who the Spears were: He’d almost been there. He’d certainly heard every one of Andrew’s broken cadences, desperately searching for an out.

And yet there he stood, bloodied, with Neil’s racket in his hands and blood across his face. Andrew couldn't hear himself, not when he laughed, not when he demanded if the blood was Aaron’s, not when Luther appeared in the doorway clutching the silver cross that dangled across his throat.

Remember? Andrew laughed. Cackled. Remember when you insisted it was just a misunderstanding?

“He told you, and you still brought him here?” Aaron said, cold, furious. They were closer and more intricately woven than anyone knew, Andrew clutching onto Aaron’s bloodied shirt as Neil covered him up with a sheet, laughter still wracking his body like a bloody cough. “Get out. Get out!”

Wasn’t it just niche, the way everything worked out. Aaron was lugged off in police custody whilst Andrew was strapped to a stretcher, paramedics shining light into his eyes. He was still buzzing too high off the ground to reach out to Aaron and see if he was alright, because even if Andrew cared about nothing, Aaron’s survival was still imperative. He’d fought so long for it, after all.

Neil offered himself up as Kevin’s leash, like he wasn’t fulfilling that role already. He shoved Andrew’s hand under his shirt and gave him his true name and Andrew was spinning. He was dancing so close to the edge. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so fucking terrified of losing control all over again.

“You’re not going to say goodbye to Aaron?” Abby asked, when Betsy had filched him from the comfort of his room to take him to Easthaven.

“Can’t say goodbye if you never said hello in the first place,” Andrew said, cheerfully as he skipped his way to the front door. None of them would truly understand the significance of that statement, that Andrew and Aaron had never said hello, nor goodbye. There was no need if they never left you alone.

He ignored the way Neil watched him as he left, ignored the idle chatter Betsy filled the car with, ignored the introduction of his psychiatric team.

In hindsight, perhaps he should have taken more care. It was too late now.

*

Andrew, Aaron breathed, when the fogginess lifted perhaps two weeks later. He had no way of telling, really. Andrew had his head in a bucket, the smooth plastic his constant view. Aaron’s voice was—admittedly—a comfort. Andrew, are you alright?  

You still behind bars? Andrew asked, craning his neck as he settled back into his stiff, unforgiving bed and its cold, unyielding sheets.

Matt’s mom paid my bail. We’re heading up to New York for Christmas as thanks.

You’re not telling me something.

Aaron made a derisive noise. Andrew was always the more perceptive one. Neil knows.

How.

He figured it out. I don’t know how. He told me to tell you not to let Proust near you before he left yesterday.

Left where?

Uncle was in town apparently. Wouldn’t look anyone in the eye.

Liar, through and through.

Be careful, Andrew. I have a hunch that Neil’s got privy information. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but it seemed valid.

Thanks for the input, Andrew thought, sourly. Aaron snorted. Now, fuck off.

I hated the silence, Aaron offered.

Andrew stared silently out of the metal grate that covered his window, the bleak clouds and wind-swept trees.

As a form of peace offering with the only person who’d always been there for him, he said: Me too.

*

I’ve met a girl. Promise me you won’t hurt her.

I won’t if she gives me no reason to.

Her name is Katelyn. She makes me happy. Scare her off when you get back and I will tell everyone that you waited for months after our 11th birthday for your letter to Hogwarts.

Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t kill you first.

*

Andrew walked out of his room and down the familiar corridors of his ward, beady eyes peering out at someone who was walking free. He was directed by Dr. Whoeverthefuck, clipboard under his arm and a haughty expression scrawled across his narrow features.

There was a bit of talking. Nicky called out his name, concern obvious and sickening and too much. Kevin was evaluating, Neil was curious and Aaron just looked at him blankly, like he always did. They didn’t need expressions or emotions or even spoken words to communicate. It was just enough to be. So when Andrew marched straight for the exit and threw his ward-stay clothes in the bin, Aaron wasn’t phased, following along closely behind.

Andrew held out the keys for Neil, who passed them over without a qualm. Good. He didn’t feel like arguing with Neil now, when he felt scraped out and broken down into tiny little fragments. Neil said nothing, his garishly blue eyes darting between Aaron and Andrew, perhaps a little too obviously for Neil’s liking. He had a bandage under his eye and bruises littering what little exposed skin Andrew could see, the red curls falling in tresses over his ears.

Why are you looking at him like that? Aaron muttered, climbing into the car. Andrew turned away from Neil sharply, clambering into the driver’s seat and slamming it behind him.

He kept the music loud enough to drown out Aaron’s curious prodding, refusing to look in the rear-view where Neil was sat, looking wistfully out of the window. Even Nicky was quiet, unsure of how to approach Andrew when he hadn’t really spoken to the man sober in four and a half years.

The drive was too fast. Aaron shuffled Nicky and Kevin inside the tower with little more than a brief you should take a nap, or at least have some coffee, before you face the others, like Andrew was still a prickly toddler.

Neil wasn’t as easily swayed. He reached under the driver’s seat to grab his stalker binder, bound in a plastic bag, before Andrew even had the chance to move out of the way. He couldn’t say he minded the proximity, even when the way Neil looked at him when Andrew accused him of breaking his promise made his heart skip.

“I hope Aaron warned you off Proust,” Neil murmured. “Riko said if I didn’t go, he would—“

His hand covered Neil’s mouth before he could let another treacherous word past his lips. Andrew fucking hated him. He fucking hated him.

Proust had entered his room in the early hours of an average morning, smiling beseechingly. Andrew refused to talk to him, instead threatening the nurse that came in after Proust’s session that if he ever caught Proust in his vicinity again, he would break the man’s neck.

The doctor was kept well away from Andrew after that.

“I don’t need your protection, or your condolences.” He snapped.

“No, I suppose not.” He echoed. “Have you and Aaron always been able to hear one another? I thought it was an urban myth.”

“Shut up.” Andrew said, voice more of a snarl than he intended it to be. Neil was making his control slip and he hadn’t even been back for a half hour yet. “I hate you.”

“I know.” Neil said, easily.

*

i know theres a lot of lacking scenes from canon but its not about andrew and neil srry lmao its twinyards week for a reason (andreil worms its way in anyway, but i tried my best)

stay tuned for tomorroww!! 

[achtung-attitude]

SAN GABRIÉL, MISSIÓN SAN GABRIEL ARCÁNGEL

The sun rises over Los Angeles, bloated and golden. The first rays of the summer day spill through the windows of the San Gabriel mission chapel, falling upon the man kneeling before the altar. He has been awake for most of the night. The news of Hotel California’s destruction, and Paul Mann’s arrest, have reached him almost as soon as they occurred.

Someone barges in through the chapel doors, but Dust does not turn to see them. He already knows who it is. He is the one who summoned her here. She approaches him swiftly, impatiently, her dreadlocks swaying with each sharp, jerky movement. “Where’s Toto?” she says, standing over him and crossing her arms.

Brother Dust inhales, and sighs. “You know how your brother is…”

“Typical. Fucking typical! Always, he gotta do this, don’t he…? I swear if he don’t show up in the next minute, I’m outta here-!” she rages, stepping over the divider and pacing back and forth in front of the altar.

“Knowles, please…” he says, standing, “Don’t behave that way. You know that patience is a virtue…”

“You ain’t my dad!”

He chuckles. “No. No, I’m not…”

“Why the fuck we even gotta have a meeting in person anyways?! It’s the modern age, padre, just text me the deets!”

“Eyy, now that wouldn’t do. I ain’t even got a phone, so…” says a languid, new voice. Knowles stops pacing as quickly as she starts. Dust turns to watch him enter, a young man with an unruly afro and wearing clothes two sizes too big for him. He frowns at the sight of the blunt hanging from his lips.

“Toto, please do put that out. This is a place of worship.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Forgot…” Toto replies, removing the spliff and crushing it under his foot. Dust sighs in resignation.

“And just where the hell have you been?!” Knowles demands, “What took you so long?”

“Whaaat? I woke up on time and e’rything…!” he yawns, “I ain’t woken up this early in a while, not since I stood in line to get the next Lamar album!! You lucky I’m here at all...”

“You goddamn no-good bum! A sloth, is what you are!”

“Now, now, children, be good to each other. There is business to attend to…” Dust says, raising his hands, calming them. “I’m sure you both know why we’re here.”

“... Nah, I don’t.” Toto replies bluntly.

“What the hell you think it is?! It’s all fucking falling apart, Toto! Phantasma been murdered and our cash cow’s been got by the pigs! I seen it on the fucking news! The whole plan’s FUCKED!”

“Ohhh, right, right, I remember… Wait, sorry, which plan is that?”

“THE PLAN!! The plan we been working on for years now! The plan to get Paul Mann into Congress and eventually into the White House, so that we can run the fuckin’ country! That plan, motherfucker!!”

“I heard, I heard, I was kidding… Man, you takin’ this real personal, aint’ya?”

“I respected Phantasma. She was a powerful woman, so of course that four-eyes asshole All-Kill wanted her gone! We can’t let him get away with this!”

“In time, my dear, in time… I share your pain, and your worries for the future, but fear not. Despite the loss of our Sister and the capture of our political asset, hope is not yet lost. Toto is right: although our original plan may have fallen through, we have but simply to hunker down, and find another way. The Lord will provide us with a new opportunity, I’m sure of it.” Knowles sniffs, then turns, jumping up to sit cross-legged on the altar.

“Soon, all our enemies, those that stand in the way of our enlightenment will be vanquished… All our enemies…” he says, glancing at Toto.

“Uhh, right…” he says, pulling photographs out of his pocket. Polaroid pictures, depicting secretive shots of Shizuka and her friends. He cycles through them, scrutinizing them, “So, I ain’t learned much more after they left the hospital. Joestar girl showed up in town a few weeks ago, looking for her momma…” 

“Her momma? … Could she be related to someone in All-Kill’s crew?”

“Maybe, I ain’t confirmed yet… What makes you say that anyways? It ain’t like all Asians know each others, right?”

Knowles’ eyes go wide. “That’s not-- That’s isn’t what I meant, I just thought, since-- I mean she keeps on getting in our way, I thought that maybe--!! D-don’t put words in my mouth, you--!!”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Anyway, they pulled up at the Hotel California last night, like I told you, and we figured that was that, right? Well… obviously, that was not that. ”

“Quite. Underestimating them is clearly folly. What more?”

“Uhhh, that’s all, I think. Already told ya she here lookin’ for her momma... Oh, right, there was somethin’ I wanted to ask… All-Kill’s thing, his coup, he probably definitely gon’ get T’onga to do us in, right?”

“Indeed. T’onga Kim is Brother All-Kill’s most valued asset, it is only natural he would entrust our elimination to her. It was she who eliminated Phantasma, after all, as she would now do to us.”

“The treacherous bitch,” Knowles hisses, “How could she? Murdering a sister in solidarity like that… It’s a disgrace!”

“You surprised?” Toto asks. “This’s kinda her thing.”

“That’s not the point, damn it!! The plan’s been ruined because of her!! How are we supposed to rise above the oppressors if we gotta worry about turning against each other?!!”

Dust lays his hand on Knowles’ shoulder. “You are right, child. Absolutely. That is not the Paradise I have envisioned, where the Chosen bring peace and order to the world! Hear what I say now, my children.

“We are those Chosen. The true light shines out of darkness, in the hidden places where the Hands of God moves the world! It is the truth I’ve seen, for us to be those Hands on Earth! It was my dream to share that vocation with my Congregation… But All-Kill has rejected it utterly. 

“This, now, is more than a mere battle, but a Crusade! We will prevail, for we are garbed in the protection of the Lord!”

Dust’s pontification hangs in the air. Knowles has calmed down dramatically, drawn in by the preacher man’s sheer conviction. Toto stands apart, his hands in his pockets. He raises his hand to pick away his spliff, only to notice he no longer has it, having put it out not long ago. Scratching the back of his neck, he retrieves a dustpan from the corridor and sweeps up the burnt ashes left on the chapel floor. 

The preacher man sighs, contented. “That aside... Hear my words well, children. Go now, and prepare.”

Knowles partially breaks out of a daze and ambles away, out of the chapel. Toto watches her leave for a moment, glancing at Dust before following her. 

The old man turns and stares into the eyes of the angels above the altar, then moves and crouches behind it. With deft fingers, he unlocks a secret hatch hidden beneath. Inside is a gym bag full of CDs. He opens it, and the Stand discs inside shimmer in the low light.

He grins tightly. “It seems I’ll get to avenge you after all... Pucci.”

                                                        ---

IN C-KING’S MANSION

“There’s something I want to say before we go any further.” Moya declares. She sits on an armchair in C-King’s living room. Shizuka and Jerome sit across from her and  watch her expectantly, while Kilo stands next to them, arms crossed. In Moya’s right hand, she holds a crisp, white envelope. Written on the envelope in permanent marker is the name ‘JOESTAR’.

They had hardly been back in the mansion for more than a few hours before the doorbell had rung. Moya and Kilo had gone to answer, their Stands at the ready. When they stormed out of the door, no-one was there. No-one, and nothing but the envelope. Inside, they could clearly see the outline of a letter.

“I’ve told you this before, Shizuka, but I’ll say it again,” Moya stresses, “Your mother is a dangerous person. No matter how much you want to see her, I will not allow her to harm you. If she tries anything… anything… then I won’t hesitate to deal with her. If I have to, I will kill her.”

No one says anything for a moment. Kilo silently agrees. 

“... I’m sure it won’t come to that. I know not to expect any hugs and kisses.” Shizuka declares, smiling, resolute.

Moya sighs. “Alright… Kilo.” she says, flicking the envelope to Kilo. SATURN BARZ catches it and cautiously opens it, ready to neutralize anything that might emerge from it. But the paper is a normal piece of paper. After inspecting it for a moment, he presents it to Shizuka.

The message is simple, containing only these words, again, in permanent marker: I WILL MEET YOU AT ANAHEIM. Alongside it are three tickets to a convention. At the bottom of the letter is no name, but a simple drawing of an impossible triangle.

Shizuka inhales, and exhales as a rush of adrenaline causes her fingers to shake, rattling the paper.

END of CHAPTER 33

[craniumhurricane]

[ Chapter 7 on AO3! ] [ Chapter 1 ]

Hey ya’ll, you remember this fic? I’m determined to finish it by the end of the year! Chapter 8 is done and just needs editing so will be posted Friday or the weekend. :)

Shout out to @casleyislove​ and @sushigirlali​! I wouldn’t keep going without them! And all your lovely comments! You have no idea how much I appreciate it.

It’s been a little over an hour since Bellamy was able to talk to his wife. Actually talk to her. Just another thing to add to the list of things he has no idea how she was able to pull off. He understands why she insisted on staying but he’s still allowed to be upset over her decision.

In that time, the team that Kane had dispatched to the location where the jamming signal was coming from made it and conducted a sweep of the building. No such luck in finding an accomplice that actually stuck around.

The team was able to turn off the signal with Monty’s instructions and now Bellamy was standing just outside of the tech’s van.

"This should do it," he says and taps the enter key on his keyboard with emphasis.

In an instant, three different screens popped up on his monitor, each showing a different angle of the lobby. When the bank had the silent alarm put in, they must have updated the cameras because the resolution was better than Bellamy was expecting it to be.

Clarke and Harper were huddled next to each other along with another woman that, judging from her profile, must be the Assistant Manager. He doesn't allow his eyes to linger for too long and starts examining the rest of the space.

"Three robbers and 16 civilians, just like Clarke said," Miller confirms from behind him and Bellamy has to keep himself from scoffing because of course Clarke’s intel was accurate.

Kane is standing a few feet away on his phone but he hangs up and walks over. “We located the daughter,” he starts, “Hope Diyoza. She’s at Eligius Elementary in their after school care program. I’ve instructed some officers to stand guard and make sure no one shows to pick her up that isn’t supposed to.”

Bellamy nods, “Good. We have to assume that McCreary was going to make a move for her after he was done with whatever he had planned here.”

“If no one shows up, then I’ll have our men take her back to the precinct for protective custody.”

Bellamy nods again as his Captain turns to talk to Monty and survey the security footage. He knows that when his Captain says ‘if no one shows up’ he’s referring to any of McCreary’s goons. But Bellamy can't help but think about that little girl and how she’s going to wonder why her mother didn’t come to pick her up.

He’s already sent a text to Madi, telling her to go home and stay there and not to worry, but he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before one of her friends Tweets or Facebooks about this and she realizes what’s going on.

“Sergeant Blake!” one of the newer recruits calls out to him as he jogs over, “here’s the building layout you asked for.”

Bellamy takes the blueprints with a quick thanks before unrolling them on the table they’ve got set up. He had asked for someone to get him an as up-to-date layout of the building as they could find, as a precaution. If McCreary manages to get out of this then they need to find all of his possible routes and exits.

“Clarke said she was in the men’s bathroom and there should be an air duct big enough for a person to crawl through.”

“Here,” Miller points to a square outline of a room that looks to have various pipes running through it. He moves his finger along the line that looks to be the air vent, following its path. “It goes to the storefront next door and then up on the roof.”

“Right, let’s get someone up there,” Bellamy orders.

“On it,” Kane leaves to grab another officer.

“We have the profiles on the other two guys,” Monty calls and Bellamy is next to him immediately. He notices that the feeds of the lobby are still up, the images moved over and designated to their own monitor so Monty can keep an eye on them. He transfers the rap sheets again from his main screen over to Bellamy’s tablet. “Rabe was mostly busted for possession. Looks like he was selling as well as using his product. The other guy? Kodiak?” Monty swipes the screen in Bellamy’s hands, “Homicide.”

“Jesus, how did he get off?”

Monty shrugs but its stiff, “Technicality. The three of them crossed paths when they were running with Eden.”

Bellamy starts thinking over the new information, flipping back and forth between the three profiles. It’s a little odd that three people with very different methods were able to form an alliance. He could see McCreary and Kodiak but Rabe?

He hesitates, “I don’t… I don’t think McCreary was exactly forthcoming about his real plans here. I wonder what kind of promises he made the other two.”

“My guess is that Rabe was solely in it for the money,” Miller offers. “Probably thought it was just a simple heist.”

“And Kodiak?” Monty asks.

Miller shrugs, “Pleasure?”

Bellamy closes his eyes; he doesn’t even want to think about that. He opens his eyes and pulls up Rabe’s profile again instead.

“We might be able to get this guy to crack,” Bellamy hands the tablet to Miller and taps the screen. “I think you’re right and he was just in it for the cash.”

He doesn’t wait for anyone else to chime in before he grabs the megaphone and strides towards the building. He’d been trying to communicate with them over the last hour but no one was budging when he offered food and water or medical supplies. Time to try a different tactic.

“You want money, right?” Bellamy asks, “I can arrange that. There’s no need to hurt anymore people and we can all make it out of this situation.” He pauses and takes a breath, “I just need one of you to come out and talk to me.”

He clicks off the megaphone and waits. He’s itching to take his phone out of his pocket to try and listen but he’s afraid that the amount of time he’s spent with it pressed to his ear already looks suspicious. Bellamy’s eyes scan back and forth along the front of the bank for a few minutes but there’s no change. He turns around so maybe his team can collaborate on a better incentive when Miller speaks up.

“Bellamy, there’s movement behind the door,” he says and Bellamy whips back around to look at the building.

Sure enough, the blinds that were drawn down over the glass doors are starting to move. A moment later and one of the doors is being opened just a crack. A man steps out and stands in the threshold so he’s half inside and half out, the door being used as a potential shield. He’s wearing a child’s mask with the face of a tiger.

The officers around Bellamy immediately draw their guns and aim them at the guy. Bellamy instantly moves forward and waves his hands to tell them to stand down.

“I want to discuss your terms,” the guy in the tiger mask shouts.

Bellamy turns around from his squad to face him. “Of course,” he says with his hands visible to show he doesn’t have any weapons. “I am Sergeant Blake. I will listen to your terms but first, does anyone need medical attention? Food? Water?”

“I just want the cash,” he demands, completely ignoring Bellamy’s questions.

Bellamy nods, “We can work on getting you your money but it could take a while. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?”

The guy starts to fidget, “No, I just want the cash.”

“Ok,” Bellamy nods and tries to segue the conversation, “And what about the hostages?”

“They’re fine,” he says and is about to turn around.

“Wait!” Bellamy yells, a tad frantic. He composes himself before the Tiger turns back around. “We’ll get you your money, but I need to discuss the release of the hostages.”

The Tiger hesitates, “They’re not mine to release… I didn’t want hostages!”

“Ok, ok,” Bellamy concedes, trying to calm him down. “I want to help you, but I need you to help me, ok? How about you release some of them? As a sign of good faith?”

The Tiger hesitates again but then he nods before turning back inside and gesturing to someone behind him. There’s more movement behind the door, and Bellamy can hear the faint murmurings of the robber talking to someone. Just as the man in the mask is turning back around all hell breaks loose.

[imhereforbvcky]

Bad Things

Summary: Steve’s question mark of a relationship is full of surprises. (wow could this be more vague?)

Prompt: Bad Things by Meiko

Warnings: Probably swearing, a lil pg-13 implied steaminess

Word Count: 1465

Author’s Note: JFC this took me forever and so many attempts. @redgillan I’m so sorry!! I can’t be trusted with limitless challenges. I’m so slow I can’t find the OP anymore and I don’t know how I was supposed to tag this or what the rules were... Thank you for being an actual angel and putting up with me.

Steve lay across the bed, head swimming in the bittersweet taste of “after.” The cool air drifted over his skin now like a soft kiss, cooling the traces of sweat that lingered there.

A feather light touch dusted over his eyelashes, pulling a smile to his lips, nearly even a laugh.

“What are you doing?” he chuckled.

“You have the most beautiful eyelashes,” she hummed, sweeping over them again.

This time he did laugh. “Not one of the things people usually notice about me.”

“Then I pity them.”

His smile lingered along with that sense of contentment that always seemed to settle over him when he shared moments like this with her. Or when he woke with her curled against his side. Or when he heard her slightly off-tune humming from the shower.

If it were up to him they'd stay like this all day. For days.

“I should go,” she whispered. Her lips soothed their mutual disappointment with slow, roving kisses against his heated skin.

“Mmmm. You could stay.”

He knew it was futile. His life didn't allow for more than stolen moments and hidden liaisons. Neither did hers.

The tickle of her hair drifting over his shoulder as she moved away from him was answer enough. She tried to placate him anyway. She hated that wounded look behind his lazy grin.

“You know I can’t,” she explained while she deftly hooked her bra behind her back. “I have a deposition, remember?”

He hadn't remembered but it hardly mattered. There was always something. Or nothing but the threat of something. And in Steve's world, that was reason enough.

Without further protest he savored the minutes they had left. He breathed in the smell of lavender still clinging to the sheets from her soap. His eyes followed delicate silk strings and buttery lace gliding over her skin as she dressed.

He thought of the way his hands moved over that skin. Of how her warm and yielding form molded in perfect contrast against his own rigid plains of muscle.

She stood as a beacon made just for him. Just to wake him from a world of work and duty and sacrifice. Just to jolt him back into the land of the living, only to leave as quickly as she came into it. Just to torture him with want; with hope.

Now padding to the entry of his apartment, she slid into a pair of sharp polished heels before turning back to her lover for a reluctant goodbye.

Steve pulled the dress shirt over his shoulders and gave it a firm shake to adjust its fit against his neck.

“You sure I can't convince you to come with me to Sam's barbeque?” Steve asked for the second time since Friday night. “It'll be casual. No pressure. Sam's starting to doubt you actually exist.”

She smiled, taking the edges of his button down into her hands and giving a swift tug.

“I like you. A lot.” She looked up at him with clear eyes and an honest smile. Her fingers worked to slowly button his shirt. “But it's not a good idea. I'm at the office more than I'm home and you drop everything and everyone when that phone rings.”

He hated that she was right. Clear blue eyes dropped to his hands curling around her waist as a sigh rolled through his lips.

“I love what we have here. I really like being with you.” Her eyes skimmed over his features, searching. “But neither of us are in a position to be sacrificing for love. So lets… enjoy this, whatever it is, without complicating it. Okay?”

He took another deep breath, measuring his response before speaking.

With the final button closed, her hands swept across his chest and down his shoulders. She took a reluctant but necessary step back.

“I really like you, Steve. If this arrangement still works for you, I’m here.” She leaned up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Her chest tightened around her lungs and she lingered for a moment, withholding her goodbye. Fearing it.

His hands curled around the back of her neck and held her there with an equal measure of apprehension.

“‘Til next time, then,” she murdered as she pulled away. The decision of when that next time would be now lay in Steve's hands.

“‘Til next time,” he repeated after her. It was a promise that at least, there would be one.

When Steve finally turned up at the compound two hours late for his standing morning jog with Sam, his friend had given him more than an earful. Truly exhausted from the teasing and the physical exertion he’d metered out in an effort to focus on anything but her, Steve collapsed on the couch in an empty great room with a deep sigh.

He rubbed the crease above his nose as he paged through the channels on the television. While his eyes lay on the screen, his mind was elsewhere, firmly stuck on the woman who held him so close and yet firmly at an arm’s length.

“You’d better pick something good. I have had one hell of a day.”

Tony crashed onto the other end of the couch with as little ceremony as possible. Steve peeled his eyes open at the sharp crack and hiss of a freshly unsealed beer.

“You look like it,” he smirked, crooked and jovial.

Tony nodded as he swallowed a long sip of beer and handed a can to Steve.

“Yeah, well. I spent the last 12 hours locked in a room with New York’s richest human tapeworm, five attorneys and a stenographer. What’s your excuse?”

“Lawsuit’s not going well?”

“Understatement of the century. Of course it would come from the resident centenarian,” Tony took another sip. “Their lead attorney is some… disaster relief specialist. Absolutely killing me with PR. This girl is kicking my ass. Is it in unethical to double her salary to switch teams and lead my defense?”

“How is that possible? You’re not responsible for damages caused by aliens,” Steve scoffed. He turned his attention back to the TV, passing channel after channel. Twenty-four hour news networks should be blocked in this compound. Nobody can relax when work is streaming into your living room in life sized high definition.

“That’s her!” Tony shouted, pointing at the TV with his beer. “How do I make her play nice?”

Steve laughed, searching for the unmute button. His heart stopped before his eyes even flicked back up to the screen. He knew that voice. Focusing on the face before him only made it drop into his gut.

He watched with a flagging chin as the reporter withdrew his microphone to lob another question her way.

“Is it true you’re suing The Avengers?? How does your client feel about going after what many would call heroes?”

“No, that’s an inaccurate claim. Our client is seeking reparations from multiple parties including Stark Industries for damage to their home and business – their livelihood – resulting from the incident involving the Avengers on May 4th of 2012.”

“Does your client blame the Avengers?” the reporter persisted, incredulous.

“Thank you!” Tony rolled his eyes, falling back into the couch.

Steve sat slack-jawed staring at her face on the screen. She looked so different than she had this morning.

This morning she was soft, warm. Comfort. She had been everything Steve had come to know of her, everything he wanted.

“That’s for a judge to decide.”

The woman on the screen before him had transformed into her exact opposite.

She was a statue of unshakable impassivity. Sharp features, determined eyes, her lips were drawn into a firm line. She stood resolute in the face of the barrage of questions.

Steve watched in awe, as the woman on the screen pushed through the sea of reporters, trying to make her way down the stairs of the sleek modern building. A shocked huff punched from his lungs when he realized he was sitting inside that very building. She was just downstairs and had never said a word.

“That was Y/F/N Y/L/N, an attorney for Bradford, Hale, & Associates leaving the Avenger’s compound. No doubt here hoping to work out a settlement for the law firm’s long-time client Oscorp, who claims their labs, and as we’ve just learned the owner’s residence, suffered significant damage following the events in New York City…”

Steve shoved himself up off of the couch with a sharp scowl hardening his features and moved quickly toward the wall of windows at the front of the building. From above, behind the safety of the darkened glass, his gaze followed the curling wave of reporters as they chased her to her car. For the second time that day he watched her slip away. The closest stranger.

Will reblog with tags shortly

[sairenharia]

Queen of Secrets pt.2

Part 1

AO3

Marinette had hoped the Bee Miraculous would make Chloe a better person. On one hand, she's glad she was right! Chloe may still be very Chloe, but without a doubt, she is becoming a better person. She can't say a good person, but at least a person who does good things.

On the other hand, it was highly inconvenient at this particular moment.

They were stuck in a closet, Chloe's ear pressed to the door. "Ugh, why does he use so many puns? I get he's distracting, but it's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous," she muttered.

Marinette did not want to be in the closet. She had been trying to get out of sight when the Akuma had targeted her. Admittedly, she would have probably been hit if Chloe hadn't dived out of a classroom and knocked her out of the way, then grabbed her to drag her to safety. The Akuma had started to chase them when Chat showed up and got them precious time to hide away.

Marinette wasn't worried too much about Chat's safety. Honestly, he would do better with the Akuma then she would.

"Has Ladybug showed up yet?" Chloe asked.

Marinette shook her head. "No. Chloe, I really need to get out of here-" she said.

"No," she said, quick and firm. "You are not going out there. Whatever reason you're going to give, it's not worth risking....risking THAT."

Marinette, under normal circumstances, would agree.

His name was Nice Guy and his power turned girls who 'didn't act like proper women' into his own definition of what he thinks they should be. From subservient maids to prudish nuns to even a few strippers. It was the kind of power that made Marinette feel sick to her stomach and made her want to hurry out and take him down. Especially as she could still see and hear the fight through Alya's livestream, her own friend having been hit and phone left on the ground. She's pretty sure it's one video Alya is gonna delete later with the image of their classmates and herself acting like...objects. Dolls to perform for a terrible Akuma

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing," Chloe said, pressing her ear to the door again. "Move those....cleaning...cart things. We're thin enough we should be able to hide behind them without being obvious if we need to. Guy like that won't look for girls near....near such dirty things," she said with a grimace.

"You. Risking touching those?" Marinette asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If we have to, but we probably won't. Chat Noir sounds really mad. He won't let that guy get away from him long," she said.

That almost sounded like faith. From Chloe. For Chat.

Weird. Marinette's never heard that before. Maybe because they've worked together now?

"Come on, Chloe, I can make a run for it! My house isn't that far!" Marinette insisted.

"No, it's too dangerous, it's too much open space to get anywhere to get outside!" Chloe shot back.

"You can't tell me you want to stay locked up with me!" Marinette said, throwing up her hands in frustration.

"Of course I don't, but that's what a superheroine would do!" Chloe snapped, glaring at Marinette. "A superheroine saves people, even if she doesn't like them, even if she hates them, now be quiet and move the carts!"

That caused Marinette to pause, staring at Chloe in surprise, at the determined look on her face. Determined. It wasn't a look Marinette is used to seeing. Confident. Angry. Wanting to destroy all in her path. But not this look of...resolution.

"Trust me. I'm going to keep you safe," she said and pressed her ear to the door again.

Marinette to move to do as she said, a little thrown off, but her thoughts turning back to the problem at hand. The easiest thing is to just wait until Chat drew the Akuma away or the Akuma ran. Once the area was clear, then Chloe will let her go and she could transform. Simple, easy, and it doesn't seem like Chat would be changed by Nice Guy. He could fight a while without worry. So she kept watching the stream, volume low so as to not be heard over the fighting outside, but Marinette could hear and Chloe getting a few intermittent words.

And after fifteen minutes, it was clear Nice Guy was NOT going to go away. Apparently he was looking for the 'bitch who rejected him.'

"Who is that? The Akuma?" Chloe finally asked.

"Huh? Uuuuh, Alaric? He's on the basketball team," Marinette said.

"The guy with the ugly green streak?" Chloe asked.

"Well, the green just doesn't go well with his complexion, but...yeah," Marinette said. Then paused as she noticed Chloe's frown deepening. "You didn't."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Chloe said.

"Chloe, did you humiliate him?!" Marinette demanded.

"I threw a smoothie on a guy who aggressively asked me out eight times in two weeks, does this reaction look like good date material?" Chloe retorted, jerking her thumb at the door.

That gave Marinette pause. Marinette knew Akumas weren't what people would normally do. But normally the reactions were more...general in retaliation. To hurt people, maybe kill them, do something in response to their hurt. The fact his anger took the form of 'women don't act the way he thinks they should' and the way he thinks they should....it was all very telling. Everyone had anger, but that spoke of another issue entirely. Even Kim's anger had turned to wanting to destroy love, the feeling that was hurting him, not...all this.

"Exactly," Chloe said after the drawn out silence. "At least Kim takes me saying no with some grace and backs off when I do."

"No, no, I....I get it," Marinette said. Because of course she did. Chloe may not be a nice person, but she's noticed that her rate of provoking people has gone down. It's gone down a lot. She can't fault her for being mean when, well, it was actually warranted.

"Has Ladybug shown up?" Chloe asked.

Marinette made a show of looking down. "No, not yet. She must be held up somewhere."

Chloe was frowning at the door. "....she might be held up here," she said.

Marinette's heart leapt into her throat. "What?"

"She might be in the area. Trapped somewhere with some of the girls hiding," Chloe said. "Unable to change."

"That...that's a leap, isn't it?" Marinette said.

"Not really. I don't think she's that much older than us. Just.....just everything says that," Chloe said, staring at the door. "Which means things need to change. Chat can only fight so long and this guy isn't leaving while I'm still here," she said, reaching for the door knob.

Marinette was almost too late, grabbing Chloe's wrist before she opened the door. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm changing things!" Chloe said, glaring at the door. "If the guy gets me, then he'll move on to other places and then if Ladybug is stuck, she can get away to transform."

"Chloe, you're the one who rejected him! Who knows what he'll change you into!" Marinette said, horrified.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?! Let Chat fight until he loses and Hawk Moth gets the ring?!" Chloe demanded, turning to glare at Marinette, but she can see the fear in her eyes. "Chat Noir needs HELP."

"Chloe, he has superpowers, he can take it!" Marinette insisted.

"He almost died last time!" Chloe shouted. "I won't let it happen, not for me, never again!" Her voice cracked, tears gathering in her eyes even as she kept the scowl on her face.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Marinette feeling like she couldn't breathe, Chloe's getting harsh.

"I'm a superheroine. Miraculous or no. And he is my teammate. I can help, don't tell me not to, Dupain-Cheng," she said, voice low, shaking slightly. Because Chloe didn't show her fear, but Marinette knew she wasn't without it. She knew Chloe hid a lot under the surface. She just never expected this.

And for someone like Chloe, strong and confident, the idea of undergoing that kind of change...

Never before had Marinette both been so incredibly proud of someone and wanted to violently throttle them.

"Just stay here. I'll run, he won't think anyone else is in here," she said, and started to open the door.

Marinette put her hand on the door, holding it close. "Chloe, stop."

"Dupain-Cheng, I swear to god-" Chloe started.

Marinette put a hand over her mouth. "Please don't tell anyone. Tikki, spots on."

The look of shock is expected, confusion, but Marinette doesn't wait for Chloe to process it before she's opening the door. "Stay here," she said and then she was gone.

~~~

The Akuma was dealt with. Chat hadn't even let Ladybug say a word before he went on a very long tirade of why girls are allowed to be whatever they want and he shouldn't act entitled like that before they had to leave.

And a surprising comment from Chat before they parted ways. If he ever came across as a guy like that to please pour a smoothie over his head. It got a laugh from her. And made her curious when he learned about the incident that set the guy off.

It was unexpected enough that for a few minutes, she forgot about the fact Chloe Bourgeois knew who she was.

She had pulled out her phone to an unexpected text and was reminded all over again.

 'I won't tell anyone. I'm not an idiot.'

Marinette breathed a sigh of relief at that.

At least until a few minutes later.

 'Not on purpose anyway.'

[likethetailofacomet]

What Friends Are For

Author’s Note: I was going to skip over this chapter, but then as I was writing it, it gave me warm feels thinking about what an amazing thing a friend can be in your life. Claire has had a rough go of things, and I wanted to make sure that she had some people she could count on, so, here we are. This might be a personal piece, you might not find it necessary, but i promise more action and CERTAINLY more steam in the next chapter. 

No warnings, just pure friend love. :) 

tagging: @sleepwalkingelite @zaffrenotes @notoriouscs @gardeningourmet @natalievgoodehenry @nekkidmolerat @ooo-barff-ooo  if you would like to be added please let me know! 

After the hustle and bustle of her first few days in Cordonia, Claire was glad to have some time to herself this week in between events. The races had been Tuesday, and although they had started early in the afternoon, and the last race had concluded by 3pm, the tea party and festivities that followed went well into the evening. Claire hadn’t gotten back that night until nearly midnight, and had slept most of the next morning away; the jet lag, adrenaline and excitement finally wearing her down. It was Thursday afternoon now, and Claire was relaxing in her room curled up in the window seat with a notebook and pen, doodling and writing while music played from the phone in her lap and rain lightly tapped on the window panes. She smiled to herself, sinking a little more into the cushioned seat, as she thought about where she’d normally be right about now: in the bar cooler, mopping out all the spilled beer around the kegs and hauling six packs and crates from the stock room. Instead she was resting up and turning in early before the long trek to Lythikos in the morning.

The phone in her lap glowed and buzzed and she nearly fell out of the window seat as she threw her notebook aside to answer it. She'd been waiting for this chance since she got home from the races on Tuesday. She'd even blocked time off from Maxwell and Bertrand's rigorous etiquette training, which she'd agreed to as even though she wasn't trying to win Liam's heart, fuck, still have to have that chat with Max..., she didn't want to make a fool out of herself at every dinner and ball for the next three months. They'd protested at first, of course, but she'd furrowed her eyebrows at them and set them with the look that she used to give customers when they were getting out of line and, not unlike her patrons at the bar, it had worked.

“Hello? Daniel?” she answered the phone with a big, dumb grin.

“Hey! There's my world traveler! I have so, so, so many questions!”

Claire laughed, bringing her free hand up to her forehead. “You and me both, Dan. Are you on your 15 or did you just run out on a fake smoke break? How much time do you have?”

“I'm on my 15 so don't hold back,” he answered.

“Okay, well I'm going to start by making the long story short, and that's this: I am stupidly, definitely, and completely falling for this grumpy, impossible to read, Cordonian guy and I don't think there's anything I can do about it.” She let out a breath. “I mean, I got on a plane and crossed an ocean to come after this guy that I met one time, under the guise of freaking competing for a chance to marry the crown freaking prince. That's got to be the craziest thing anyone's ever done! I mean, right? I'm nuts, right? I am.”

Daniel laughed. “You know what, maybe. But, hey!” she was trying to cut him off. He laughed over her. “No! Hey! Let me finish!” he said and she obliged. “As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, maybe it's not crazy.”

“Okay, you know what, you are supposed to be the voice of reason here, Dan.” she was feigning disappointment with his reaction.

“Well, maybe I'm tired of being the cynical sidekick. Maybe it's time my cold, black, coffee fueled heart learned to let love in. I'm trying baby steps here by being supportive of your insanity.” she could hear the sarcastic smirk in his voice, even though she knew he was being serious.

“Well alert the presses that the jaded Mr. Quinn has grown a soul, ladies and gents!” she teased. She was glad though, if this was truly how Daniel felt. He'd always been closed off about relationships, never really getting close to anyone, just like her. It was time for both of them to try for something solid, even if it felt a little crazy.

“Ha, ha, ha. If you were here right now I'd chuck an ice cube at you. So tell me about this fairy tale guy of yours.”

Claire rolled her eyes, hoping he could tell. “Well he's hardly a fairy tale, I mean, this is still me we're talking about here, so he's rough around the edges and snarky...but...” she trailed off and felt heat rush throughout her as she thought of the two kisses that they'd shared, the second with almost double the intensity of the first.

“But what? Don't leave me hanging here?”

“But he is the best fucking kisser in the world. Daniel, I swear to any and all gods it's true.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “Well hey there's a perk!”

“And there's something else too...it's like I feel drawn to him. Almost like I feel like I already know him...it's...intense. Kinda scary...” it was, if she was being honest with herself. As much as she was soaring from the way their lips had met and the way his body had felt so close to hers, she was terrified. The last time she'd thought she'd felt this way about someone was with Alex, and she'd never been more wrong about anything in her life.

Sensing what she was feeling as if there weren't 7 hours and thousands of miles between them. “Claire, scary how? Scary like Alex?” she heard the concern in his voice, and rightfully so. He'd dealt with Alex for as long as she had.

“No,” she said firmly, truly believing that Drake wasn't an abusive man. “I just mean...what if I'm wrong and my heart ends up broken, but it's broken because I flung it out the window of a private jet while we were cruising at altitude?”

“Claire.” he said her name with finality and it broke her out of her spiral. “Stop. Just...trust yourself okay? You are the bravest person I know. Trust in that.”

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Thanks, Daniel,” she whispered. He always knew what she needed to hear. Then, something he'd said went off in her head like a trigger. “Hey, by the way...you mentioned Alex...”

There was silence on the other end. Finally, Daniel's voice came back, resolute, “I know. Today was his probationary hearing. He's out.”

“Hey, just, be careful, okay? Just...if that psycho even comes near you just...” she had started shaking without noticing.

“I will.” he promised, and it wasn't enough to erase her fears, but she knew it was all she was getting. She was glad that

“Okay.”

“Okay. Enough about that scumbag. What's next for you over in wonderland?”

“It's Cordonia,”she said, knowing full well that she'd mentioned the country's name at least six times to him since she'd left New York, “and we're going to a place called Lythikos tomorrow, this super serious duchess named Olivia is hosting.”

“And is your dream man going?”

“I'm regretting telling you anything. Yes, Drake is going.” she felt her heart grow warm just saying that out loud.

“Well kid, have a great time. I have to get going. New girl's probably crashing and burning in there.” she could hear him smirking.

“Yeah, get back in there and save the day,” she played along. “But hey, thanks for calling. I miss you.”

“Don't mention it, Claire. You know I'm here for you no matter what.”

“I know. No matter what.”

They said good bye and Claire picked up the notebook and pen that she'd cast aside when Daniel's phone call had come in. Black ink flowers scrawled across the top of the page, her thoughts poured out below them. Stretching and yawning she moved to the foot of the bed where Maxwell had dropped off a packed bag for her trip to Lythikos; apparently it was in the far reaches of the North, in a mountain range that had year ‘round snow, so the bag included warm scarves, a coat and boots. She tucked the journal into the bag so that she’d have it with her; she always had it with her. She’d begun journaling after her mother passed away as a way to get her thoughts out of her head so they couldn’t fester in there. It helped a little, but as she suspected, some things, some thoughts, were more difficult to remove. She’d tried to write down every confusing, exciting and terrifying thought or feeling that she’d had about Drake, about coming to Cordonia…about Alex, but there were plenty still rolling around in there, even after her chat with Daniel.

A knock on her door made her jump; aside from Maxwell, and as of this morning his brother Bertrand, no one came knocking on her door. She slid her feet into her slippers and padded over to the door. Opening it, she was surprised to see the smiling face of Lady Hana.

“Hi, Lady Claire,” she beamed.

“Hi, Hana, please like I’ve been telling everyone, drop the ‘lady.’” She smiled warmly and saw her smile reflected back from Hana.

“You can do the same with me,” she responded. “Proper etiquette can certainly feel impersonal, can’t it?”

Claire nodded. “Yes. And in my case, also highly unnecessary. Would you like to come in?” She moved aside and allowed Hana into her room.

“Thank you,” she floated in, her pink dress flowing about her ankles. Claire looked down at her own dressed down appearance; grey sweat pants and an oversized t shirt that said “I <3 NY Bagels”. She internally noted for the 10,000th time how odd it was that she’d ended up here.  

“So, what brings you by, Hana?” Claire asked, shutting the door behind her as Hana took a seat on the bench at the foot of the bed.

“Oh! I really don’t want to bother you, I-“her eyes widened.

“It’s no bother, Hana, I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want to.”

The look on Hana’s face made it clear that she had no idea what it was like to only do things that you wanted. Claire felt a pang of pity for Hana and all of the ladies at court in this regard. “Oh, well, in that case, thank you!” she squeaked. She hesitated, running the gauzy top layer of fabric from her dress through her fingers. Claire came and took a seat next to her. “So, I…I feel like I can trust you, Claire. I feel like you’re…different from the rest of them.”

“I am, and you can. I’m Irish; I can keep a secret and hold a grudge.” She winked. “And honestly, I feel the same way about you. Something just told me we’d be friends. I don’t have many friends…none, really, aside from my friend Dan back home, but he’s more like an annoying twin brother than a friend really… anyway, my point is,” she softened her voice and gave Hana a comforting look, “I’d like it if we could be friends. This whole thing, this place,” she gestured generally at her surroundings, “can be a lot on your own.” Wanting friends? What is this place doing to me? Claire mused.

Hana’s look of appreciation could not be more apparent. “It really can,” she sighed, “especially when…” her eyes went to the door as if double checking that it was indeed closed. “Especially when you have no interest in courting the prince, but your family has pinned all of their hopes to you doing just that.”

“Oh, Hana, you couldn’t have known but you came to the exact right person…Er, not about the parents thing… that’s a pressure that I’ll never know.” Claire felt a twinge of heartache thinking about her parents, but decided that Hana could learn about them another day. “But, if I’m being honest, I’m not here for Liam, either.” Claire went on to share with Hana her feelings for Drake and everything that had transpired between them since she’d gotten here. Hana confided in Claire about the pressures that her parents had heaped upon her, as well as the biggest secret that she’d ever kept from them; Hana was a lesbian.

“Listen, Hana, You are who you are, and you love who you love. Your parents can’t change that no matter how hard they try, so my advice is don’t change for them. I’m here for you, and I’m sure if you spoke honestly with Liam about it, he would understand- if you’re ready to, of course.”

Hana sighed. “Thanks, Claire. I’m not sure what I’m ready for. It took me two days to get the confidence to talk to you about it. I just…I know that you come from the real world and that you’d understand. Even if no one else does…I just needed one person to understand.” She looked down at her lap.

“Hey, you know what? Let’s have a girl’s night. It’s been a million years since I’ve had anyone that I wanted to have a girl’s night with, and I can’t think of a better time.”

Hana perked up. “That…sounds fun. What is a girl’s night?”

Claire got up and opened the large cabinet across from the bed to reveal a T.V. She took the big , fluffy blanket from the window seat and spread it out on the bed. Sitting on the bed, she patted the mattress next to her and Hana jumped up to sit with her. “This is a girl’s night,” she said, flicking the television on, changing the channels until she found a sappy romantic movie. “We are going to watch this movie and talk about embarrassing crap and about crushes and you’re going to braid my hair, and I’m going to paint your nails.”

Hana beamed and, without warning, threw her thin arms around Claire and hugged tightly. “Claire, you might very well be my first real girl friend.”

Claire considered her words for a moment. Suddenly overcome with emotion, she choked back a tear. “You are definitely mine,” she said, truthfully.

The night passed in giggles and tears, secrets shared and embarrassing moments revealed. After the third movie they’d both fallen asleep sprawled out on Claire’s bed. Tomorrow would be a day full of travel capped off with their arrival at the standoffish Duchess Olivia’s home and more structured courtly events and rules to follow, but tonight was a night of friendship; a night that Claire and Hana had been denied for far too long.