#is dangerous and because she was aggressive my reply was aggressive and I solidified my point about how the medication could be abused enjoy

[tiredsadpeach]

I’m so lost lol

[flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash]

Irresistible Danger - Part 61

Synopsis:  After being caught outside the compound on your own, Negan decides to punish you in the best way possible ;)

Words: 2,591

Warnings: nsfw, smut, swearing

ID Masterlist can be found HERE

Masterlist of all my fics can be found HERE

Taking Care of Business

You were in shock and at a loss for words, while Amber’s impatient expression as she stared you down meant that she obviously expected you to say something. When it became apparent that you weren’t going to kickstart this lovely conversation, she gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes before breaking the silence with a haughty voice that instantly grated on your nerves.

“Well, are you going to let me in, or what?”

Your subconscious gave a resounding scream of ‘fuck off!’ and hissed at Amber, while your brain warned to proceed with caution. The last thing you wanted right now was a fight, but it wasn’t clear which path led to a worse confrontation: letting her in or telling her to leave. Deciding to attempt civility, you clamped down the words ‘I’d really rather not’ that were on the tip of your tongue, and instead gave a small nod and stood back from the doorway to let her in. The sickly sweet smell of flowers hit when she passed by, and you had the incredibly random thought of where the fuck does she get perfume in an apocalypse? 

Ignoring the unimportant question, you watched as she glanced around your room, eyes flickering over the small bed, the wooden chair piled with clothes, and then the stack of old rickety crates holding your belongings. Her face scrunched up in utter disdain of the meager surroundings, solidifying what Ben had once said about her coming from a privileged background before the apocalypse. Her room upstairs probably had all kinds of fancy furniture and clothes. You wanted to feel annoyed, even a bit ashamed, but then remembered whose bed you were now spending the night in and immediately lost all sense of self-consciousness. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what material possessions she might own, because you had Negan and she didn’t. No matter how this conversation went, that fact wasn’t going to change, and nothing she said was going to ruin your newfound happiness. You were still nervous and feeling a bit cagey being in the same room as the woman who was far from your biggest fan, but the security of knowing where you and Negan stood with one another helped you to keep calm and project an air of indifference. 

However, you still didn’t want to play this too arrogantly, and decided not to close the door the entire way, pushing it so that there was still a centimeter of space keeping it unlatched. The crack was small enough for her to not have noticed, and gave you that extra padding of reassurance. You didn’t trust her one bit, and wanted an easier exit, if necessary, or a way to hopefully be heard if you yelled for help. Not that you were too worried about a physical confrontation; you looked up and down her petite, small frame and thought, you can take her if you have to. The subconscious gave an aggressive yell of agreement and stared Amber down with laser-like focus. 

Not wanting to make any assumptions, you decided to stand there silently and wait her out. It didn’t take long, as she abruptly turned to you with a sneer and said, “I bet you’re feeling mighty proud of yourself right about now.”

Well then, guess we’re going with no pretense or attempt at subtlety. Raising your brows in surprise, you honestly replied, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” You were certain this had to do with Negan, but weren’t sure if it was in regards to the last few weeks, if she had heard about the scene in the cafeteria, or, perhaps, it was something else entirely.

She narrowed her eyes at you and practically hissed, “Don’t play stupid with me. I know that you’re the one who convinced him to throw us all out.” 

You couldn’t hide the look of utter surprise at her words. Had Negan said something to the wives today? But when?! You had seen him off on the run to the outpost this morning, and there had only been perhaps a 20 minute space of time from when his men had sat down for dinner and he himself had entered the cafeteria. Had he spent that small chunk of time talking to his wives?

Apparently so, as Amber confirmed a few seconds later. 

“I can’t believe he would just march in there and tell us, tell me, that we’re not needed anymore.” She scoffed, as if the idea was laughable. “And I bet it was your idea that we lose our rooms too, right? You couldn’t even let us stay where we were, let us be on the same floor as him. No, you somehow convinced him to kick us out, and tell us we’re to ‘reintegrate into the community’. What the fuck!” 

She had used her fingers in air quotes around the reintegrate part, which would’ve been a bit humorous if not for her screeched curse at the end. Your emotions were all jumbled, since part of you wanted to fist pump with joy that Negan had decided to officially move out his wives and make them a part of the community, while another part of you knew that to let your happiness show would only cause Amber to escalate. And while you didn’t feel too bad for her, especially considering the way she’d treated other women like Maria and Trixie, you could still relate on a human level to the shitty feeling of being unwanted. It was that little crumb of empathy that you tried to lead with, despite the subconscious begging you to just bypass all that and use a fist instead. 

“I honestly wasn't aware that he did that,” you said, hoping she could hear the sincerity in your voice. “I understand that it’s gotta be frustrating to-”

“Don’t try to feed me bullshit by saying you understand!” she interrupted, eyes blazing with anger. “You think that just because you waltzed in there with your little food trays and spread your legs for him whenever he wants that it makes you better than us. You could’ve played by the rules and become a wife like the rest of us, but nooo. You must think you’re really fucking special, to screw us all over and wreck the entire system! News flash bitch, you’ll never be enough to satisfy him, and he’ll get bored with you soon enough. Then we’ll see how much you ‘understand’ when the tables turn and he asks us to come back while you’re the one tossed to the side! Because that’s what will happen in time, and it’ll make him look weak and indecisive to the entire community. I hope you’re prepared for that, for his potential downfall to be all. Your. Fault!”   

Well so much for going the empathetic route, you thought as a spark of anger burned in your gut. She stood there, breathing heavily from her outburst and wearing a cruel smirk as she waited to see what effect her words would have on you. Said effect was that both your subconscious and brain were now wielding swords, ready to go to battle and take her out. 

Any desire to try and make peace flew out the window, as you saw through her act and straight to exactly what she was trying to accomplish by confronting you. How dare she take her own hurt and insecurities and try to throw them back on you. And what made you extra mad was how calculated they were to cause injury. She had spit the words with pure venom, designed to seep into your veins and poison all confidence that what you had with Negan was real. 

If she had said this to you even two days ago, it might’ve actually worked, might’ve combined with that padlocked box of questions and been the tipping point to send you over the edge into fully believing every word. There had also been the ball of self-doubt, which until the other night had been constantly following you around and whispering that Negan would never give up a group of women who were always at his beck and call for someone as independent and outspoken as you. That he couldn’t possibly change his rules so completely for you. That he couldn’t possibly love you. 

But this wasn’t two days ago, and you knew better now. 

Spine stiffening, you stared Amber down and said in a cool yet stern voice, “It’s obvious that nothing I say will make you happy, unless it’s that I leave Negan alone and let you have him.” You saw her eyes spark in anticipation at the words, as if she expected you to do just that. “But that’s not going to happen.” 

Her fists clenched at her sides, and she opened her mouth, probably to spout more vitriol. But you weren’t having it. In fact, she wasn’t even worth the effort of fighting, and refusing to spend another second entertaining her bullshit would be a more satisfying win than arguing back and forth. 

“I think it’s time for you to leave.” 

“Why you-”

“Leave, Amber. Before this escalates and ends in a public and unattractive way. Unless you want others to see you escorted out of the Sanctuary.”

You were possibly talking out your ass with that last bit, since you didn’t have the authority to ban anyone from the compound. However, she didn’t need to know that, and you could tell that the threat worked when her mouth clamped shut, eyes blazing with hatred as she marched towards you. For a moment, you had the fear that she was going to start a physical altercation. Instead, she angrily stomped past, a hair’s breadth away from knocking into you as the pungent smell of fake flowers trailed after her. 

“This isn’t over, bitch.” 

The words were said as she grabbed the knob and threw back the door dramatically. It flew open and slammed into the wall, swinging mere inches from your face. It would’ve been an impressive exit, except that she had barely set foot out into the hall when every muscle in her body went taut as a bowstring, and her face drained of all color as she looked at something up and to the left. 

Taking a step forward to glance out the doorway, your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Negan standing right outside. You weren’t sure how long he had been there, but seeing as how the door had been unlatched and opened a crack the entire time, he had to have at least heard the end of your conversation. 

Her mouth opened but no words came out, and you knew that she was frantically trying to come up with a way to twist the situation. If given enough time, she’d make herself look squeaky clean and try to manipulate things so that it would appear as if the confrontation was somehow your fault. Rather than give her time to come up with a bullshit excuse, Negan spoke first, his tone low and deadly serious. 

“Don’t say a fucking word. Nothing’s changed from what I told you earlier, and I don’t want any more fucking feedback about it. You and I are fucking done, and if you can’t handle that, then you’ll be escorted the fuck out first thing tomorrow morning, just like she fucking said.”

You felt a spark of satisfaction at his agreement with your threat to make her leave, at the way he stood in solidarity with you. Amber deflated slightly at his words, but she still glanced back at you over her shoulder, eyes shooting daggers. Unable to help one moment of pure pettiness, you looked her square in the eye and got the last word.

 “I’d say this is fucking over.” 

She knew she’d been beaten, you could see it written all over her face. But Amber was prideful, and she’d not crumple in front of an audience. Instead, she held her head high and walked quickly past Negan without a second glance. The two of you watched her march down the hall and disappear into the stairwell, and you had a feeling that, despite her brave face, she was going to find somewhere private to hide and lick her emotional wounds. 

Negan turned to you, the anger slipping from his expression as he scanned up and down your body, as if to make sure that there was no physical injury. Thankfully, all wounds had been emotionally inflicted and they were nothing more than shallow cuts, rather than the deep stabs Amber had been hoping for. 

“How long have you been standing there?”

His lips curled up into a pleased smirk, as he replied, “Long enough to know that you had the situation fucking handled, and didn’t need my help.”

You huffed out a tiny laugh at that, pleased to know that while he had been listening, he hadn’t just charged in and taken over. He’d been willing to stay back and let you deal with the conflict on your own...had trusted your ability to take care of it. 

You started to exit the room and close the door, but halted when he said, “Why don’t you pack a bag first.”

“What?” you blinked rapidly at him in confusion.

He shrugged casually, as if to try and offset the seriousness of his words. “Since you’re spending nights with me, it only makes fucking sense to move some of your stuff up to my room. Maybe then you won’t keep stealing my fuckin’ toothbrushes and clothes. Maybe if you ask nicely enough, I’ll even clear out a drawer or two.”

It took a few seconds to process that Negan had just done the apocalypse version of asking you to start moving in with him. Your subconscious and brain had linked arms and were twirling in a circle while tossing confetti into the air, but you tried to act as cool and casual as Negan had about it, nodding and turning back into your room. It wasn’t until you were sure he couldn’t see your face that you allowed a huge grin and silent scream of excitement.

Grabbing the brown sack, you threw in half your t-shirts (aka the ones that were currently clean) and the navy blue gym shorts. A slight blush tinted your cheeks as you tried to quickly and discreetly throw in a few pairs of underwear and socks, though you knew he was standing in the doorway and watching your every move. You also grabbed the toothbrush and toothpaste, but left the shower items. Negan had plenty of those to share, and you weren't willingly giving up the luxury of his fluffy towels and fancy soaps. You topped off the bag with some extra hair ties, a comb, and the copy of Harry Potter. It wasn’t everything, but it put enough of a dent in your belongings that you wouldn’t need to stop back here every evening after dinner, and could instead go straight to his rooms. 

Walking towards him, you went to sling the bag strap up over your arm, but he held out his hand, palm up in offering. You gave a joking eye roll, but passed over the bag so that he could sling it up over his own broad shoulder. Instinctively reaching for his hand, you laced your fingers with his and gave a squeeze of thanks, as the two of you started off down the hall and upstairs to his room.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

[loveinthebones]

Let Them Think What They Want

Prompt: 2. Things you said through your teeth

Rating: T 

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Alpha! Phil and Alpha! Dan

These are you WARNINGS: Slight scuffle between Dan and Phil, mentions of blood

-Let Them Think What They Want- 

There are certain…expected…qualities that Phil lacked from an outsider’s perspective and it never failed to set Dan’s teeth on edge when others’ made assumptions about where the boy with the startling eyes fell without a second thought.

His quiet, thoughtful countenance let him fade into the background, if he wasn’t careful.

Dan was trying to encourage Phil to speak more. He knew from experience that his flatmate’s soothing northern twang would turn heads without him even trying but Phil merely giggled in response, lips stained from the shaved ice they had been sharing, and laid his head on his shoulder, radiating heat and unspoken adoration.

“Let them think what they want, Dan.”

-

Aside from being a small tree, Phil wasn’t a physically commanding presence.

Dan didn’t mean to draw attention to himself as much as he did, but he had always been a bit more impulsive, a bit freer in letting that mysterious pull drench his words. His power of persuasion was less of a suggestion and more of a demand…and it had caused problems when their business partnership had started to solidify.

He remembers the startled eyes of the Beta secretary who had frowned deeply at the compulsion to loosen her posture, despite her will to maintain her strict professionalism after he had jokingly told her, “You can relax. We don’t bite.”

“Stop that,” Phil scolded, swatting his shoulder, as he came to stand behind Dan. He offered his hand to her with a charming, apologetic smile. “I apologize. He hasn’t gotten the hang of his vocal training, just yet.”

It was lie and they both knew it.

Dan used to have trouble controlling his Alpha voice when he was overwhelmed and back then, he had been a terrified nineteen-year-old about to sit in his first official business meeting with his friend and the creator he was working to establish a brand with in the possible future.

Her eyes had drifted across his form with a surprised gaze. It wasn’t often that an Alpha struggled with vocal training but it was speculated that those who did would be the ideal candidates for leadership positions, even when pitted against other Alphas.

“My apologies.” She replied instantly and courteously as she grasped Phil’s hand. “How do you deal with it? He certainly is a strong one.”

Dan’s own hand flexed at the sudden spike of annoyance flooding his system.

Does she not realize…?

Phil only smiled back politely and answered, “Exposure, I suppose. Should we get going?”

Phil reached for his jumping fingers to give them a reassuring squeeze while the Beta hesitated for a split second.

When Dan growled at her reluctance, Phil dropped his hold to fall in place beside his friend as they started to make their way down the corridor, following the Beta who was chattering about the recording spaces, sound equipment, and green screens that would be available to them after the meeting, if they were interested.

His fingertips scraped at the small of Dan’s back as they walked and if she noticed anything- she didn’t say a word.

Dan couldn’t help but wonder if she picked up on the fact that she had folded easily to Phil’s influence.

-

“You worry too much, Danny.”  Phil told him as he clicked away at the controller determinedly. His eyes were glued to the screen where his character was shooting rainbows and jumping hastily to escape the water hot on his heels. “Let it go.”

“I just…why do people assume?” Dan sighed, helplessly searching for the words to explain why it bothered him so much. “Seriously. It’s idiotic and irritating.“ Dan ran his fingers through his fringe, flicking the tickling strands out of his eyes peevishly. "You are just as much of an Al—”

“Shit!” Phil whined, lifting his controller up with angrily shaking hands, and a warning growl ripped from Dan’s throat before he could call it back.

Phil clamped his teeth on the unmoving plastic, an answering rumble vibrating his chest.

There’s something laying heavy and hot in his chest and it urges Dan to stand so he does, drifting to Phil unthinkingly.

His hand rests on locks dyed in the blackest black that can be bought in a bottle and the spell is broken when Phil’s breath fans across his wrist.

“Ah—” Dan squeaked, jerking his hand away as if he had been burned. “Sor—”

Phil chucked the controller at him with a laugh that flashed just a bit too much bite. “Piss off.”

-

“What is it like living with a Beta?” Dan read and he pressed a hand to his temple with a wry laugh. “Well, HowellattheMoon, you see Phil is—”

“Daniel.”

His name was muffled but it seemed to carry an uncanny echo that had the hairs at the back of his neck standing at attention.

Dan’s lower jaw moved subtly as Phil continued from his place behind his closed bedroom door: “Let it go.”

“You want to go, mate?” There’s a playful lilt to the vowels of his sentence but it’s distorted because Dan is speaking through the barrier of his clenched teeth and his blood is rushing through his ears violently but he remains sitting in his butt chair, leaning on his elbow with a strained smile and glowing eyes.

It isn’t the first time he has used his Alpha voice during a livestream but it’s the first time that it’s laced with something…dark.

The chat is going crazy but Dan’s senses are fixed on the gentle protest of his door’s hinges and the man who has let himself in to his room.

Phil’s fingers open and close at his side as he huffs, a single brow arched in a silent challenge.

“Bring it on.”

So much for the challenge being silent.

“I will murder you,” Dan retorted, flicking his gaze to Phil pointedly. The other shoves his shoulders back at the action, meeting his scrutiny unblinkingly.

There’s that something again—hot, distracting, undiluted but Dan manages to keep himself in check by sheer willpower. “Want to come say hi?”

It’s less of a question and more of a demand and Phil’s tricolored eyes flash as he rolls his shoulders stiffly before he saunters over to kneel beside Dan.

He grins at the chat and chirps out a happy, friendly and infuriatingly relaxed, “Hey guys!”

The air crackles between them.

-

There’s teeth digging relentlessly into that spot on his neck and Dan raked his blunt nails down the warm skin under his fingertips, distantly worried that he might have drawn blood.

Phil hissed against his sore neck. “You’re the one who wanted to do this, love.” He reminded Dan, flesh still trapped between painful points.

“I know,” Dan panted, digging little angry half-moons where his hands have come to rest just under Phil’s scapulas. “I just—”

“Alphas’ don’t normally have their bonding gland stimulated.” Soft lips pressed against his bruised and tender skin, followed by the slimy scrape of a playful tongue, and Dan snorted as he canted his head backwards so the column of his neck stayed exposed, despite the little voice screeching in his head that he was being reckless and in danger.

“I know,” Dan repeated his earlier statement, bumping his chin against the top of Phil’s head. “I still have that bruise on my hip.”

“I warned you,” Phil giggled, nuzzling into the juncture of his shoulder, before he raised himself up to press his forehead against Dan’s. “I am stronger than I look.”

The pads of Dan’s fingers ghosted along the pretty purple starburst on Phil’s own bonding gland, admiring the indentations he left behind.

Phil growled but it was more of a gentle, loving purr than a warning snarl.

“People have forgotten that in the olden days,” Phil’s lip is split from their tussle, cheeks rosy, and he winces as he talks.“Alphas used to take Alphas for mates.”

Dan’s chest heaved harshly as he cups his throbbing nose, grimacing. “I doubt it’s healthy to take an elbow to the face.” He commented dryly, catching the sparse droplets of blood in his palm. “I’m just saying.”

“We got carried away,” Phil shrugged nonchalantly. “It happens. Aggression hormones, adrenaline, and all that.”  He wiped at his bottom lip with his sleeve, smearing crimson along the fabric carelessly as he chuckled. “Though I didn’t expect you to slap me-”

“It was an accident!” Dan protested, panting and exhausted after their brief struggle. He didn’t want to admit that Phil’s scent was pleasantly scrambling his thoughts…and that their little squabble hadn’t helped…. the now familiar heat sizzling and scorching the walls of his veins. “I really didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

“It’s all good,” Phil hummed, lips quirked in one corner in a lopsided, forgiving smile. “It happens.”

"You say that…” Dan muttered, licking his lips, as his heart thudded against his ribs. He shook his head to clear away the fog covering his mind. “…Did Alphas really take other Alphas as mates?”

“Oh, yeah.” Phil laughed with a suggestive eyeroll and Dan’s tongue suddenly decided it wanted to stay glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Why?”  The single word escaped before his internal filter could catch it and Dan uncovered the lower portion of his face, eyes cautiously curious.

“Because the two partners had to be evenly matched.“ Phil answered softly, combing his fringe back into a messy quiff. "Though, I do believe that you can choose your mate, regardless of where you or they fall.” Phil stood, dusting off his trackies, before offering to his left hand to Dan. “Are we good?”

“We’re good, Philly.” Dan kept his eyes on their bland carpet as he accepted Phil’s help. “Would you?”

Phil pulled him to his feet and they were so close that Dan could see the individual flecks of gold and green in the electric blue depths of Phil’s irises.

“Would I, what?”

“Date an Alpha.” Dan whispered, still holding onto Phil.

The air buzzing along his skin dotted his arm with goosebumps as Phil squeezed his fingers gently.

“I would.”

“Mine,” Dan murmured, caressing the mark reverently. “People will know you’re mine.”

Phil dipped his head and the tip of his nose tickled Dan’s skin as he made his way down. “And you are mine.“

"Even if people assume I’m the sole Alpha?” Dan teased and his breath stuttered as Phil bit that spot again, mewling in pain.

Phil kissed away the sting before baring his teeth at Dan, showcasing the jagged ends and slight unevenness.

“Let them think what they want, but make no mistake I can take you on, Danny boy.”

[multiverseofmiracleshq]

After taking him into custody at the C.R.A.D.L.E. Facility, it became clear that former X-Men: Blue member turned Dark X-Men Jimmy Hudson was suffering from some kind of mental manipulation. It took a meeting with his ex-girlfriend and former teammate Jean Grey to start the process of setting things right, further solidifying that there was a telepath working against the Island.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL COMPLETE CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE MINI IC

JEAN: It had taken her a while. Jean knew that was wrong, but there were a thousand excuses she could have given as to why she had been dragging her feet. Things between her and Jimmy had ended on a strange note, to say the least. Life had turned, for the lack of a better word, into a complete and utter clusterfuck. She had Phoenixed out, died, resurrected as an amnesiac, nearly become a living sacrifice and somehow rallied to defeat the cosmic entity that had taken her older self out for a decade. Good job, Jean. Way to somehow make the end of the world about you but still manage to scrape your way back. Throughout the mess, there was someone Jean thought would be there holding her hand. She had loved Scott for a long time. For almost as long as she had met him, actually, even if she had hated him too. Scott and Jean had made a promise to each other as teammates, best friends and eventually something more. There had been a lingering fear the first time she had given herself to him fully - the first time she gave herself to anyone -  but intimate relations hadn’t been what had pulled them apart. That was the future they had walked into. So, no. It wasn’t Scott holding her hand. It had been Jimmy. Jimmy, who had been nothing but sweet, supportive and kind. Jean had been desperate to reclaim a sense of self after she had clawed her way from her grave and Jimmy had been sucked into the vortex. She had chosen to sleep with him. She had chosen to be with him. She had chosen to offer a weak ‘thank you’ and run off hand in hand with Scott when he told her that he loved her. It wasn’t entirely uncalled for, Jean had reasoned with herself. It was understandable. They were in danger of being forced back into the past they had been stolen from. Jimmy wouldn’t fit in her life if she had none of her own to speak of. So, she planned to try and get in touch but first they were on the run and then they were attempting some reckless scheme that somehow worked. Fresh out of a pod with a literal new lease on life, Jean had kissed Scott and told herself she’d find Jimmy later. Even when she heard he wasn’t on Krakoa she kept telling herself that she’d find him or at least his mind, but she was a hypocrite. She couldn’t go around with Scott like they were the golden freaking couple of the X-Men when she knew she was being inconsiderate and potentially a little cruel. Maybe she deserved to go on ice. A collar around the throat got her down initially, the cooler at the C.R.A.D.L.E. Facility Center doing the rest. Scott had tried to explain it some as he wrapped her in a blanket to help her thaw out. Power dampers, inhibitor collars and a tube below freezing to keep the mind slow and easier to sedate. She hadn’t come to until after they got to Krakoa, snuggled up in her bed twenty-one days after they had initially arrested her. Being restrained and unconscious for a month was a kind of discomfort she was unfortunately becoming familiar with. What was unfamiliar was the news that Jimmy had been there. Jimmy, her missing ( technically ) ex-boyfriend who had apparently been more than a little angry. Feral, if Scott was to be believed. Laura had apparently been going through some stuff of her own and nearly ripped him to shreds but he was alive, healing and being held in Krakoa. Awesome. After taking time to get her head straight and get her telepathy working without a migraine she finally decided to show her face. There were promises made that if he somehow got out she’d call for help because Scott would come instantly, but Jean didn’t want it to come to that. She had helped Laura escape her trigger scent telepathically. Hopefully this would’t be as intense as that. Pushing the door closed with the heel of her boot, it felt a little too formal to be in her uniform but it was too late to go change now. “We were really worried about you, you know.” If she had pockets her hands would have been in them, so instead she just wiped her palms on her pants. “I know I need to apologize, but first I have to ask: what the hell happened to you?”

JIMMY: It was easier to Hate. It was easier to maim, attack, kill, punish. Kept him away from his thoughts. Kept him from laying in a crying mess on the floor. A scared boy that was ripped away from his family too soon and had his world torn apart as he just stood by watching. It took him ages to take his own destiny by the throat and not just run in fear as an outlaw, but more importantly it took one person to push him there. To make him a man worth respecting. Turn the no good troublemaking under achiever known as Jimmy Hudson into something worth being, someone who helped found a nation, found love, and destroy those who would seek to destroy his people; Kitty Pryde. But Jean couldn't just be satisfied with taking his home, dashing their hopes, destroying Rogue's best friend, and killing his friends and family, no, she had to take Kitty too. She was the person who made him into a good man, into Wolverine. Jean only destroyed his life at every turn and it seemed like she wouldn't be done until he was dead. He had to be strapped into a seat. They knew better than to just keep him in a cage. Knew a Wolverine couldn't be contained. He managed a few near escapes between ripping bands and nearly gnawing off his own limbs to escape but they caught on to quick and stopped him. How the General of Utopia had fallen. As her sickening stench burned his nostrils he looked to the red headed devil in front of him. His teeth instinctually became coated in metal, claws piercing through his flesh as he lurched forward in his seat. "Don't even try putting on that bullshit act." He snarled as his claws slowly receded into his body. "You know exactly what happened to me. Who you took from me."

JEAN: When you’re a telepath they teach about boundaries. Sometimes you can look into minds, sometimes you can’t. It’s a weird set of rules that are hard to explain to people who don’t know what it’s like to have the ever present temptation of knowing more than what someone may be saying. Jimmy’s presence was a wave of anger. Jean had expected some, but not the dark cloud that was being emitted. “I know I was a dick, but my act isn’t bullshit.” She tried to keep the hurt from flickering in her voice. “But you and I are on very different pages.” Walking towards him, Jean’s eyes flashed for only a moment to get a glance inside his mind. Blood. Pain. Loss. And rage. So, so much rage. Eyes snapping open, Jean hissed and lightly brushed her temple. Head tilting to the side, a strong sense of unease rose up in her. “Who do you think I am?”

JIMMY: Feeling her touch in his mind he was disgusted. His skull encasing itself in metal to try and force her out as he used the techniques Kitty taught him to keep telepaths out. What disturbed it most of all was that if only for a moment he felt some comfort from the touch of her mind. "Keep your dirty mind the fuck away from me, Jean." He spat out. His hands clenched so tight his nails cut into his flesh as drops of crimson slowly dripped to the floor. "I don't know what you're trying to do here, but don't think for a damn second that you can make me forget all that you've done to us." His tone lost its extreme aggression but it was cold and concise. The way he looked at her, studied her, wasn't as if they were once friends but as if he was studying a target. Looking for the right chance to kill them. He survived her Phoenix once and he could do it again.

JEAN: “Okay, asshole.” Now, she was angry. Both hands landed on her hips as she stared him down. “We had sex, you told me you loved me and I ran off with my ex-boyfriend. I’m selfish but my mind is’t dirty and you need to cool it. Someone did something to you.” She rolled her shoulders back. “But you didn’t quit on me when I forgot who I was and the Hellfire Club tried to use me. I love you. Maybe not like you loved me, but we’ll work this out.”

JIMMY: Jimmy scoffed. He remembered having sex with her, in her floating towers of Tian. He hated every second of it. He wanted to claw his own eyes out for even seeing her like that. However it was the price he had to pay for bringing Tian down and it was worth it. "Oh would you just shut the fuck up?" he replied as he leaned forward in the seat putting strain on his bindings. "No one could ever love a rotten, traitorous, murderous bitch like you. Only friends you ever had were either scared of you or manipulated by you and I'd rather have you tear me apart with your space canary right now than pretend that we were ever close."

JEAN: Stay calm, Jean. Clench your fists and don’t let your hair float around your face. She didn’t default to crying. Jean had never been one to automatically go there. Usually she got mad before there were tears. Right now she was fuming. “You shut the fuck up.” His chair telepathically bumped backwards slightly. “Believe it or not, people love me for some weird reason. I don’t get it either.” Hank, Scott, Jimmy. Logan in the future. People were drawn to Jean but she didn’t get it. She just hurt everyone no matter what version of her it was. “I have friends, and I have people who love me so I’m not going to let you break me down. I’m also not the Phoenix anymore, which you knew when you had a functioning brain cell. There’s no Phoenix period. It’s gone.” The energy she let curl around her fist as an example was pink, no red or gold sparks in sight. “You want me to tear you apart, Jimmy? Fine. I’ll tear you apart if it fixes whatever’s wrong with you.”

JIMMY: "You've done it before? What's stoppin' ya now? Tired of getting your ass kicked after I heal up?" The sound of grinding metal filled the air as his jaw clenched. She was an extremist who needed to be put down. "Look, I don't know what kind of fucking game you're trying to play here but I don't care what you do to me. Just now that you'll get it back tenfold when I get the chance. Then once you're lobotomized I'll get Kitty back and we'll start over. President Osborn did what Rogers couldn't. He decriminalized being a mutant. Everyone's going to leave you once they know the worlds becoming a safer place and they don't have to cling to a tyrant for safety."

JEAN: “Done it before? We’re clearly living in very different worlds and I’m pretty sure mine is the real one. Let’s back up from threatening to kill each other and sort this out.” Jean moved to sit in the chair opposite him. At that moment it was a terrible time to have empathic powers. “The only Rogers we have is Steve and Cap died a year ago. President Norman got me and other mutants arrested because we’re under twenty-one. Right now we’re on Krakoa, where you’ve lived a year. It’s a sovereign mutant nation. They brought me here from the past and I can tell you the world is a lot more accepting than it used to be. We don’t even have one set leader. And Kate?” Jean cocked her head to the side. “Kitty. She goes by Kate. Red Queen of the Hellfire Club and Emma Frost’s prodigy. No offense, dude, but she’s never paid you any mind. She’s off drinking a little too much and being a bad ass. She hasn’t gone anywhere and I can prove it if you’ll let me help you.”

JIMMY: "More fucking mind games?" Jimmy groaned only growing agitated. "Yeah. President Steve Rogers, formerly known as Captain America. He died a year ago and now President Osborn is filling in. Stop trying to mess with me." He just ignored her as she went on about Krakoa. He could care less about where they were. The only place he ever felt was his home was Utopia, which Jean helped kill alongside Thaddeus Ross. But when she spoke about Kitty it hit different. His face drooped for a moment as his stomach sunk. His breathing grew heavy for a moment as he remembered dancing in the starlight of Utopia. One of the moments he felt most at peace. "You keep her name out of your mouth..."

JEAN: “Steve Rogers was never president, he was only ever Captain America. These mind games aren’t exactly fun, so even if you don’t believe me know that I’m not playing.” ...And there it was. Kitty, an apparent soft spot. It made Jean feel weird to consider her former professor being intimate with her only ex. “Kate Pryde is my friend. She’s a mentor. The older version of me mentored her. Jean would know what to do right now.”  The last part was muttered under her breath. “You’ve insulted me, spread lies about the world and clearly hate me but I’m sorry to tell you that you’re wrong on almost all accounts. None of those things have happened. Not here, at least. You and I met when you joined my old team, X-Men: Blue.”  She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “And you liked me. I know you did. Scott did too. He and I were together, but things changed. We went to war with the Avengers and you were there for me.” As she spoke telepathic thoughts floated between the two. Nothing forceful, only the ghosts of memories and hints of images that had come and gone. “You loved me. Maybe I didn’t deserve it, but you did. I’ve seen a side of you that I think is real and this isn’t it.”

JIMMY: None of this was making sense. Kitty was just about the same age as Jean. Maybe a year or two younger, but she was only a year older than him. She'd be what, 24 now? And now she's talking about another Jean? He didn't argue as much this time, he inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in her pheromones and listening to her heart. She didn't seem to be lying. "I've never heard of X-Men: Blue." He thought back to her. "I met you when you showed up at my school. News was out that I was a mutant and you promised to take me away so I could make a difference and so I wouldn't be arrested for being a mutant. Then you used me." The last phrase had some emphasis on it. "The only Scott I can think of is Scott Summers and he died when I was just gettin' my learners permit." He hesitated to respond to the comment of loving her. "The only woman I've ever loved is Pryde. You're confused."

JEAN: Maybe they were getting somewhere. “We’re a makeshift team. Hank McCoy didn’t like the world or how Scott and Emma were running around trying to start this group called Nation-X so he pulled the original X-Men from the  past. Me, Hank, Bobby, Warren and Scott. It’s why I’m twenty-one ( as of last month, so happy birthday to me ) and my older self is thirty-one. Blue was just a good place to stick us, and Kate took a chance. She didn’t try and force us to go back to the past. You didn’t want us to either. We were staying on Madripoor.” Jean bit her lip and straightened up, gnawing for a second. “If anyone was in trouble it would be us. We were never meant to be here. I couldn’t save you from arrest, but I could be your friend. My team has always been a family even if we got scattered. And Scott... You’re right. I did accidentally use you but definitely not in the way you’re referring. I’m kinda a lot, like, all the time. Sometimes it’s not my fault, but you were better to me than I deserved. You say you only loved Kate, but that’s not entirely true.” This time, Jean floated a memory with intention. It wasn’t meant to be entirely invasive but for one moment the image of them and that night appeared. Following it was the day Jean and the group had ran. She let the I love you be heard and her silence, her nauseating guilt over not saying it back to show it was real. “I’m confused a lot, but not here.”

JIMMY: "Bobby?" The words escaped him with some surprised. He owed him his life. He stood by Kitty and Jimmy when the Sentinels raided the south west and the mutants were forced to hide in tunnels. He hadn't seen him since but that man would always be a friend to Jimmy. "Okay... Sounds crazy... But I can smell that you're not lying." None of what she was saying rang any bells for him but the moment she sent the memory over he began getting flashes from the past. More of that night and the day of his arrest were filling in. Something in his mind was resisting and inflicting pain on him as he groaned, and his fangs recoated themselves in metal. "I...!" He groaned as his claws then proceeded to pierce through his skin. "Remember that night...!" he said through gritted teeth as the memories of burning from cosmic fire and the peace he felt with Jean that night.

JEAN: “Bobby. One of my best friends for as long as, well, as long as I can remember.” Jean perked up slightly, the exhaustion from having someone she cared about verbally berate her waning momentarily. “I guess that’s better than smelling my shampoo.” The chuckle awkwardly left her mouth. “I promise, Jimmy. I’m being honest. I should have found you a long time ago.” As he began to act distressed, Jean stood and slowly moved forward before hesitantly reaching out to see if he’d let her touch his hand. “Please, let me help you. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll unhook you. I’ll do what I can but if you sense I’m lying or doing something I shouldn’t you can do what you want. You’re my friend and I don’t want to see any friend suffer.” That was in addition to her own guilt that if maybe she had reached out sooner she could have found hm before someone got in his head.

JIMMY: "Don't...!" He said as he forced his chair to fall back and away from Jean. He was unpredictable right now, operating off of instinct. If this was true he didn't want to accidentally kill her. "Madripoor..." he groaned. "There was a festival... We stayed with Magneto..."

JEAN: “I trusted Erik. I trusted him before anyone else did, and so I convinced everyone to stay with him. Work with him. Lorna supervised sometimes. Bloodstorm joined, but she died. I was waiting to tell you.” When he moved Jean made no further motions to come any closer. “I didn’t think you’d stay with us. I mean, no one was sure how to treat us. That’s why they wanted to send us back. The last time I saw you, you and Laura were helping us escape. So, thank you. But Laura, do you remember her? She subdued you at the Facilities. She’s Logan’s daughter. Which, means you’re siblings. Kind of. No one has been themselves. They arrested us because of Osborn’s Laws. It’s where we found you.”

JIMMY:  "Logan..." He said with a heavy breath as he connected two and two. "James Howlett... My birth father... He's dead..." What she was saying made sense. Laura had a similar scent to himself and that could easily explain it. Osborn didn't lock them up because they were terrorists? What was going on? He thought to himself as a new wave of pain washed over him. "You... You found me in the Yukon... I was confused... Alone..."

JEAN: “Alive.” She corrected him gently. “Alive and almost made a baby with me. Older me, that is. Long story. We’ll go over it another time.” As he remembered he grew more anxious and Jean could feel it popping out of him. Thoughts were like bubbles she tried to avoid, but she continued to try and pass as many his way as possible. Not to rewrite, but to help remember. “Right. And you may be confused now, Jimmy, but you’re not alone. We’re going to work this out together.”

JIMMY: "Is... Is Rogue alive?" He called out in pain as he remembered her sacrifice herself for the rest of them during the convergence. All the pain she felt, how alone she always was. She deserved so much better. He twitched, his binds reaching their limits as memories of fighting alongside X-Men Blue came rushing in his head merging with his memories of skulking through the Deserts with Psylocke, Black Tom, and Storm. It was all getting so confusing for him. "I don't know what happened here and what happened at home, Jean." He said almost pleading, his voice being reminiscent of her Jimmy. "What about my other siblings?" He asked. "Did I kill Pietro?"

JEAN: “Rogue’s alive. Anna-Marie and Remy got engaged but they broke up. Gambit’s with Polaris but he and Rogue are still working with Betsy.” Hearing him distressed was nearly too much and Jean moved forward without thinking. “Pietro’s dead. At least, in this reality. We have one from Earth-616  and he’s a real prick. He and Erik don’t get along. Wanda’s fine. Better than fine, actually. She helped me end the Phoenix. Her Pietro is the one who died a long time ago fighting Ultron. Jimmy,” Jean ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not Emma or my older self but you have to let me help you. Someone did something, but I think I can take them.”

JIMMY:  Wanda was alive too? His world was so full of death that nearly every person Jean had named had long since been dead. Memories of the two of them began coming in more readily. All the little moments, all the times he sacrificed for her. "I... I trust you..." He said looking to her as he was forced to mix and relive his life in his own universe to his life from this universe.

JEAN: “I’m really glad to hear you say that.” Jean exhaled gratefully. This time she did touch him. Her telekinesis unhooked the bindings in a flurry of pink, a way she could try and  show him that she wasn’t going to hurt him. “I’ve been training with Jean.” She reassured him. That being said, the memories still hit her like a ton of bricks to the face. There were the memories she was familiar with and the ones she weren’t. For the half she had been privy to it was strange to see herself from the other side but the others were so full of tragedy and sorry. Those made tears run in salty rivets down her cheeks but she kept her eyes closed and kept working. One here, one there. It wouldn’t solve the issue of who he was but differentiating reality would be a good start. When she got near the end she saw it. Him. Mesmero. He had be there, in his mind, twisting it around. His psychic imprint cut through Jean’s own mind before she could wipe it away, the burn radiating through her mind. And then, she was done. The surgery - so to speak - was done. Her older self would have been faster, more efficient. Jean was just proud to have done it at all. As she left her hands fall from  the temple her body sagged to the side, tailbone colliding painfully with the ground as her chest heaved. “Fuck him.”

JIMMY: Jimmy laid there near motionless on the floor with shaky breath. Things were much more clear to him now but being forced to go through both of his lives took a lot out of him. For the first time since he could remember he wanted to cry, but his tears dried up long ago. It wasn't until now that everything hit him. Jean didn't love him but he still felt love for her. Kitty was gone. Dead with his entire reality and everyone he loved from it. One lover laid on the floor not far from him and the other was shattered and spread across the multiverse. He was heartbroken. Stabbing his claws into the floor out of sheer frustration. "Thanks Jean..." Was all he could manage. Still not able to look at her. "I owe you one..."

JEAN: While he took a moment she had drawn her knees up towards her chest, head buried on the green and black fabric of her pants. Jean loved Jimmy. It was complicated and it wasn’t to the extent that he had for her, but it was there. Right then, however, she was just tired. “You don’t need to thank me.” Her voice was muffled. “What Mesmero did was inexcusable. I’m just  really, really glad you didn’t  murder me while I was drugged up at C.R.A.D.L.E.” Lifting her head, she peeked over her arms at him. “Let’s just call it even. I’ve got a lot to apologize for.” Her eyes flitted downwards. “And I’m sorry.  About Kitty and Rogue and everyone else. I didn’t know. And I feel like I need to apologize for her. The one that hurt you. Me. We’re known for being power crazed and terrible, so I’m sorry.”

JIMMY: Hearing their names made his eyes feel like they were about to swell before he swallowed hard and forced down his emotions. They were gone. He needed to accept that. "He's going to die." Jimmy replied in a very matter of fact way, unusual to the Jimmy she was used to. This was the man he was before the convergence speaking. He rose from his floor and wandered to the unused cot in the room before sitting on the edge of it. "He's a traitor to our species and it's time for him to go down." In this world Jimmy hadn't killed anyone, but back home he had lost track. There was a lot he had to do for the sake of Utopia that he took no pride in. As far as he was concerned he wasn't a good guy. Just a weapon that could be used for good. "You're not her. Apology accepted." He added before rotating on the cot and laying down. "I'm not ready to see everyone. I'm going to stay down here for a while."

JEAN: “Something happened to Emma. Someone tampered with her mind. We weren’t sure if it was Madelyne, but I’ll tell them to look into Mesmero. You may have some competition.” His tone didn’t scare her, per se, but she didn’t like it. It was understandable but not preferable. Jimmy had grown a lot since they had met and now it seemed as if he was someone else entirely. He was someone else, in some ways. Jean nodded at his declaration but she knew she’d see it in her dreams: another Jean going mad. Pulling herself to her feet and wiping off her pants, green eyes tracked his motion. “You know where I am. Now that we’re allowed to stay we have a habitat settlement. Sometimes I go to the Summers habitat to help Jean with the baby, but I don’t stay there. If you need me, just think. I’ll be able to pickup your thoughts.” Jean took a few steps towards the door. “Jimmy, I’m really glad to see you again.”

JIMMY:  "As long as he's gone I don't care who does it." He responded, just wanting to be alone. He didn't want to come off as rude but it was hard not to in this moment. He was just so tired. "Understood. I'll reach out to you if I need to." He said knowing full well he had little to know intention of actually trying to reach out to her. Rolling onto his side to look at her he nodded with a half smile. "Glad to see you too, Jean. Take care of yourself." He responded before rolling over to his opposite side and facing the wall.

JEAN: With one last small smile Jean tugged the door open and slid into the sunlight. She’d explain what happened, what she had seen. They’d look for Mesmero and hold him accountable. And after a while, Jean would check in again. Give him a moment to grieve. Something was up on Krakoa and they’d need to figure it out.

[inactivedaddymemeyard]

Issues

Mutants!au where everyone is bad ass, but was too scared and too unexperienced to save themselves from their childhood traumas. Wymack runs a boarding school for mutants trying to hide from society and from war. (So no, not X-Men actively not X-Men) The ravens aren't a different team they are a weird group of bullies at a different branch school (they still act the same as canon) This story is on a semi-permanent hiatus.

Ao3: here

 Time had started to blur. Each hour that brought him further from the west coast had started to blend together. The last vivid memory he had was pulling off the road in a small town outside of Ferndale, California and doing what needed to be done with the cold, moon kissed sand biting into his hands. Trying to recall the hike back up to Fortuna, the closest city on an interstate, gave him a head ache and made him frustrated at himself for being careless and not paying attention. He remembered the trucker in his fifties who welcomed a companion to Hayward, even if that companion was a withdrawn fifteen year old who could’ve been running from the law. He knew the walk from Hayward to Livermore had taken him almost a full day instead of the six it should have because of his legs being unable to carry him that long when he was so full of grief and hunger. He’d manage to find some kind of ride from Livermore to Lost Hills, but he didn’t remember who had helped him or what they drove. That was the beginning of his memory truly failing. He had no idea how he managed to find another ride to take him the last half of the trip on I-40 or why they had dropped him in Bagdad, Arizona.

           Yet, here he was a few hours outside Bagdad at a small run down town named Millport. He’d been here for a year and had somehow managed to squat in abandoned and for sale houses with minimum suspicion. He’d turned seventeen shortly after arriving, two weeks after that cold beach that he still sometimes felt under his fingernails. He’d spent his birthday sitting in the basement of a half collapsed ancient house kicking away rats before they could eat his dinner. Not that he’d cared that much about it. Birthdays meant nothing to someone who was nothing.

           Sometimes he let himself wish for another life, a better life, but he always shook it off and continued his useless existence because that was all he knew how to do. He had let the feeling hold too long in Canada, she had even started to think it he saw it in her eyes when they watched the people around them. That urge to be more. He had an outlet for that emotion, something that made him feel real, but she didn’t and he saw the way everything was dragging on her. Neil Josten sat up jerkily and shook the thoughts of her out of his head even as he inhaled the smoke around his head a little bit more aggressively.

He was fine. No one knew what he could do.

He was fine. No one knew he had no parents.

He was fine. No one knew where he was.

He began whispering “I’m fine” over and over again as he let the smoke curl around his head. He didn’t particularly like doing this, but he knew when to pull himself back to the present. He did it every time that odd, heavy blanket started to smother him. He much preferred when the empty shell covered his mind; he hated the heavy weight of whatever it was muffled everything till all he wanted to do was lay down and never move again.

Neil was startled by the screeching of the school’s front door, but quickly controlled his expression as his physical education teacher Mr. Hernandez stepped outside. Neil instantly was on guard, Mr. Hernandez was one of the few teachers that asked about Neil’s home life and Neil knew he’d lied one too many times for Hernandez to fully believe him.

“I didn’t see your parent’s at parent/teacher conferences tonight.” Mr. Hernandez said.

“They’re out of town.” Neil lied.

“Still or again?”

Neil knew he couldn’t keep spitting lies at this obviously well-meaning man, but he didn’t have an alternative.

“I thought they would be here for this. It’s your senior year and this is the last semester that matters to colleges.” Hernandez sighed.

Neil wasn’t going to college. Neil probably wouldn’t make it another year on his own. He’d lucked out with Millport and though he hated to admit it he was lucky he hadn’t made the decision to come here or he’d already be dead.

“They haven’t missed much. I’ll call them later to tell them my grades.” Neil once again lied.

“Not yet, maybe. There’s someone here to see you.” Mr. Hernandez sighed, but there was a weird lilt of hope in his voice.

To someone who had spent their whole life running those words were a death sentence. Neil snatched his duffel from the bench beside him and turned to run when he felt rather than heard the second person approach the school entrance and Mr. Hernandez. That was not the power signature of anyone who he was running from and it definitely wasn’t a strong enough signature to be a danger to him. So Neil played it as casual as he could after making it very obvious he was about to bolt and turned to face a huge middle aged man with a sleeve full tribal tattoos twisting up his arms.

Empath

The word floated through his mind in a gruff male voice the instant he looked at the small pulsing aura surrounding the man. If he was an Empath, even a weak one Neil needed to get his shit under control immediately. In the blink of an eye Neil had banished his panic and was staring apathetically at the men in front of him. The Empath blink at him in surprise before stepping forward to introduce himself at David Wymack the founder of Second Chances the boarding school for trouble mutants where they didn’t have to fight or hide. Neil knew what Second Chances was because he had dreamed of its safe walls for most of his life, but his mother was right when she’d kept him away from it. He was too dangerous and too much of a liability to safely hide there.

“I’m not a mutant.” The lie slipped from his mouth with no emotion and hopefully could only be taken as truth.

“I saw you run.” Hernandez corrected.

“I wasn’t running faster than anyone else in gym.” Neil replied, still keeping his emotions locked away just in case Wymack was paying attention to his aura instead of his words.

“And after they left and I saw you run as fast as I can, if not faster.” Hernandez grinned, which confused Neil.

“Kevin goes there.” Neil resigned looking back at Wymack, who had silently watched him while he lied and lied.

“And we all want you to come stay with us. Kevin was the one who made the final decision to come get you.” Wymack supplied.

And Neil did what he does best, he ran.

Goodbye Neil.

Goodbye Millport.

Goodbye Arizona.

Neil was going to run as far and as fast as he could, which was far and fast with Hernandez’s power fueling his speed he could be out of the state quickly.

He thought he’d made his escape until a shadow reached out and ripped his ankle out from underneath him. He hit the grass hard and was blinded for a few seconds as he flipped onto his back to see who had attacked him.

“Jesus Christ Andrew. I told you not to fuck with him!” Wymack’s angry voice boomed.

Neil flinched. The blonde standing above him smiled viciously.

“I didn’t break him, boss! Put a bind aid on him and he’ll be just fine!” the deep voice coming from that horrible smile sang the last half of his sentence.

Darkforce User

Came the same voice, though oddly calm and empty sounding, in Neil’s mind as he finally focused on the huge aura surrounding the small man. Unlike Wymack’s aura Andrew’s was twitching as if restrained and it had the blurry edges of a drug using mutant’s.

He’s interesting.

He’s powerful.

He’s dangerous.

He might be interesting to Neil but he also was infuriating and the reason he was far far away from this man who in the darkness they were now in looked like his father. Neil did something impulsive and stupid but he couldn’t stop himself. Wymack grunted in surprise as Neil loosed his emotions and he could finally see the uncontrollable fury that was fueling his newest mistake.

Suddenly the shadows around Andrew solidified and wrapped around both of his ankles. He was hoisted into the air upside down, though instead of being scared or mad he was laughing a horrible manic laugh that echoed.

“Well, it seems you’re hiding something Neil Josten.” Came a voice he only heard in his dreams.

Neil turned and looked at Kevin Day, who had been sitting in the tree above them.

Telekinesis

Kevin’s cool voice in his mind was almost as jarring as seeing him and seeing how much brighter his aura had grown since they were kids. Neil dropped Andrew with a resounding thud and bolted. He used Kevin’s power to snatch his duffle from where it’d fallen, used Hernandez’s power to run faster than they could keep up with even in a car, and used Andrew’s power to conceal himself in shadows.

Unfortunately when he got more than five miles away he lost his hold on their powers and had to walk to the nearest open house to collapse. He hadn’t held so many powers at once in a long time and it had made him so weak he was close to collapsing. He fell onto the destroyed couch that would be his bed for the night and pulled his duffle close to his chest. That was when he finally noticed Kevin must had used his power to slip a plan ticket into his duffle when Neil was distracted by Andrew.

Next Chapter

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

Instagram verification will make you Public Enemy No. 1

This piece is part of an ongoing series exploring what it means to be a woman on the internet. 

In a folder on my phone called “PUBLIC FIGURE,” I save screenshots of some of the most outrageous messages strangers have sent me since I got verified on Instagram, primarily because I still can’t believe I get so many. There are dozens of DMs that demand to know “why tf” and “how tf” I got a little blue badge. 

People will scrawl “who are you lmao” under a bunch of my photos all at once, which is a singularly mortifying experience that has no equivalent on Twitter or Facebook, where my profiles also have blue ticks. On a few occasions, I’ve commented on a celebrity or brand’s post, then watched as the replies to my original comment devolve into a fight over whether a person can buy verification and, if so, whether that’s what I did. To be clear, I didn’t. I’m a journalist and was verified for my job. My profile is categorized under “Journalist” and a Story highlight full of screenshots of my work appears right at the top of my profile.

The messages are sorted into my “requests” folder but are often accompanied by a push notification telling me a user “wants to send [me] a message.” I always know what it will say before I even unlock my phone to check. By far the worst one came from a user who asked how to get a tick a few times and when I didn’t answer, viewed my Story, noticed I was watching Gossip Girl for the first time, and sent me a spiteful DM telling me who Gossip Girl was, spoiling the show. 

In receiving this unexpected aggression, anger, and attention, I’m not alone. Several women verified on Instagram told me similar stories — with their experiences ranging from annoying to creepy to scary. And yet, men in media who I spoke to about this phenomenon generally have positive feelings about Instagram since being verified. No, this isn’t representative of all men, but it’s been shown that women are twice as likely to face online harassment and the men I spoke to didn’t report, say, getting unsolicited dick pics at a higher rate.

The DMs I get may seem trivial compared to revenge porn or other online harassment people face daily, but my “PUBLIC FIGURE” folder has evolved from an uncomfortable joke to a museum dedicated to the hostility that manifests itself in various ways for women across the internet and in real life. The messages may not necessarily be dangerous, but other manifestations certainly are, which is why they’re all worth investigating.

According to Instagram, the checkmarks are designed simply to “help people more easily find the public figures, celebrities, and brands they want to follow,” but among users, they function more or less as a mysterious status symbol. The general assumption is that Instagram either confers a marking arbitrarily on accounts with thousands of followers or the people behind smaller accounts buy them.

How I got the tick

When my former boss asked me if I wanted my Instagram account submitted for verification, it never occurred to me the small marking would be controversial. All I felt was a little excitement, but I tried to be cool with my response. 

I probably said something like, “Yeah, that would be super funny,” which, two years later, it still totally is, even though the tiny tick has brought me an outsized amount of harassment.

I don’t really self-identify as a public figure, celebrity, or brand; I’m a young woman who works in media, which bizarrely qualifies me for the badge as much as it qualifies Oprah. If and when I use my account to reach out to sources or act on behalf of a media company, it needs to be clear I’m not bluffing. 

At present, I have about 2,600 followers. Similarly, 2,900 accounts follow my Twitter, which is also verified and is where I actually post my work, but I’ve never gotten any harassing messages about my verification on that platform. Twitter’s indefinite pause on verifying users may contribute to that — or perhaps, a Twitter verification doesn’t have the same weight as one from Instagram on the social media totem pole. At any rate, I’m expected to have a badge on the app where I share links to my articles, not on the one where I share pictures of my face. Getting Instagram verification almost felt subversive, if self-serving. 

It also felt surprisingly validating to meet the standards for obtaining something so ostensibly prestigious. The feelings of success and belonging would prove short-lived, but there was a part of me, at first, that saw the badge as a sign I’d somehow made it, at least in terms of an admittedly subjective importance.

Like I said, though, I wanted to seem aloof with my boss, not like I actually cared. Online, it often seems like sincerity is the enemy of prosperity, but the dirty little secret is that we all do care. That’s why I ended up saying I wanted to be on the verification list with the rest of my coworkers even though I knew my friends were going to make fun of me for taking myself so seriously. (And they do!)

I was expecting the attention and ribbing from my friends, but I wasn’t expecting the explosion of outrage from total strangers. As it turns out, there are people who care a lot about their online image and have no problem making it known they, too, want a checkmark, even if it’s obvious they don’t know what its purpose is.

The "public figure" folder

The proof is in the “PUBLIC FIGURE” folder.

I’ve fielded emails and text messages about the checkmark, which always feel invasive, because I have contact information available on the page since, well, the whole point of the verified profile is to enhance my ability to do my job. I don’t usually respond to the messages or comments, but when I do, I just write that I work in media and didn’t buy anything. “I’m sure you didn’t get yours the right way because you don’t have much fans,” someone wrote back once, which is a pretty common theme among the messages, although the moralistic resentment over “the right way” added a unique touch.

Notably, four guys I’ve gone out with have brought it up in person, each with a different combination of annoyance and awe. One of them was an aspiring entertainer with no concrete acting credits. He admitted to googling me before our date (which was both our first and last one), then indignantly told me that if either of us should be verified, it was him, the actor. Another also worked in media and was frustrated no one at his organization knew anyone at Facebook, Instagram’s parent company, who could make it happen for him. I sipped my drink. What am I supposed to say to that?

I reached out to the Gossip Girl spoiler, who is purportedly a British teen, for this piece and they agreed to chat, but quickly retracted the agreement when I asked about the whole show-spoiling thing. The user did tell me I could quote this: “When I sent them things it was a joke and I never thought you’d open them because of your tick.” 

SEE ALSO: Instagram's 'Hashtag Mindfulness' boom: The good, the bad, and the ugly

It’s not a joke, though, and if it were, it would be much less funny to the verified women I spoke to than the verified men. (Instagram declined to comment for this article, as did a few verified users claiming to be selling badges in the comments of celebrity posts.)

What about the others?

Andrew Kirell, the senior editor at The Daily Beast who has 755 Instagram followers, says he gets more spam messages, but not necessarily harassment. Jon Levine, The Wrap’s media editor who has 2,105, says his harassment has neither gone up nor down post-checkmarking. KHarlles, a recording artist with 3,178 followers, noted that there has been an increase in DMs inquiring how he got his badge, but largely, getting verified on Instagram “was very positive” and has been useful to his career.

Polly A., a verified musician with over 12,500 followers on the platform, however, doesn’t agree that the tick is useful in any way. She’s noticed “no effect” beyond “annoyed” messages from unverified users: “I guess the only thing I notice is that some people almost make you feel unworthy for having one if you’re not ‘famous.’”

When asked about any effect she’s seen since getting her checkmark, a female journalist with a little over 1,000 followers asked to remain anonymous (as did every woman in media contacted for this story, for fear of further harassment). Granted anonymity, she confided she’s seen a definite increase in not only the sort of spam reported by Kirell and KHarlles, but “weird guys” and “creepy messages” from men. The dick pics and “inappropriate comments” she described aren’t uncommon for any woman online, but the amount she receives tripled after she was verified on Instagram from one or two a month to five or six. 

A second woman in media whose follower count sits around 3,000 said she, too, got an “insane amount” of spam DMs from people who wanted to purchase her account, but those halted and gave way to a wave of men offering out-of-line opinions on her appearance. 

Another woman in media I spoke to declined verification altogether simply because getting it would have meant she would need to make her account public, which she was unwilling to do. 

All of this raises a question, of course: Is it worth it? For women, especially, is solidifying a brand or public position through the use of the app’s verification badges really worth it? 

For the most part, in spite of creepy messages and straight-up aggression, no one I spoke to, whether in entertainment or media, said they fully regretted getting the tick. Almost everyone mentioned a bump in engagement and, honestly, a little self-aware gloating among friends (along with the same roasting by those friends that I correctly anticipated, too).

Moreover, media women who have seen an increase in the receipt of creepy messages or unwelcome nudes noted that yes, their messages to potential sources get answered faster and more reliably than messages sent by unverified colleagues. Even with my relatively low following, I, too, noticed that when seeking out sources for this story and others, I got a solid response rate I just didn’t see before I got that badge. When it needs to, the checkmark does its job. It also happens to bring a lot of anger and dick pics with it.

Whether being verified is “worth it,” then, depends entirely on what “worth it” means to each individual. We already know women experience more harassment just for being Online While Female. The extra visibility of appearing at the top of comment sections or searches can only add to that.

One artist, Thea & The WIld, who has 2,545 followers, shared a particularly rosy outlook about her checkmark and whether getting it was worth it. “[W]hen I search for known people I want to follow, I obviously look for the verification sign to avoid ‘fake’ profiles and weird content,” she said. 

She’s received a few nice messages from fans, she added, and while she’s concerned overall about the general addictiveness and vapidness of social media, she still gleans a little joy from her badge, which is probably the attitude we should all try to have: “For me, I think it just felt positive and probably affected some dopamine in my brain when that tiny mark appeared.” 

If I could go back in time to the moment my former boss asked if I wanted to get verified, I’d probably still do it, too, even though I audibly groan whenever I get a push notification alerting me that someone I don’t know “wants to send me a message” on the app. After all, it does its job of identifying me as a legitimate, trustworthy professional, even though one user did rather unkindly (but fairly!) surmise I must not be “one of the better known” journalists after I commented on an influencer’s post. Like other women harassed online, I’ve embraced blocking and deleting and I can’t recommend it enough.

Maybe one day I’ll grow into my badge and have the kind of account that seems like it ought to have one to the average user, but I know if and when that happens, I’ll face harassment for something new, simply for being a woman on the internet. In the meantime, at the risk of committing the most grievous online sin and seeming like I care, I invite you to follow me on Instagram. I’m verified, you know!   

Lindsey Ellefson is a journalist who lives in New York. Find her on Twitter, @ellefs0n.

WATCH: Queen Elizabeth II posted on Instagram for the first time

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Word Count: 2031 Author’s Note: So I have this personal headcanon that Bones loves filthy limericks, but he’s too much of a gentleman to share them unless he’s really, really intoxicated. This, coupled with his horrible flirting in Into Darkness, gave me this fic to share with you. tagging @youre-on-a-starship​ and @outside-the-government​ because they both expressed such interest in the idea.

You’d heard about the legendary shore leave shenanigans of the Enterprise crew, even before you’d been assigned to her. Rumour had it things got absolutely crazy on the first night, and tapered off from there, depending on your division. Operations was rumoured to party the hardest, partly to remind themselves they were alive, you guessed. You’d been told they remembered to toast their absent friends individually every night. Science was the next most likely to go on a prolonged tear, but you didn’t find that difficult to believe. Science held within it the Medical Corp, and you’d never met a nurse who wasn’t just a little bit wild. Additionally, the science labs were full of the kind of equipment that allowed bored officers to brew moonshine. That left Command as the Cinderella squad, destined to leave before the party really got started. But it was a comparative scale, really, and you suspected with a captain like Jim Kirk, the Command division wasn’t going to be leaving the ball before the fun started.

You’d been aboard for about six months when shore leave was announced, and you hoped your liver was up to the task. The gleam in Christine Chapel’s eye suggested it might not be.

“Come on, Doc,” she gestured to you. “We should find out what they’ve been cooking in the back of the lab.”

“I don’t know about this,” you replied, hesitant. She laughed and linked her arm in yours.

“First shore leave is always the worst. Just plan to alternate booze and water, and put a hypo at your bedside. You can step whoever you wake up with through giving it to you,” she winked.

“Whoever I wake up with?” You gaped. You hadn’t been on the ship long enough to make those types of connections.

“Think of it like a rite of passage, Y/N. Eventually, you’ll make a mistake and sleep with someone on this boat. You’re better off doing it sooner than later. And better to do it drunk on shore leave. Because then you can blame not knowing people better, and too much booze,” she explained. You shook your head.

“I don’t know, Chris, that seems pretty calculated.” You couldn’t help but blush just thinking about trying to seduce any of the crew you’ve met so far. There wasn’t really anyone who did anything for you. Well, there was one person. Who was completely off limits.

“You’ll thank me for this wisdom later, Doc.” She winked, and continued to lead you through the maze of the lab until you reached the very back. “Hey, Jameson, what’s cooking back here?”

“Would you believe I’ve managed a completely flavourless 100 proof coming out of the still right now?” Lt. Jameson grinned. “We’ll have to be very careful with it.” She offered a beaker to Christine who took a sip and tipped her head, her eyes wide.

“Oh, wow. That’s smooth,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “Try it, Y/N.” She pressed the beaker into your hand and you gave her a worried look as you tilted the glass to take a sip. It tasted like water, but it burned going down.

“Oh, that’s trouble,” you commented, garnering a laugh from both women. Christine clapped you on the back.

“Stick with me, Doc. I’ll make sure you survive,” she promised.

You checked your appearance one last time and frowned. It was nerves, you told yourself. Just nerves. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but your first shore leave with your new crew would solidify the new friendships you’d been making. You rushed to the door when your chime sounded, and let Christine in.

“You look like you’re heading to an execution!” Christine exclaimed, dismayed. “Y/N, honey, we’re here to have fun!”

“Just nervous, I guess,” you admitted. Christine slipped an arm around your shoulder and squeezed.

“Come on. We’re going to have so much fun you won’t remember where you left your pants,” she teased. You gave her a worried look, and she responded with a laugh. “Honestly, we need to get a drink into you, just to loosen you up to your normal level of function. Come on.”

It took three drinks before you relaxed, and you realized you were already on a dangerous precipice, teetering toward wildly intoxicated when you dropped down onto a loveseat beside Doctor McCoy.

“Well, if it isn’t my new superstar,” he chuckled, leaning back to assess you. “You haven’t been drinking that poison Jameson concocted, have you? Stuff should be illegal!”

“I might have had a couple,” you admitted. “I was nervous.” He shook his head and handed you the glass in his hand.

“Drink this instead. Alcohol should have some flavour, not just burn like the fires of hell as it goes down. That should slow you down.” He took your glass in exchange and coughed on the sip he took.

“You aren’t worried about germs?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Hardly. They haven’t discovered a germ that could live in that shit yet,” he laughed. You smiled, the interaction doing more to relax you than any of the drinks thus far. You took a sip from the amber liquid in the glass he’d given you, pleasantly surprised to find it was a subtle scotch. You held the glass out in salute, and were pleased when he clinked the one he’d taken from you against it.

“Cheers,” you grinned.

“To your first shore leave, kid,” he countered, taking another drink and flinching. “Come on, let’s go get something palatable.” He took you by the arm and lead you to the other side of the bar. The next few hours passed in a haze of dancing with the boss and drinking too much, but you recalled Chapel’s advice and started alternating with water once it became apparent you could not keep up with Bones. Which was pretty much right away.

“How did you learn to drink like this, Bones?” You asked as he signalled for a round of shots for those nearest you. He smirked at you, his eyes bright like he hadn’t even been drinking.

“I think my answer should have something to do with old and treachery, but the truth is I’m not dr-”

“Doctor McCoy!” Chekov interrupted. “Did you know zhat saying has its origins in Russia? It was first recorded in the old poem -”

“I have a poem for you,” Bones countered. “There once was a man named O’Toole, who found little red spots on his tool. His doctor, a cynic, said get out of my clinic, and wipe off the lipstick, you fool.”

You choked on your drink, and Bones clapped you on the back. “What the -”

“Zhe doctor has a reliable repertoire of filthy limericks, Doctor Y/L/N,” Chekov offered with a grin. “Zhey only come out vhen he’s been drinking though.” You stifled a giggle and glanced at Bones from the corner of your eye.

“And here I thought you were a fine southern gentleman,” you laughed. He smirked.

“I’m not sure if that’s sweet or naive, Y/N,” he chuckled. “But I’ll take it.” He pulled you out onto the dance floor again, and the limerick was forgotten in the crush of sweaty bodies as you danced. At one point Bones pulled you close, and you weren’t sure if it was to get you out of the way of some aggressive dancing, or a desire to actually hold you close, but your chests collided and you threw back your head and laughed.

“Tell me another dirty limerick, Bones!” You demanded, yelling above the thrumming bass. He shook his head, and pulled you against him so you could hear him. His hands stayed firmly at your waist, making you just a touch breathless.

“On the breast of a barmaid from Hale, was listed the price of the ale. And upon her behind, for the sake of the blind, was the same information in braille,” he spoke into your ear, giving your ass a swat as he recited it. You snorted and your hand came up to your face, embarrassed. He laughed at you, still holding you closer than was entirely necessary for the dance music.

“Come on now, you’ve got to know some really dirty ones,” you challenged him, leaning close. “Still waters run deep?”

“A pirate, history relates, was scuffling with some of his mates. He slipped on a cutlass, rendering him nutless, and pretty well useless on dates,” he offered, leading you off the dance floor and back to the seats you’d claimed earlier. You raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, that was slightly racier, but still not dirty,” you countered.

“You’re going to force my hand, aren’t you?” He shook his head, but slipped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close so he could speak quietly in your ear. “A frigid young lass from Darjeeling, denied she had sexual feeling. Till a cynic named Boris just touched her clitoris and she had to be scraped off the ceiling.”

You pulled away with a gasp and started cackling. “Oh my god, you are the king!” He bowed his head slightly and winked. You stood up, and swayed, before promptly dropping back to your seat beside the CMO. “Well, shit.”

“Everyone has a first shore leave on the Enterprise story, kid,” Bones offered. “You can still stand. You’re probably not finished quite yet.”

“I think I’m plenty finished,” you retorted. “I’ve had flavourless booze, stolen your scotch at least three times, danced with at least three hundred other people on this dance floor, flirted with my boss unsuccessfully and learned he’s the master of the limerick. I think I should quit while I’m ahead, don’t you?”

He laughed and leaned close again. “You haven’t been completely unsuccessful, Y/N,” he argued. “A fine southern gent name of Bones, met a fellow doc who gave him a jones. Shore leave came, and he’s flirting again, hopes tonight he won’t sleep alone.”

“Did you just use a limerick as a pick-up line?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. He winked.

“Chapel tell you lay out a hypo for your hangover in the morning?” He countered, changing the topic completely.

“What’s that have to do with anything?” You asked, curious why he was dodging the question.

“Maybe you should wake up with someone who already knows how to use it,” he suggested. You met his gaze and the same breathless feeling from the dancefloor hit you again. You blinked, and when you opened your eyes, he was still looking at you. “I haven’t missed that you’re interested, Y/N.”

“Well, that’s only marginally horrifying,” you cringed. He smiled and stood, offering his hand to help you to your feet.

“I might have been looking for the signs,” he admitted. “I should have realized you were a sucker for poetry.” He dropped an arm around your shoulder and led you through the crowd.

“I wouldn’t call limericks poetry,” you accused as you finally stepped outside into the fresh air of the clear night. “And I still think you’re holding out on the truly filthy ones.”

“Well, they get ruder with more alcohol,” he admitted. You stopped and turned to face him, narrowing your eyes.

“You aren’t as drunk as I am, are you?” You demanded. With the fresh air rushing through your lungs, you realized you weren’t as drunk as you thought you were either. “Wait, I’m not as drunk as I thought.”

“Darlin’, I’ve just barely started,” he admitted, a hand on the back of his neck. “I might not have wanted to forget this.”

“Oh.” You were at a loss as to what to say, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips against yours. “Oh!”

“Though it was inappropriate and remarkable sin, the doc wanted to lick each inch of your skin. Was his anatomy rusty, or was he just lusty? To find out, just let him come in,” he murmured against your lips.

“Okay, I’m inviting you in, but only if you stop,” you laughed. His eyes crinkled at the edges and he leaned in to kiss you again.

“Thank god because I’m running out of material,” he laughed.

[willowbilly]

Title: Leave Me Alone, Let Me Be (Ch 11/?) Fandom: Daredevil (TV) Relationship: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Franklin “Foggy” Nelson/Karen Page Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Chapter Word Count: 4,118

I finally updated this thing after an approximate eternity and seeing as I’m inordinately proud of myself for doing so I decided to start posting chapters on Tumblr, so here ya go! The entirety of LMALMB (or as I like to call it, “The Fuck-Off Fic”) is now officially over 50k words of Matt’s poor but hopefully improving mental health and slow burn OT4 (avocadokastle? mattfoggykarenfrank? mattfoggykastle? kastledevil...fog?) rife with fluff and pining. There are a ton of additional tags on Ao3 which you might wanna check out just be safe, and warnings for this specific chapter includes themes and discussion of suicidal ideation, depression, grief/mourning, an implied minor dissociative episode of a non-PoV character, and very brief imagery of canonical past trauma. Chapter One can be found here! 

The long-awaited Saturday rolls around.

Karen lets Frank sleep over again the night before so he doesn't have to hike there from his safe house, though he takes the couch this time and tosses and turns all damn night on the precariously narrow, saggy cushions. Ends up fleeing with the dawn to do his usual morning circuit of the streets, which takes a while, but still not long enough.

Nelson likewise shows up hours early, buzzing with anticipation which Frank sees spread to Karen as easily as if from one cell in an organism to another and which he's hard pressed not to succumb to himself. He unwisely drinks a couple beers to kill the feeling of queasy hope and holds tight to his misgivings instead, camped out in Matt's corner chair with his laptop as Karen and Nelson put on some smooth jazz and stumble through increasingly tense matches of chess as evening creeps over them. The whole day is spent wrapped up in stifling wait, a waiting bogged down with the same airless quiet of a funeral speech where you'd feel too guilty to dare risk a glance at your watch to check the time but too detached to invest yourself in actual mourning.

They all stand too quickly when the knock comes.

Nelson—Foggy, Frank's gotta get into the habit of first names with the guy now that he's not just “one of the lawyers” to him, shoots Frank a pointed glance the moment Karen opens her door and Red's on the other side, perking up all happy and victorious and see? because he thinks his old buddy is really there with them, present inside that thick, funny skull of his, standing there in his rumpled suit and his beat-up blind-person shades.

There's no way to tell him, with Red right there, what Frank knows, what he can feel way down thrumming underneath him like the vibrations from a mortar reaching up through the rubber of his boot soles; this is too soon to be anything other than a polite facade of progress, too soon to allow Red time to get his head in the game. Hell, besides being all for show, the very artificiality of this'll probably knock Red right off track before he even has the chance to start, start him faking again to ease their fears.

But it's not like Red really could've been allowed to come back to them completely in his own time, either.

Frank had thought, at first, that he'd be able to keep tabs on him while he's out, that maybe they could manage to keep in contact and help him out organically, without enforcing specific dates and times to meet like a trio of concerned parole officers with their charge, but there hasn't been hide nor hair of him on the streets since they'd dragged him off them to recover from the flu and Red hadn't tried to get in touch with either of the others before tonight, the agreed-upon date for when he absolutely had to, which, again, raises the thought that he's set out to do all of this for them rather than for himself.

And just the other day he was trying to convince them that Red was fine out in the snow, doing what he wants. Which... they can't make him not do what he wants, so he figures his point stands.

Frank can't tell if Karen and Foggy realize that they've picked the less bad option out of a pair of bad options, if they mistakenly think that that this situation already feels so stagnant because it's like a lull before enough energy builds up for them to really start to roll in the right direction, instead of what it really is: just stagnation, itself. If they can tell that they're still balancing on the peak of that hill, that they— that Red could still end up tumbling on backwards with the barest shift of the wind.

But none of them have a better solution. Frank very well isn't any sort of damn expert on this shit.

He thinks, looking at the way Karen cradles Red's elbow, leaning into him to nudge him towards Ne— Foggy, that even if they don't think it, they feel it; that basic flaw inherent to any way they approach this. The gravity tugging at their polite little balancing act. The two of them wouldn't be alive if they didn't have the right instincts to divine the sort of duplicity which so easily insinuates itself into your own mind, wrapping you up in comforting apathy, telling you not to worry, to let things go and leave them as they are.

Hell, if they were the kind to give in to that sort of thinking Red would be dead already.

So maybe they are on the right track. Frank's been wrong before, that's for damn sure. And doing nothing is the same as giving up. Quitting.

Like fucking hell.

“You all right, Frank?”

It's Red, modulating his monotone into something with just enough intonation to pass as life, his face appearing plastic as he raises his eyebrows, pulls the corner of his mouth up. A near-perfect impression of true expression trying its damnedest to avoid the uncanny valley and failing.

“Are you?” Frank asks, trying to deflect attention from what was probably a protracted period of worried glaring on his part.

Red shrugs, the half-smile stretching wider, but before he can visibly muster the energy to verbally respond he's saved, as he has been so many times before, by Foggy cutting in.

“Did they just passive aggressively express concern for each other?” he whisper-shouts to Karen, leaning over in front of Red and theatrically shielding the side of his lower face with his hand.

“Baby steps,” Karen replies, in the same fashion. “The purging of toxic masculinity... it's a process, you know?”

“So you mean at some point they'll graduate to just aggression, none of the passive?” Foggy jokes, voice rising. “Won't that be dangerous?”

Red slaps him lightly with the back of his hand, his smile momentarily solidifying into a glimmer of real emotion, soft and tired, but there... before fading again.

Frank feels his jaw clench, and looks away.

Karen must catch it because the hand not at Matt's elbow stretches out to alight on Frank's shoulder, bridging the gap and bringing their whole group into a sort of huddle, Foggy immediately leaning in with a grin and looping his arms around Frank and Matt's necks. Matt is back to focusing on Frank, the echo of bemusement pinching at his eyebrows; of course he'd heard his teeth grind. Probably wondering what the hell Frank's problem is.

Frank's wondering that, too.

“Sorry,” Red murmurs, apropos of nothing, and ducks away to drift towards the couch, Foggy's hand hanging outstretched in the air for a moment as though reaching after him, his smile flickering as his ever-present undercurrent of worry threatens to break through.

Karen shakes her head and smooths her hair and then her skirt, clearing her throat and pointing awkwardly towards the kitchen with a matched set of finger guns and a click of the tongue before subsequently following her own lead and going to retrieve the food.

Frank steers Foggy, still hanging around his neck, to the couch as well, nudges him down. Red stands for a bit longer, clearly torn between trying to liberate his armchair from Frank's laptop and letting it slide. He finally sits his indecisive ass down next to Foggy as Karen kicks the fridge shut and bustles over to set the veggie tray on the coffee table, pulling his legs in tight to give her more room.

“I thought... this'd be more casual?” Karen half-asks, gesturing to the tray of raw produce arrayed around a veritable pond of ranch dressing. They all take a moment to respectfully consider the vegetables and then as one just as respectfully dismiss them. The background jazz devolves into a soft, unbroken succession of crashing, the endless, silvery shivering of an interminably prolonged cymbals solo. Karen screws up her face, stares down at her wildly unpopular veggie tray, and with a chagrined grimace mutters to herself, “...Yeah. Not going so hot.”

“I bring down the mood,” Red offers, and he's so flat of affect that it's hard to tell whether he's aiming for levity or not.

“It's not like that's your fault,” Foggy says, and he is going for lighthearted but even Frank can tell that for once it's exactly the wrong thing to say. The words But it is my fault are practically buzzing in giant neon letters over Red's head in unsaid response.

“I, um. I also have some potato chips somewhere!” Karen rallies, wringing her hands, but she doesn't make any move to get them. Too nervous to leave, maybe. “Or we could make some actual food. Like, a meal? Dinner?”

“Those're good to have every now and then,�� Foggy says, with a sidelong glance at Red which absolutely fails to even exist within the same dimensional realm as subtlety. So much for those cautious interrogation plans he and Karen had sketched out. “Meals. Made of food.”

Red doesn't react at all. Might not even be listening.

Frank starts jiggling on of his legs and resists the urge to start pacing. A meandering progression of cordial saxophone notes spills forth from the radio speakers, the cadence like that of an alternate, more flowing conversation, overheard.

“Frank and I made some grilled cheeses the other day, at my place,” Foggy says, forging desperately onward. “Added some sandwich meats and stuff. They turned out really great.”

“You mean a panini,” Red says. His voice is so soft, lips so still, that Frank almost misses it.

“Well, if you wanna be pedantic about it,” Foggy replies, brightening slightly at this sign of life and tipping over into Red so he can affectionately knock shoulders with him.

Red sways with the movement, letting Foggy draw him in but not expending any energy to either meet him halfway or to avoid him. “You add things to a grilled cheese, you have a grilled sandwich which happens to have cheese. A panini.”

“Yeah, you got me there, buddy,” Foggy says, dimming a few watts again as he concedes unnecessarily to Red's pointless insistence on semantics.

Red cocks his head, reading the room. Karen shifts, sidling closer to Frank's side until his restless leg rustles against her skirt and he stills; they both have their arms crossed. Foggy looks away, off into the dark expanse of the television screen. Red turns his head to the other side, birdlike. Reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. Frank can just see that his eyes are shut beneath, his lashes fanned over shadows no less deep than when last he'd seen them.

“Sorry,” Red repeats, voice completely dull, now.

Karen and Foggy both hear it, share a glance. Frank huffs as he intercepts it, drops his eyes resentfully to the floor so Foggy can't hold his gaze the way he's trying to.

“I don't want you to be sorry,” says Karen, carefully.

Red suddenly slams his fist against the tabletop and she flinches hard, Foggy likewise startling away, pushed by reflex into Frank's side. No one moves for a moment as Red straightens, thoughtfully flexing his hand and cradling it in the other as though to keep himself from lashing out again, face expressionless.

“Do I get to be sorry for that?” he asks.

“If you're trying to prove a point you're going to have be clearer about it or actually break my table,” Karen snaps.

“I mean. Do I get to be sorry for things I do. For who I am. Am I even allowed to try and show remorse for who I am.”

“There's a difference between remorse and being a dick,” she says. “What is this even the fuck about?”

“Call it the quandary of living as a flawed being and being self-aware enough to regret it.”

Foggy laughs tiredly and falls forwards over his knees, rests his head in his hands.

“You... you don't have to be sorry for being you,” Karen insists.

“And if this is who I am?” Red says, waving towards the table as if it displays the sense memory of violence there for all to see.

“What you do isn't who you are,” Karen tries, flustered, now, the flush high on her cheeks and her body a tight line of tension along Frank's side.

The first side to lose their cool in a debate is always the losing one. Red, Frank's sure, knows this, and Red can't even muster up the wherewithal to give a shit, much less shout. One point to depression, it seems.

“If actions don't illustrate a person's character then what does?” Red says. States, rather. Detached and cerebral, like he's musing about human experience in a philosophy class and not winding them all into some nonsensical debate about whether or not he has their permission to be sorry for existing, and giving off not-so-slight hints which suggest he's toying with the idea of making them give their permission should he not already have it.

“That's— you know that's not what I meant,” Karen sputters.

Red shrugs, sags back into the couch, stretching out the long line of his throat as his face lifts up towards the ceiling, head lolling wearily on the backrest.

Frank hates the sight of his throat exposed like that, his body slack and slouching, open to any attack. Hates how it so effortlessly communicates how little Red even cares to protect himself in their presence, hates how his own mind leaps to razors rasping against jawlines, the edge of a blade sliding snug over the carotid artery, the taste of skin and the sound of breath hitching.

God. Not the time. Not the place. And for the foreseeable future, not the fucking person.

He presses into Karen's slight frame, her comforting solidity driving out the inarticulate wants ghosting through his head. She grabs his wrist in a snake-strike fumble, gripping fit to bruise, and it's only then that he realizes that he's clenching his fists hard enough to dig his nails into his own flesh and consciously relaxes them.

Foggy sighs, goes to lay back the same as Red. Inches nearer again, the couch cushions bowing under their weight and pressing them closer. Red doesn't pull away when Foggy places his head on Red's shoulder, nor when Foggy laces their fingers together.

After a moment Red's fingers twitch, and curl around Foggy's in turn.

“She means you don't have to be ashamed for taking up space,” Foggy whispers into Red's chest.

Red's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, but otherwise his demeanor stays as vacant as ever. “But I do, though. I don't know how not to.”

“Then if... that's a part of you, then that's okay. It doesn't make it right, or... or okay for you. But I mean. I don't think that about you. I'm always happy you're here. Even when I'm mad, or you make me sad, I... I wouldn't be able to face the world knowing there was a Matt-shaped space out there that was... that was emptied out. You got that?”

“No,” Red lies, his brow pinching and hand twitching around Foggy's as he does so. “Quite frankly, I'm not even sure what we're talking about.”

Foggy watches their hands for a long moment, the very picture of downcast mercy. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. Just to let Red off the hook. “Nothing really makes sense, here.”

“That doesn't make talking any less important,” Karen says, the firmness back in her voice. “Whatever you have to say. Even if it doesn't make sense, I think it's better that you do say it. You're valid as you are.”

“Valid, huh?” Red says, actually smiling faintly.

“Valid,” Karen emphasizes.

“A nice sentiment. Kinda cliché, though, isn't it?”

Foggy jostles their joined hands in exasperation, says, “Man, lay off, we are trying our best here and past school and job awareness sensitivity campaigns are all we have to rely on.”

“Your sentiments are valid,” Red intones solemnly.

Foggy bumps him in retribution.

Red zeroes in on Frank when he makes the mistake of breathing out a chuckle, his head rolling towards him.

“You've been quiet, Frank,” he observes.

This is probably the moment when Frank should say something passive, pleasant. Something to keep the mood from souring again, what with this sudden, mysterious flip towards deescelation. So, quite to his own bemusement, that’s what he does.

“I'm just soakin' in you bein' around. Puzzlin' it out. S'nice.”

“Nice?” Red echoes.

“Yeah, Red,” Frank says, falling back on a more combative tone, gruffly and aggressively teasing, to try and distance himself from his own admission. “What, that so hard to believe? That I can just feel like seein' you's nice?”

“Yeah, actually,” Red says, and Frank has to be careful not to grind his teeth again. “It's not... I know you're not lying. But.”

Therein lies the fucking crux of the matter. The mindset which keeps popping up again and again, the weight at Red's ankle, dragging him under. That silent But I can't bring myself believe you.

Thus the outburst, the second-guessing and the testing.

He's waiting, resigned, for them to take it all back. Their promise of support, their understanding, their... their love. Waiting for his dread to be vindicated, for when he can finally give up without letting any of them down because they will have become tired of him, of dealing with him, they will have moved on and freed him from laboring under the restrictive yoke of their concern, their care. And in the meantime, while he's trying and failing to convince himself that they mean what they say when they comfort and encourage him, he's pushing their boundaries, dropping hints, seeing if he can bring about the inevitable after all, prove to himself that he's not paranoid for doubting.

It reminds Frank of the utter disbelief he'd felt at the sight of his family's blood on the grass, technicolor-bright red on green, the ravaged brain matter blown out of his daughter's skull, clumping gory and wet in the silky sweep of her long brown hair, the barrettes at her temples still clipped neatly in place. After he'd woken up he'd cherished an infinitesimal trace of that disbelief in the core of his furious heart, feeling it prick at him every time he was alone and things were still and quiet. How it'd sharpened into a needlepoint pain whenever Karen talked with him, this queasy, undead yearning. He'd just wanted that voice, that nagging what-if to be proven right, because the reality was wrong, somehow, the alignment of the world inexplicably, ephemerally crooked.

But both of these stubborn, siren-call whispers, his grief-stricken nostalgia, Red's relentless self-defeatism, are the lies which their minds dress up as truths. Wolves decked out as sheep.

There's no way he knows of killing such suspicions. His still crop up sometimes like wistful specters in his dreams, and Red's, now... Red's aren't... his're something like a fucking personality trait of his. Built-in. These aren't questions which can be so easily carved out of a man like so many malignant tumors.

And of any of them, it shouldn't be Frank who realizes this shit about Red first. He is not equipped. It really shouldn't be him.

Fuck, nothing should ever be up to him.

“You'll get there,” Frank says, lies, like an idiot, spouting a sweet 'n soft kinda falsehood right after Red's reminded him he can tell whether it's the truth or not. But Red's the epitome of falsehood in and of himself, a walking oxymoron. A diviner of truth, a righteous, honest man who can't help but act out false prophecies, compelled over and over again to strive for the worst, in himself and in others, to hold the greatest faith in unfounded skepticism.

Red's face crumples, betrayed, but just as he makes to draw into himself Karen shoves Frank over to make room for herself on the couch. “Scooch over,” she demands, and there's a sort of chain reaction of rearrangement, Frank standing and reseating himself as Foggy shimmies over, pushing Red tightly into the armrest and releasing an oomph as Karen throws herself back into the cushions, her remarkably hard, angular hipbone shoved sharply into Frank's, crowding him bodily up against Foggy in turn. It’s a very snug fit.

“This couch is not nearly roomy enough for this,” Foggy complains, slightly short of breath.

“I could go,” Red suggests diffidently.

“Never,” Foggy declares, momentarily releasing Red's hand so as to hook their arms together and then grab his hand even more firmly with an emphatic little shake. “We are chilling.”

“Forever?” Red asks.

“Well. Until we wanna order something and have to get up,” Karen says. “That sounds okay with everyone, right? Matt?”

Red clenches his free hand against his knee, a flex of bruised knuckles, then lets go, curls his arm in to rest over his stomach with a soft, emotionless sigh, sinking deeper into the couch as the air leaves him. “Yeah, all right,” he says.

His breathing is very slow and shallow, but as all four of them sit there they begin to breathe in sync, Foggy stroking his thumb over Red's fingers in time to the deep rise and fall rhythm, their chests expanding on inhale, pushing arms and ribcages into each other like their bodies are trying to meld together, and then contracting on exhale, relaxing a little more and falling a little closer each time, an endless, oceanic pulse of connection flowing through them as artfully wandering piano notes drift soothingly around the living room, accompanied by a low, smoky female voice crooning some painfully apt, poetic pap about love.

“I don't want to fuck this up,” Matt says, flat on his back on the cool cement so as not to disturb the warm, purring weight of Nina, dozing on his chest in a regal little bundle, facing him with her paws tucked neatly beneath her. “But I think I already have. Or I will.” He'd fucking— he'd hit a table. To see how they'd react, if that was all it'd take. He hadn't been able to f— it was like he'd been on autopilot, as if he couldn't fucking feel anything, and so it'd seemed reasonable. To just be an asshole, to act like he hadn't given his word to try not to just say fuck everything. He'd fucking ruined it.

His breath hitches and he reins it in harshly, falls back into a meditative breathing technique to keep from scaring the as-yet unperturbed cat with his hysteria. The fur behind her ears is so fine that it catches on his callouses as he skims over her shape, mapping her out, and he cups a hand gently over the steep, delicate curve of her spine, resisting the urge to crush her to his chest to gentle the terrible tenderness slavering in him like a starving thing. The patch of skin Foggy's thumb had rubbed over still tingles.

Nina is, again, a welcome anchor, soft and heavy and undemanding enough to hold him in the present. Tangible, alive. The same way the other three felt to him, when they were squeezed together on Karen's uncomfortable couch, listening to jazz, ignoring the sour pall he'd brought down over everybody from the moment he stepped foot in her apartment.

For a while, there, he'd fooled himself into thinking that everything was okay.

They can't have forgiven him so easily. It wouldn't be right for them to let this slide.

“How'll you know if you've fucked it up?” Melvin asks, from all the way on the other end of the workshop. He's leaning against his workbench and courteously not looking in Matt's direction, careful not to accidentally catch a glimpse of his face.

“I—” Matt starts, and then he stops himself, trying to force his hyperbolic thoughts back in order as he had his breath. Tries to assess things objectively.

What would be the absolute sign of failure? Concrete, clear-cut. Independent of his own atrocious judgment.

“They'll tell me.”

“So if they tell you, then you'll know,” Melvin concludes. “But they haven't yet, so you're fine.”

Matt lets loose an ugly laugh, again stifling himself for Nina's sake as her tail begins to flick in reproach. Even if he manages to keep from purposely sabotaging things it'll still just turn out to be a matter of time, then. A waiting game.

He sucks at those.