#is not that this game was a misfire. it's whatever even i did find it diasppointing overall

[lith-myathar]

.

[cleanlenins]

Going Angst Week 2021

Day 3: Family/Friends

TW: Referenced Suicide, Major Character Death, Brainwashing

Read on AO3

She had been trying to fix this blaster all morning, but it seemed to resist her at every turn. When she fiddled with the trigger mechanism, the circuit board would shift and cause a misfire. When she realigned the circuit board, the blaster seemed unable to draw power from the battery. When she fixed that she realized that the trigger mechanism had stuck again. Round and round it went, unable to fix that which she was an expert in. The very thing she had designed and created. Maddie tore off her hood in frustration, running her hands through her hair. The blaster thumped against the kitchen table.

Things used to be so much easier.

She had thought that when she and Jack finally finished the Ghost Portal, everything would fall into place. They would have access to the Ghost Zone. Their research could be proven beyond question. Their inventions and patents would be given the recognition that they had dreamed of all those nights of meticulous drafting. And though much of that did happen, it had come at a cost.

Her family.

She didn't know when it had happened, but her children had started to drift away. Sure, she had not expected them to always cling to her apron strings (though every mother hopes), but this was not the sort of distance brought on by children growing up. The distance was maintained by whispered conversations and discreet glances. A distance held on a foundation of lies and subterfuge. Of secrets and conspiracy. 

Maddie wasn't stupid. She saw it. Maybe a little later than she should have. But that wasn't her fault. It was the ghosts' fault. Constantly spreading their malignant taint onto the world of the living. They had turned her life's work, her portal, against her. Using it for their own perverse ends instead of the benign purpose of scientific discovery.  Of course, the ectoplasmic scum couldn't help but turn everything they touch into a plague among the living. It was their nature. 

Phantom was no exception.

No matter what Amity Park believed, Maddie knew better. The ghost was cunning in its malevolence, but she saw through the hero act. The ghost always seemed secretive, never shouting its plans like the other spectors. Making cheeky remarks with no hint of it's ulterior motives. But in the few moments that Maddie was able to get close enough to see its face, she could see the fear of detection plain as day. Her own son had made similar expressions when caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was a facsimile of emotion, but an understandable one. The Fenton's would never be fooled by its trickery, they knew too much for that. It had good reason to be afraid of them. 

Even more so now that she knew the truth. Her face burned as she thought about how she had been tricked, her breath catching with the fury the memory brought.

She had been hunting. Not any ghost in particular, but she searched the streets for any that had been unwise enough to cross the veil. And she clung to the shadows, she saw a bright light emit from an alley. Cautiously, she slunk to the mouth of the alley and peaked inside. She nearly dropped her ecto-blaster in shock. 

There stood her Danny. Her Danny! Laughing with his friends, and one unnatural interloper. The female Phantom hovered feet from the ground, holding its stomach in laughter. Maddie was about leap around the corner to tell it to leave her son alone when-

"As fun as it was, I think my bruises have bruises. How about next time you find a different target for practice?" Danny smirked. Smirked! As if it was nothing more than a game of tag. 

"Aw, but you make such a great target! You look so goofy when you try to dodge," The ghost said. It then pantomimed a series of poses, obviously desperate attempts to avoid the painful burn of the ghost's ectoblasts. Danny's friends laughed at the show. Maddie grit her teeth.

"So! Same time tomorrow, then? I'm only going to be in town for another few days," The Phantom said. Her Danny snorted.

"Do I have a choice? You'd hunt me down and drag me out if I tried to avoid you," Her Danny laughed, as if that wasn't the most horrifying sentence he ever spoke.

"As long as you understand that," the ghost said, snapping its fingers into a gesture her son liked to call 'finger guns'. The female Phantom shot into the sky and disappeared. Danny and his friends chatted about their newest video game, but Maddie wasn't listening. She silently ran away from the scene, mind reeling.

No wonder the other Phantom always seemed afraid of them finding out his plans. It had a right to be afraid. If the Phantoms were using her children as target practice...

Maddie stilled at the front door. She remembered all the times Danny had come home with paltry excuses for the bruises and scrapes that covered him. The blood stains on his slowly dwindling wardrobe. The times he came home, obviously favoring and arm or a leg-

Phantom was as evil as any ghost, and now she had her proof.

But first, she had to help her poor Danny. The ghosts had somehow manipulated him into thinking that their cruel abuses were a joke! A game! How he must have suffered for the amusement of the ectoplasmic-scum. 

Maddie was pulled out of her thoughts at the sound of a loud click. She looked down in her hands and saw that she had finally been able to align all the pieces correctly in the blaster. The cool metal was lit by the eerie green glow the power source gave. 

This was the gun that would end Phantom. For good.

Maddie glanced at the clock, realizing it had taken more time than she had anticipated to finish the gun. She should check on Danny. She left the blaster where it sat on the kitchen table, and walked toward the lab. Descending the stairs quietly so as to not startle Danny.

Danny still sat in place where she had left him, arms and chest bound to the chair with ghost-proof tethers (overkill, but ghost-proof was the only kind they owned). Maddie had known that whatever brainwashing her son had been subjected to by the Phantoms would not be overcome with only words. So she had asked the school to let her borrow one of the Cramtastic Mark V's they had purchased. When she mentioned she wanted to catch Danny up on his grades, they let her take him out of school for a week.

Maddie's heart ached at the memory of Danny begging her to untie him. His tears as he thrashed, pleading for her to let him out. That it was a mistake. That Phantom wasn't tricking him. That Phantom was a hero. When she pointed out his bruises, he didn't have an explanation. She wanted to weep at her son's pain and to wrap her baby boy in her arms, but she had to stay strong. Jazz would never approve of her methods, but her daughter was away at college. Jack was away at a conference. What they never knew wouldn't hurt them.

It didn't take long for Maddie to write a program for the machine. A program of how ghosts were evil, how they only wished to cause harm, how there was nothing good about them except for their value to the field of science, how they should all be eradicated on sight. However, Phantom's mind control was powerful. Even when left to the machine's power of subliminal persuasion for hours, she would come back to find Danny had come up with a counterargument to the information. Maddie would rewrite the program to refute that, but the next time she came he would have another excuse. Over and over. It had been days now. But Maddie would never give up on her family. Would never give up on her son. He could be brought back to the world or reason. Phantom would not have a hold on his mind forever.

She cautiously walked up to him. He looked rough. She felt a pang of guilt, even knowing that this wasn't her fault. He had dark circles under his eyes streaked with tears. His wrists were rubbed raw against the restraints. He looked so tired. Breaking through this mind control was so draining, but who knows how long her son had been at Phantom's mercy?

"Danny, sweetie. Have you come to your senses?" Maddie asked softly. Danny blinked blearily at her, fresh tears escaping from the corner of his eyes. She gently wiped them away, cupping Danny's cheek in her hand. He leaned into the touch, before slowly nodding.

"Okay, sweetie. I just need you to tell me. Tell me about ghosts," Maddie almost whispered, wiping more tears away. Danny closed his eyes and swallowed.

"All ghosts...are evil," he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. Maddie wanted to cry as well. Her poor baby had been through so much. But maybe it was finally over. Next she only had to get rid of the evil that had done this to him.

"That's right, sweetheart. All ghosts should be destroyed, right?" She rubbed his cheek with her thumb. He opened his eyes, pleading 

"All ghosts?" He asked, voice breaking.

"All ghosts, sweetie," Maddie said, still stroking his cheek. A sharp sob wracked his body. He nodded, more tears began to pour. Maddie felt a wet prickle in her own eyes.

"Even Phantom," Danny said. It wasn't a question, but Maddie nodded. She noticed her son's lip quiver. It hurt her so much to see him in such pain, but she knew it was for the best. She would finally have her Danny back. Phantom had lost its hold on her family.

"Especially Phantom."

Maddie turned off the program, and detached Danny from the chair and computer. He immediately latched onto her, with more strength then she thought he had. A vice-like hug that had them both collapsing into a sobbing puddle. Maddie combed through her son's hair, whispering assurances and love to him. That no evil ghost could harm him. She held him until the sobs subsided, completely exhausted he looked up at her. She guided him up the stairs and into the kitchen, having him sit in one of the chairs. She quickly made some toast, sure he would be hungry enough not to care that it was his least favorite thing to eat.

"I'm not hungry," he whispered, glancing at the fixed ecto-blaster on the table.

"You should eat, Danny. You haven't been eating much the last few days," Maddie pressed gently. Slowly, he nodded, mechanically chewing the toast. Maddie breathed a sigh of relief.

"What is that for?" he asked, nodding to the blaster.

"To get rid of Phantom, so he can't hurt anyone ever again," Maddie said. Danny nodded, still chewing the toast and staring at the blaster. He looked ready to tip over from exhaustion any second. Maddie could not wait to get her revenge for what her baby had been through. She itched to start hunting the Ghost Boy. She stood.

"When you're finished, why don't you go up to your room and rest? You've been through a lot these past few days," Maddie said, walking over and stroking his hair. He nodded, before leaning into her and hugging her once more.

"I love you, Mom," he said. She held him close.

"I love you too, sweetie," Maddie said, kissing his hair. She walked away and then down into the lab. She began gathering the equipment she needed to find Phantom. The Fenton Finder, the Fenton Nets, anything she could use to take that filth down. She stacked it all in her arms and headed upstairs. Danny had already left the kitchen, so she sat her tools on the table to better organize them. Putting each in place on her belt, and wrapping them into newly made holsters around her chest. 

She frowned when she set the last object in place. The blaster she had left on the table, repaired only half an hour ago, was missing.

Bang! She flinched at the noise, coming from upstairs. She was all to familiar with that sound.

"Danny?" She cried before rushing toward her son's room.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Imagine, being a human that have being captive in the most terrible and sadistic group of all galaxies:DJD , and worst of it? They are all infatuated of you! Life for you is a living hell untill one day you finally escape almost by an accident in an escaping pod only to be found by...the Scavengers!  Technically they didn’t expect to find a human on that pod, they were sure that maybe a lucky soul found a way to escape them?....but most they didn’t expect to find a human there?! Since when those sick bastard started to have interest on little organics? Well no matter, they had decided to help you on bring you back home!

Misfire: well, he’s the one that had decided to help you, few of them were just nice but not that sure that keep Tarn “songbird” was a good idea, but knowing Misfire he do what he always do, which is the fuck he want! Surprisingly he’s the one that don’t judge you about your race, for some reason the DJD find interest in you and that means that you must be special somehow, right? And seeing you in that poor state remind him of Grimlock, he have no clue in what did you have to endure but it must be realy hard to leave you like that... The first thing he wants is to make you laugh, nothing is better than a good pair of laughter and with him is not an hard task! He became close to the idea of friend, and he’ll do whatever it takes to bring up the crazyness from you! And this means...PAINTBALL IN THE HALLS!

Fulcrum: if we have Misfire on the happy go lucky side, then we have Fulcrum. I really don’t want you on their ship, fight with the urge to drop you somewhere, leave you in ah habitated place and go back to their route! First of all, you’re a human....the pores...so so many pores....and then the simple fact that the DJD will destroy and kill whatever is on their road to bring you back is not the best idea that he could have! On the first days he completely ignores you, avoid your presence at all cost and even talking loud about the imminent danger that you bring on them, he don’t have shame on this subject and the other member even have some fight with him. He’ll take some weeks to notice that you’re not that bad, yes you still have pores, but you’re not that stinky or gross as he imaginated...and you’re so sad. You’re so far away from Tarn but it’s like he’s still there, haunting your mind and he notice it. You’re remembering ...him somehow....he’ll become nice, even start little conversation, starting with apologize with you for his behaviour, talking about his past, your life on earth....he’ll even ask you to watch with him some human movies! In the end Fulcrum will be part of the little trio with you and Misfire...the calm one in some aspects.

Spinister: the thing with Spinister is that he’s not what people say or like he would make them believe that he is. Misfire always told you that he’s dumb, that you’re lucky that he never even shout at you! At at first you’re near to believe him. But Spinistermaybe just play dumb, but his actions speak louder than his words. When you had a panick attack he was the one that know what to do, holding your little body and massaging your back with his digit, when an alarm went on and your mind started to go in autopilot, he was there explaining what were happening and that the DJD weren’t there, when you had a terrible nightmare and start screaming he helped you calming down and taking you back to sleep. Somehow, he know what happened to you and he know what to do, he’s like a really good therapist......he’s not dumb for you now.

Crankcase: in seraching for a parental figure? No? Well, i’m sorry, get ready for old dad vibes, because this is what you’ll get from Crankcase! Did he even saw a little part of your big scars of one of Vos little game? He’ll watch the map, searching for the nearest medical center (in hope they do treat human...). Feeling nostalgic of your home? Country music compilation  for hours! Feeling a little down? Why don’t we watch some of those fail compilation where people get really hurt? He’s all cranky and grumpy the first days, but he’ll end up to like you, he even want to teach you hot to drive a ship and how to set a course! Not in case they’ll die if the DJD find you and giving you the chance to ending your journey and go back to earth or Cybertron of course...

Krok: He sympathize with your situation, even if it was different from now he know what means to be that hurt to not be able to grip your life together, and he know he did some mistake for this fault! He genuinely want you back on your feet. Ok you can have fun with Misfire and Grimlock but you’ll need to work too! Look he found those funny seeds on that curious planet that you all visited a few days ago, maybe you can try plant some of those edible fruit? Or maybe why don’t you help him on take care of the ship! There so much thing to do and everybody need to do something! And you are part of the team now!....no please no no don’t cry oh Primus...

Grimlock : ah...you’re being hurt by Tarn too? Oh well, you’re luck, he have decided that from now on he’ll be your body guard! What? You don’t like the little plan that he draws about the idea of burn alive in a pit of lava the DJD? Well he didn’t like knowing that they used electricity on you! It is fairness!

[livesincerely]

invisible strings (tying you to me)

Also on Ao3. Rated E. 

Disclaimer, this is an A/B/O fic, which I recognize is not everyone’s cup of tea, so skip over this one if that’s not something you’re a fan of. <3

00000

It’s the smell that catches Jack’s attention first⁠—a citrusy sweet scent that drifts into Newsies Square with the morning breeze. Jack tilts his head, glancing up and down the street for the source, wondering if he can afford to spare a few cents for a morning pastry because he needs a bite of whatever that is, can already feel his mouth watering in anticipation… and then he sees Les and Davey break through the crowd. 

Les is oddly subdued, staying close to his brother’s side, and Davey looks off, somehow, in a way that Jack can’t quite but his finger on, his mouth pursed and his eyes bright with irritation and… and…

There’s another gust of wind and that delicious smell hits again, even stronger this time, and holy shit, that’s Davey.

The hair on the back of Jack’s neck stands on end.

“Hi, Jack,” Les greets quickly, before peeling off to go join the littles in their daily pre-work game of marbles.

“Hey, bud,” Jack responds, a few seconds too late for Les to hear him, his eyes fixed unerringly on Davey. Now that he’s closer Jack can see how flushed he is⁠—his eyes a touch glassy and his face and neck shaded pink with fever⁠—which is far more distracting than it has any right to be. “Uh, Dave? You doin’ alright?”

“If that’s your way of asking if I’m in pre-heat,” Davey says, and the edge of sarcasm in his voice does nothing to dull the way those words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. “Then, yes, I’m in pre-heat.”

“And that’s… okay?” Jack says, trying to find a delicate way to ask if it’s good idea for Davey to be out and about in this state.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Davey says, in a tone that indicates that he’s already had this conversation a few times this morning. “Just because my cycle’s coming up doesn’t mean I’m gonna lose my mind trying to get any Alpha I come across to—” He cuts off abruptly, nostrils flaring, but Jack hears the rest of that sentence loud and clear: Doesn’t mean I’m gonna lose my mind trying to get any Alpha I come across to knot me. 

Which is an image that Jack really didn’t need put in his head.

“I know it doesn’t,” Jack says carefully, dragging his wandering mind back to the present. “I’m not sayin’ anythin’ of the sort. But Racer gets cramps like you wouldn’t believe and Blink’s nose gets so sensitive he can’t hardly stand to be out in the city, let alone hawk papes all day. I guess I’m jus’ sayin’...” He pauses, searching for a way to put this into words without invoking any more of Davey’s ire. “I jus’ wanted to check, ya know? Check and...”

Davey looks at him, and then the defensive set of his shoulders relaxes slightly. 

“...You just wanted to make sure,” Davey finishes softly. “Of course you did, you’re Jack, you don’t know how to be anything but stupidly overprotective.” He shakes his head and sighs, then continues, “Sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you, but it’s already been a rough morning and I’m a little on edge. But I’m okay, honestly, just feeling a bit achy and, well, irritable, as you can see.”

“Fair enough,” Jack says. “I hadta ask, but if ya say it’s fine, then I believe ya. I mean, you’re the one that’d know, right?”

Jack feels like he’s working with only half of his brain, just standing there stating the obvious like a goddamn moron and trying not to breathe too deeply lest the cloud of Davey scent send him into a complete tailspin, but Davey smiles at him like he’s said something incredible.

“Right,” Davey agrees, his scent cresting even sweeter as his expression lifts. “Exactly.” 

They stare at each other, the moment stretching on and on. 

Davey takes a step back and clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “Well, we should probably get going.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Jack agrees, giving himself a little shake⁠—like that might clear some of Davey’s scent from his nose. It doesn’t, of course, but a fella can hope. “Sure, of course. “

“So, um, how many more days do you think you’ll be able to work?” Jack asks as they get in line for their papes⁠—not wanting to push but needing to know what he’s in for. “Before it, uh, hits for real?”

“My cycles tend to be pretty mild, so maybe another couple of days at least?” Davey says, nonchalant, and Jack’s brain stutters like an engine misfiring. “I can’t really afford to miss too many days of work, so I’m going to try and wait it out for as long as I can. But I’ll play it by ear.”

Jack swallows heavily. Davey already smells goddamn delicious, like spiced citrus and orange blossoms, all surrounded by a heady honey-sweetness, and it’s only going to get stronger. If this is what counts as mild, then Jack’s not sure he’ll survive for another two days.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Sure, that makes sense.”

They move steadily up the line. Jack knows that Davey is talking to him but he’s having a hard time paying attention⁠ to the conversation—even harder than usual. Everything about Davey seems especially enticing today: Jack finds his gaze lingering on the swell of his lower lip, plump and pink, on the gentle flutter of his lashes, perfectly framed around those big blue eyes, on the long, lean line of his throat, and of course, there’s still that intoxicating scent. 

Jack realizes that Davey’s asked him a question and has been waiting several seconds for an answer, quickly stammering out, “Uh, yeah, definitely.”

Davey frowns. Jack panics.

“Hey, Kelly, Jacobs,” Morris DeLancey calls, annoyed, and Jack’s never been grateful for a DeLancey in his life, but apparently there’s a first for everything. “Are ya buyin’ your papes or what? You’re holdin’ us up.”

Jack fishes in his pockets with fumbling hands, hurriedly handing over the money while Davey collects the papes.

“Hey, Oscar,” Davey says after thumbing through the stack, passing them to Jack once he’s through counting them. “We’re one short.”

DeLancey shrugs⁠—like he couldn’t care less about cheating them out of a pape⁠, the bastard—and goes to hand Davey another one, but then he pauses, head cocked and nose twitching as he catches a scent. He snatches the pape back just as Davey reaches for it. 

“Sure you wanna be hittin’ the streets there, Jacobs?” he says with a smirk, a dark glint in his eye. “You’re smellin’ a little… ripe for the takin’, if ya know what I mean. Might wanna⁠—”

Davey’s scent goes pungently bitter⁠—to the point that Jack staggers back a little at the strength of it. He pins DeLancey with a glare so withering that he falters mid word.

“Give me my fucking newspaper,” Davey bites out, his voice absolutely dripping with contempt.

There’s a distinct note of fear threading through the air as DeLancey holds the pape out again. Davey rips it from his hand so violently that the thing nearly tears in half, then stalks away, fuming.

“You really don’t got a single lick of sense, do ya, DeLancey?” Jack says with a sneer, then hurries after him.

“That fucking asshole,” Davey spits out when Jack catches up to him, almost too furious to speak. “Fucking DeLancey and his alpha posturing bullshit.”

“You wanna go back over there and punch him?” Jack offers, and he keeps his tone light but he’s deadly serious. “I’ll hold his arms for ya.”

Davey takes in a breath, then lets it out slowly, visibly straining for calm. 

“No,” he eventually grits out. “No, it’s not worth it.”

“Do ya need a second?”

“I just want to get this day over with,” Davey admits, expression torn between frustration and weariness.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Jack promises. He can’t pull Davey into a hug the way he wants to⁠—that will put his nose a little too close to Davey’s neck and he doesn’t trust himself not to just press his face against Davey’s scent gland and inhale⁠—so he settles for a simple pat on the back. “Let’s grab Les and shake a leg.”

For a second it feels like Davey sways on his feet, leaning ever so slightly into the contact, but the moment passes so quickly that Jack can’t be sure it ain’t just wishful thinking on his part. They start heading over to Les, but then a sudden thought occurs to him.

“Jackie?” Davey questions, when he notices that Jack’s stopped walking.

“One sec,” Jack says, turning back towards the distribution line. “I wanna see if one of the fellas can come with us today.”

He tries to say this as casually as possible, but of course Davey sees right through him, hitting Jack with a look—the one that says he thinks Jack’s being ridiculous.

“We don’t need a chaperone, Jackie,” he says firmly, like even just offering the possibility is absurd. “You’re nothing like Oscar DeLancey, you’re not going to hurt me.”

Something in Jack preens at this statement, impossibly pleased at Davey’s faith in him. But this isn’t something Jack’s willing to budge on.

“It’d make me feel better to have someone else watchin’ your back. Someone that for sure won’t get caught up in any ‘alpha posturing bullshit,’” he says, mimicking Davey’s tone from before.

“Fine,” Davey says, rolling his eyes even as a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “If that’s what you want. But I really don’t think that would’ve been an issue.”

Jack thinks that Davey’s giving him far too much credit, or is just drastically underestimating how good he smells. But he doesn’t say any of that, instead continuing to scan through the throng of Newsies that haven’t set off yet, searching for someone who’d be down to accompany them.

“Hey, Racer,” Jack calls when he spots him, waving to get his attention. “Come sellin’ with us?”

Racetrack wanders over, glances between Jack and Davey and then back to Jack, and catches onto the crux of the matter immediately. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees. “No such thing as too much back up.”

“Race, you’re supposed to be on my side,” Davey says, “helping me team up against Jack, not the other way around. Where’s the omega solidarity?”

“Ain’t you the one always tellin’ me to stop taking stupid risks?” Racer asks, somewhat absently, looking over Davey with a critical eye. “Hey, Davey, can I give you a hug? You look like ya need one.”

Davey opens his arms immediately. “Oh my god, yes, please.”

Racer is several inches shorter, but he makes a valiant attempt at wrapping Davey up in his arms. A rush of seething jealousy hits Jack like a wave breaking against the rocks, but he fights it down as best he can because he knows he’s being an idiot.

Jack doesn’t need to step between them, doesn’t need to tear Davey from Race’s grasp, doesn’t need to bare his teeth at him for daring to put his hands on Jack’s— 

Jack doesn’t need to do any of that. Jack doesn’t need to do anything at all, except find a nice dark hole to drop himself into, or maybe run headlong into a brick wall and spend the rest of Davey’s heat blissfully unconscious, because he doesn’t know how else he’s gonna make it through.

Race curls his fingers around the nape of Davey’s neck, Davey let out a soft, contented noise, sinking further into the embrace, and Jack has to stuff his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for him.

He is so fucked.

00000

It’s ain’t the worst morning Jack’s ever had, but it’s damn sure up there. He’d spent the walk out talking with Les⁠—or, really, letting Les chatter at him a mile-a-minute and very carefully not looking at where Racetrack and Davey are walking arm in arm, heads tipped together as they whisper and laugh.

But it’s when they actually start working that things really take a turn for the worse. Jack’s only putting the barest bit of effort into sellin’ his papes, most of his attention focused on where Race and Davey are selling just down the street. Davey seems like he’s doing okay to begin with, but as the morning rush continues, Jack notices that he’s getting a lot of... unwanted attention, to say the least. He and Race look like they have it well in hand, but by midday Davey is visibly tense, shoulders hunched up around his ears and looking like he might beat the next person that so much as looks at him wrong bloody with a rolled up newspaper.

Jack foists one last pape off to a random passerby, barely even waiting long enough to take their coin, then makes his way over. As he approaches, he sees Race and Davey exchange a few words, with Davey disappearing into a nearby alley for what looks like a well-deserved breather. 

“How is he?” Jack asks quietly, nodding his head towards where Davey is pacing and muttering to himself, incensed.

“He could be doin’ better,” Race admits, running a hand through his hair, brow furrowed with concern. “It feels like every other person that passes has got somethin’ smart to say. Asshole customers ain’t nothin’ new, but he’s gettin’ harassed pretty bad and he ain’t in any kinda mindset to put up with it.”

“You think someone’s gonna try somethin’?” Jack asks seriously, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know they ain’t exactly the same, but you can usually make it to at least your second day of pre-heat before anyone gets handsy.”

“I ain’t worried about that, his scent ain’t anywhere close to peaking,” Race says, shaking his head. “Though, I guess anythin’s possible. I’m more worried that the next person that sniffs too hard is gonna get their lights punched out.”

Jack considers this. Pre-heat can come with a variety of symptoms, and different omegas are prone to different ones. Racetrack tends to get horribly painful cramps and turns into an absolute cuddle monster, crawling all over anyone who will sit still and pet his hair for a few minutes. Blink’s senses get super sensitive, usually sending him into the safety of a nest for several days, refusing to let anyone touch him unless they’ve washed the stink of the streets from their skin. Davey, it seems, is the type that runs hot, both his fever and his temper, which is such a departure from his usual disposition that it’s almost comical. 

Because Davey is normally as steady as an oak tree, impossibly patient and put together. His anger is like water in a dam⁠—carefully contained and difficult to surmount, but with a hard limit nonetheless. But now with his heat coming on, that dam seems like it’s dangerously close to bursting.

“Let’s try and keep it from gettin’ that far,” Jack says with a wince. “The last thing Davey needs is to get arrested for murder.”

“So you’re gonna talk him into goin’ home?” Race asks, looking relieved at the prospect. 

“I’m gonna try.”

Jack steps over to where Davey is pacing up and down the alley. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles showing white through the skin, and his citrusy-sweet scent gone almost acidic with aggression. 

“Hey, Davey,” Jack says gently as he approaches. “Maybe you should just go ahead and call it quits for the day.”

Davey whirls around, eyes on fire. “I am just fine—!”

“You are not fine,” Jack says calmly. “And I’m not even talking about your heat, though I’m sure that ain’t making things any easier on you.” 

He steps forward, running a hand soothingly along Davey’s arm, then catching his wrist in his palm and squeezing it lightly. “Querido, you smell like you’re two seconds from kicking someone’s teeth in, and that’s from a block and a half away. You’re fucking miserable.”

Davey deflates, his head hanging low. “I could keep selling,” he says, but it’s a weak protest. “I could.”

I know you could, if ya had to,” Jack assures him. “But ya don’t have to. You don’t got nothin’ to prove to nobody, you hear me? People are dicks, that ain’t your fault.”

“Newsies code: if you’re walking, you’re working,” Davey counters stubbornly, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the pavement. “I’m walking, so I should be working.”

“I never shoulda told ya about that stupid code,” Jack says softly, shaking his head. “All ya do is use it as a excuse to work yourself into the ground.” He steps closer, tapping at Davey’s chin with his forefinger until he meets his eyes. “Davey, it’s okay to need a day. All of us need a day every now and then⁠⁠—this ain’t no different than those times when Crutchie needs a break to rest his leg or last month when Albert had that bad cold that knocked him on his ass. It happens. So stop bein’ so hard headed and take care of yourself for once, yeah?”

Davey huffs out a laugh. “You’re one to talk about being hard headed, Jackie,” he says, deflecting, and maybe some other time Jack would let him shrug his concerns aside, but not this time.

“Dave, I’m serious,” Jack says. “We got your back, okay? We’ll keep an eye on Les, split up your usual share of papes between the lot of us, and sell as many as we can. It’ll all work out⁠; just let us help you, alright?”

“Alright,” Davey finally agrees. 

“Thank you, Dave,” Jack says, and he pulls him into a hug.

Davey comes easily into the embrace, hooking his chin over Jack’s shoulder and leaning into him with a soft sigh. Then he lets out a tiny, startled noise and all but collapses against Jack’s chest.

“Dave!” Jack yelps, hands flying to Davey’s waist to steady him. He’s gone completely limp, his knees buckling out from under him, eyes glazed over. “Davey, what⁠—?”

And then Jack smells it. 

Jesus Christ does he smell it.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

“I thought you said ya had a couple more days before it hit?” Jack exclaims, shifting Davey around until he can cradle him against his chest. He can feel the heat pouring off of Davey even through his layers of clothes, sweat starting to bead fresh at his temple.

“I do,” Davey says, but it comes out as more of a moan, tucking his nose right against Jack’s scent gland and inhaling shakily. Jack’s fingers tighten around his waist of their own accord. “I… It never hits early, it always comes… exactly… on time.”

But it’s undeniable. Davey’s blown right through the early stages and is revving up into a full-blown heat: right here, right now. 

Davey’s hands find the front of Jack’s shirt, clenching the fabric tight between his fists, his breaths coming in short, desperate pants. His scent has kicked up tenfold, saturating the air with citrus-sugar-honey-spice, and Jack can feel himself starting to lose it, his own scent spiking as he starts to spiral. 

Jack wants him. Wants to pin him up against the nearest flat surface and lick him all over. Wants to press his teeth against all that pretty, perfect skin until he’s covered in Jack’s scent and Jack’s marks. Wants to claim. Wants to make Davey his.

“Race!” Jack calls out. He tries to focus, tries breathing through his mouth instead, but it does absolute fuck all to help⁠—now he can taste Davey on his tongue. “Racetrack!”

Race comes running, skidding to a stop just inside the mouth of the alley, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. “What the fuck happened?” he asks, alarmed.

“Help,” Jack pleads, struggling to think rationally under the onslaught of Davey, but it’s like walking against the tide. His hands sit heavy on Davey’s hips, just barely resisting the urge to pull him closer, but also unable to push him away. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold out. “Tony, help.”

Racetrack takes a cautious step forward.

“Okay, Jack, how about we just⁠—” Racetrack puts his hand on Jack’s arm, trying to coax him into letting go, and Davey fucking growls, his lip curling back in a full-on snarl, an unmistakable declaration of back the fuck off, which is possibly the hottest thing Jack’s ever seen in his life. 

“Or not!” Race yelps, quickly backing away, both hands raised in surrender. “Not is fine too, holy shit.”

“Fuck, Race, I’m so sorry,” Davey says, groaning in embarrassment, head falling against Jack’s chest. “I didn’t mean to⁠— What is wrong with me?”

“You’re in heat,” Race says, like that isn’t obvious at this point. “Your instincts are takin’ over.”

“But it’s never…” Davey struggles to find the words, starting to succumb to the heat haze once again. “It’s never like this.”

Race inches forward once again, this time moving towards Davey; Davey stiffens at his approach but manages to keep his head, standing stock still in the circle of Jack’s arms.

“Let go of Jack, Davey,” Race murmurs, tugging lightly at the bottom of Davey’s vest. Davey’s hands fist even tighter in the fabric of Jack’s shirt, a low whine building steadily somewhere in the back of his throat. It takes everything Jack has not to react to the sound of it, to keep his grip open and loose instead of pulling Davey in tight like every fiber of his being is screaming at him to. “You gotta let him go.” 

Davey trembles, his scent souring with distress, and that’s even worse somehow⁠—like a shot straight to the heart. Jack clenches his jaw, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood, but he doesn’t move.

Racetrack says, “Davey, let go.”

There’s an infinitely long pause. Then, with a pained whimper, Davey’s hands drop back to his sides. Jack forces himself take a step back, and then another, and then another⁠—until Davey is safely out of arm’s reach⁠.

“Take him home,” Jack pants out, because if he doesn’t say it now he’s not sure he’ll be able to get the words out at all. It feels like someone’s sent an electric current up his spine⁠, liquid fire spreading through his veins: scorchingly hot and and almost painfully strong. “Racetrack, get him home.”

Racetrack cups a hand around Davey’s elbow, helping him lean against a stack of shipping pallets. Then he looks back over at Jack.

“Go get Les,” Race instructs him. “Tell him what’s going on. Then swing by West Avenue and find Specs, he should be closest, and send him this way.”

“Okay,” Jack says, but he doesn’t move. He’s still staring at Davey, at the furrow between his brow and the tense line of his shoulders, at the sweat beading across his forehead and unhappy set of his mouth. Every inch of him is screaming hurtdangerprotecthelpfix to Jack frazzled instincts.

Jack wants to have him, hold him, comfort him, protect him. He needs to protect him, needs to with a sort of all-encompassing intensity that makes his fucking bones ache. Just the thought of leaving him feels like tearing his own heart out of his chest.

“Jack,” Racetrack insists. “You need to go, okay? You being here is only gonna make it worse.”

But the first thing he needs protection from is Jack, and that understanding is what finally gives Jack the strength to stagger away, to put one foot in front of the other and walk away from Davey. 

“Jack?” Davey whimpers, and Jack can’t. He can’t. He can’t leave him, he can’t leave him here, Davey needs him, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. “Jack.”

But somehow, Jack does.

00000

Jack is absolutely impossible to live with for the next couple of days, and even though he knows it, recognizes that he’s stalking around the Lodging House like a particularly pissed off bear, he can’t make himself stop.

All he can think about is Davey⁠: the look on his face, the bright blue of his eyes, the way he felt in Jack’s arms, and that unforgettable scent. 

Jack’s not an idiot, he knows what Davey’s doing right now⁠. Imagines the long expanse of flushed, sweaty skin, spread deliciously across his bed. Eyes closed and lips parted, head thrown back. Muscles flexing, fingers clenching, hips working.

Jack presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, like that might stop the endless stream of images flickering through his mind, trying to will away his erection before it can fully form because if he has to jack it any more today his dick might actually fall off.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Davey like this. It’s rude and demeaning and perverted all kinds of other adjectives that basically add up to this: Davey is his best friend and Jack is a fucking asshole, no better than any other knot-head alpha on the street, completely losing control of himself like some sort of animal. 

He doesn’t have any claim to Davey, he doesn’t⁠—not that his heart or his instincts are willing to accept the truth of that fact. Davey deserves better, deserves to be treated with all the respect and care in the world, deserves someone that will be able to keep up with that sharp mind and sharper tongue, someone that can give him stability and comfort and a good life.

Someone better than Jack.

But even just thinking about Davey with some hypothetical somebody sets Jack’s teeth on edge, makes his eyes flash red and a growl rumble through his chest. He throws himself back against the rooftop with a groan, angry and embarrassed and aroused and guilty. God—fucking⁠—damn it.

There’s a knock on the rooftop door, and then Crutchie’s head peeks out.

“Hey, Jack,” he says, voice gentle the way all of the Newsies’ voices have been the last couple of days, Jack’s fluctuating scent putting everyone on edge. Another wave of guilt rises up in him but Jack works to choke it back, trying not to let anything seep out. No one else should have to deal with Jack’s issues. “Uh, don’t freak out, but Sarah’s downstairs. She says she needs to talk to you, and it sounds like it’s serious.”

Jack jolts to his feet, heart in his throat. Because he knows, he knows, that this is about Davey.

Something’s wrong, a voice whispers in Jack’s ear, wronghurthelpwherefix. 

Someone, maybe Racer or Finch, has lead Sarah to the side room just off the main hall. She smells agitated, her long hair thrown up in a messy bun and her nails bitten down to the quick, fiddling with a loose string on her blouse. She looks up when she hears them enter and her eyes are shaded dark with worry; Jack’s heart kicks into double time.

“I’ll give you the room,” Crutchie says, going to leave.

“Actually, Crutchie,” Sarah interjects, biting her lip. “Would you mind staying? I think that would probably be for the best.”

Jack goes stiff. He doesn’t like the implications of that request⁠—that whatever she’s about to tell him is so bad that she thinks he’ll need Crutchie for support.

“Jack,” Crutchie says, rubbing at his nose. “At least let her talk before you start freakin’ out.”

Jack nods and makes a concerted effort to tamp down his scent, knowing that the crazy, distressed alpha pheromones he’s putting out aren’t pleasant for anyone. 

He’ll let Sarah talk. He’ll be calm. It’ll be okay.

“What’s wrong?” Jack blurts out. “What’s⁠— Is it Davey? Is he okay?”

“He’s… not doing great,” Sarah quietly admits, and a spike of fear hits Jack so strongly that he goes dizzy with it.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

“This heat hit him really hard,” Sarah says, and there’s a tiniest hint of a tremor in her voice, which for Sarah might as well be a wave of tears. “I’ve never seen him like this. He can’t sleep, can’t keep any food or water down, and he’s burning hot and nothing we try can get the fever to break. We asked the nurse who lives downstairs to come look at him, and she thinks it’s the result of some kind of incomplete scent bond⁠—that Davey’s body thinks he has an alpha, has found his mate, and the heat won’t be soothed without them.”

“Okay,” Jack says, raking a hand through his hair, feeling a little like he might shake out of his skin. “Okay, well, does Davey know who he’s scent bonded to? A scent bond only happens ‘cause of a courtship, right? So he must know who it is.”

Jack’s stomach churns. He can’t imagine how he’s missed the signs of a courtship, or why Davey wouldn’t have told him about it. 

Unless, Jack realizes, heart sinking, unless he figured it out. Unless he found out about Jack’s feelings and chose not to tell him about his suitor. About the person he actually wants. The person he wants to mat⁠—

Jack staggers to the nearest wall and leans against it. “Who is it?” he grits out. “Who…?”

Sarah and Crutchie exchange a glance, one full of shared understanding. Jack has a brief moment of betrayal, outraged that Crutchie knows who Davey’s been courting with too, that maybe it’s some kind of shared secret that everyone else knows about but Jack⁠—

“It’s you,” Sarah says. “Jack, it’s you.”

“What?” Jack breathes.

“It’s you,” Sarah repeats. “Of course it’s you. Jack, who else would it be?”

Jack blinks, then blinks again. He’s hearing her words but it’s like he can’t internalize what she’s saying, the information hitting his ears, then bouncing away without sticking.

“....Me?”

“Yes,” Sarah says, the tone of her voice starting to edge towards exasperated. “Davey’s instincts think you’re his mate, that’s why his heat flared up early when he was with you and why it’s been so bad.”

But that’s impossible, Jack thinks, and he tells her as much. “We ain’t even courting, there can’t be a scent bond.”

“Maybe you haven’t said the words, ‘hey, can I court you?’” Sarah disagrees, shaking her head. “But you’ve definitely been treating him like he’s an omega you’re courting.”

Jack stares at her. Sarah heaves a massive sigh.

“Jack, the two of you are so mated it’s disgusting,” she informs him. “You practically live in each other’s pockets, scenting each other, sharing food and clothes, super protective and possessive of each other. The only surprising part about all this is that you’re not mated already.”

“You look at Davey like he’s the center of your world, Jack,” Crutchie chimes in. “He’s the only one that’s always able to calm you down, the only one that’s always allowed into your space. We’ve all been waiting for you to get together for ages.”

Jack’s thoughts whirl and whirl. 

“Okay, fine,” he eventually says, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s no big secret that I’m in love with Davey, but are you sure I’m the one he’s scent bonded to? Just ‘cause I want him doesn’t mean he wants me back⁠⁠—maybe he’s got some kinda private courtship thing goin’ on that he jus’ hasn’t told us about⁠⁠.”

“It’s you,” Sarah says flatly.

“Okay, then are ya sure that it’s a mating thing?” Jack asks. “Because yeah, I’m enough of an lovestruck idiot that I’ll buy that I was accidentally courting Davey⁠—” He can feel the back of his neck heating up in mortification even as he says it. “—but are you sure Davey actually wants this, that it ain’t just his heat talking? Maybe he didn’t mean to… reciprocate or whatever, and the scent bond was an accident. Maybe he don’t actually want me⁠—”

Sarah reaches out and slaps him over the head. “Ow, Sarah, what⁠—?”

“Stupid, overprotective alphas,” she says with a scoff. “Always thinking they know best. Davey’s asking for you, okay? He wants you. If you’re not ready to take the next step, not brave enough to admit how you feel then, fine, whatever, but at least have the guts to come out and say it instead of pretending like Davey doesn’t know what he wants just because he’s in heat⁠—”

“Wait,” Jack interrupts, dumbfounded, because there’s no way he just heard Sarah say what he thinks she said. “He actually said he wanted me? He asked for me, specifically?”

“Davey’s in love with you,” Sarah says, with the strong implication of ‘you goddamn moron’ underneath. “Of course he asked for you.”

The ground shifts and spins beneath Jack’s feet. Oh.

Sarah seems to take Jack’s stunned silence for hesitation. 

“Look, if you’re really that against it⁠—if it’s making you uncomfortable⁠—then you don’t have to help,” she says, starting to worry the edge of her sleeve between her fingers. “But, the nurse told us that if the alpha he’s bonded to can’t help him, then the only other option is to take him to a heat clinic.”

Jack’s vision blurs red. He must lose a few seconds because the next thing he’s aware of is Sarah’s furrowed brow, her eyes darting worriedly between Jack and Crutchie, who’s startled away. Jack doesn’t have to look at him to know that Crutchie has covered his nose and mouth with his hand in a futile attempt to block out Jack’s scent, which has gone absolutely acrid in response to this statement.

Sarah’s nose wrinkles, and then she sneezes twice in quick succession. “I’m guessing you’d rather not let that happen?” she delicately asks.

“No,” Jack says, his voice rumbling somewhere low in his chest. “No, not if he’s… Not if he really…” He stares at Sarah again, expression hard. “You swear this is what he asked for?” he demands. “You’re sure he wants me?”

“I’m sure,” Sarah says, gently, like she knows how important it is for Jack to hear it. “Jack, he’s been asking for you since his heat started. He begged for me to come get you. I’m sure.”

Jack swallows, then lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Okay.”

00000

“Wait here,” Sarah says. Jack blinks, then realizes that between one moment and the next they’ve made it all the way to the Jacobs’ building. “It’s just Mama and Davey upstairs, but I’ll tell them you’re here.”

Jack gives a jerky nod and Sarah disappears inside, returning some twenty minutes later with Mrs. Jacobs and a suitcase.

“How’s he doin’?’” Jack asks, skin tight with worry and anticipation.

Sarah shakes her head. “Not great,” she says. “It’s a good thing you came, I don’t think he could’ve handled much more of this.”

“Hello, Jack,” Mrs. Jacobs says, and she looks exhausted but her scent is tinged with relief. “Did Sarah tell you everything?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack says. “I⁠—”

Jack tenses, nostrils flaring, and he whips around just as a third person exits the Jacobs’ building. Jack manages to keep from growling at the unfamiliar person but only just barely, and it’s a good thing he does. Because this alpha is older, at least fifteen or twenty years older than Davey’s mother, and is so obviously not any kind of romantic competition that Jack feels more than a bit stupid for letting his senses get away from him.

As if she knows exactly what he’s thinking, the other Alpha lets out a dismissive snort, pinning him with a look that’s thoroughly unimpressed, and Jack feels something inside him stand at attention. She might not be competition, but Jack has no doubt that she could still lay him out on the concrete if she wanted to.

“This is the one?” she barks out.

“Yes, Mrs. Lansdon, this is Jack,” Mrs. Jacobs confirms with a nod. “He’s the boy Davey’s bonded to.”

“And what on Earth possessed you to court and scent bond with an omega, only to abandon him when he needs you most?” Mrs. Lansdon asks him, raising an eyebrow. 

Jack forces himself not to rise to this bait. “I didn’t know that’s what I was doin’,” he grits out, in a voice he hopes is at least approaching calm. “I didn’t realize what’d happened until just a while ago, when Sarah told me.”

“You’re saying you accidentally scent bonded to an omega?” Her tone of voice tells Jack exactly what she thinks of this idea. 

“Yes.”

“Hmmm…” Mrs. Lansdon turns back to Davey’s mother. “Esther, far be it from me it insert myself in all of this, but are you sure this is wise? It’s not too late to make an appointment with the heat clinic. I’ll escort you myself if that’s what you’re concerned about…” She trails off mid-sentence, both eyebrows shooting up high on her wrinkled forehead⁠—no doubt in response to the distressed, frantic alpha scent that’s rolling off of Jack in waves.

“No,” Jack chokes out, his whole body clenching up at the thought. “Not if Davey’s asking for me. Not if this is still what he wants.”

“I thought you said it was an accident?”

“It was, but⁠—” Jack pauses, struggling to articulate himself in the face of this unexpected scrutiny, his every instinct urging him to just shoulder his way up the stairs and find Davey. “—But that don’t mean this ain’t important to me, that Davey ain’t important to me. Because he is. He���s everythin’ to me.”

Mrs. Lansdon hits him with a shrewd, evaluating look, then her expression seems to soften ever so slightly.

“I suppose it’s not a crime to be young and foolish,” she concedes. “You aren’t the first alpha to have his instincts gallop off with his heart and you won’t be the last.” She turns back to Mrs. Jacobs and says, “Your boy will be perfectly safe, Esther, don’t you worry. All of the other tenants are betas, and if I see any strange alphas roaming around, chasing after a scent knot-first, I’ll shoot them.” 

She says all of this very mildly, as if simply commenting on the weather. Sarah’s brow furrows and Mrs. Jacobs gives a nervous smile, like neither are sure if this is a joke or not, but Jack is under no such delusions. Mrs. Lansdon is utterly serious.

“Thank you,” Jack says, truly meaning it. 

Mrs. Lansdon looks at him again, and that judgmental exterior thaws out even further. “Well, you just get on up there and take care of your omega,” she says gruffly. “It won’t do to keep him waiting. Let us sort out all the rest of it.”

“I will,” he promises, to Mrs. Lansdon, to Mrs. Jacobs, to Sarah, and to himself. “I’ll take care of him.”

“There’s bread and turkey in the kitchen for sandwiches,” Sarah tells him. “Plus a bag of apples and a good supply of water. We just did laundry, so there are plenty of linens and clean clothes in the wardrobe.”

“Make sure you keep him hydrated,” Mrs. Jacobs says, hefting her purse more securely over her shoulder. “And see if you can get him to eat something. We’re staying just up the road with another family from our synagogue, I left the number for you in case there’s an emergency.”

“Just follow your instincts and you’ll be fine,” Mrs. Lansdon advises. 

“Oh, and Jack,” Mrs. Jacobs says, just before he goes to head inside, her expression serious. “There’s a package of alpha sheathes on the kitchen table. I expect you to use them.”

Jack feels his face turn red. “Right,” he squeaks out. “Right, of course. Understood, ma’am.”

He hurries inside, rushing up the stairs two and three at a time.

Jack can smell Davey the moment he reaches the floor for his apartment, a hint of sweetness in the air that makes Jack’s mouth water before he even gets the front door open. He finds the sheathes right where Mrs. Jacobs said he would, and though he’s mortified at the thought of her or Davey’s father going out and buying them, he’s also grateful for their foresight. A pregnancy is the last thing either Jack or Davey needs.

The further he walks into the apartment, the stronger that incredible scent becomes. It’s already doing things to him⁠—making his brain cloudy and his heart race, his dick starting to strain against the front of his pants⁠—growing stronger and stronger until all Jack can smell is Davey.

He pauses just outside of Davey’s bedroom, grasping the doorknob in unsteady hands; that spiced-sugar-citrus smell is so heavy in the air that if feels like it’s coating the inside of his mouth. He pushes open the door.

Jack’s eyes go wide, his brain skidding to a screeching halt. The sheathes fall from his suddenly slackened grip, hitting the floor and bouncing away, but that’s not important right now. Nothing’s more important than what’s in front of him.

Davey is draped across his bed, gloriously naked with a thin sheen of sweat coating his body, and the sight and smell of him is like nothing Jack’s ever dreamed. His hair, usually combed neatly across his forehead, is sticking up in every direction and his eyes are glassy with fevered desire. His hips are moving in tight, tiny circles, but he’s rocking into open air⁠—not an active attempt to get off, but like he just can’t help himself⁠—and his chest is heaving, all that bare skin flushed and rosy from his heat. 

He tips his head back, giving Jack an unobstructed view of the long, lovely line of his unmarked throat, then turns to face him. As their eyes meet something in Jack’s chest stills and centers, some baser instinct prowling in the back of his mind whispering, ‘Oh. Oh, that’s mine.’

“Jack,” Davey moans, and the sound of it is like a siren’s call. Jack’s stripped off his shirt and vest before he realizes that he’s moved. “Jack.”

“Jesus Christ, Davey,” Jack growls, fumbling for his fly, stepping out of his pants as he moves closer. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

“Where have you been?” Davey demands, nonsensically, and Jack’s just found out about all this, came almost immediately once he understood what was going on, but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s wondering the same thing. Where has he been?

“I’m here, now, sweetheart,” Jack says, climbing onto the bed and settling between Davey’s legs, right where he’s supposed to be. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Jack runs a soothing hand along Davey’s stomach and hips, then spreads his cheeks nice and wide, uncovering the perfect, rosy furl of Davey’s hole. He’s slick with need, all glossy and pink, but nowhere near as stretched as Jack had expected him to be after nearly two days of heat.

“Haven’t you been…?” Jack asks as he runs a finger through the delicious mess of slick glistening around Davey’s entrance, because he can’t imagine Davey getting to this point⁠—all strung out and panting and aching with it⁠—and not doing anything to quell the fire.

But Davey shakes his head. “I tried at first…” he whines, unspeakably frustrated, canting his hips up into Jack’s touch and letting his thighs fall open that much more, beckoning Jack to explore further. “But it wasn’t helping, it wasn’t ever enough, and that was worse than not touching myself at all.”

Jack nips possessively at Davey’s inner thigh, watching the skin there bloom red under his ministrations, then lowers himself down, pressing his nose right to where that intoxicating scent is strongest. He lingers there for a moment, just basking in the heady scent of Davey, and perfect, and mine, mine, mine, then licks him right where he’s wettest, lapping up every last drop of that thick, honey-sweetness. It’s absolutely incredible⁠—the taste of him is better than anything Jack could’ve ever imagined⁠—and he can’t help but groan, the sound of it rumbling low in his chest.

“Oh, fuck,” Davey gasps, and his hands go tight in Jack’s hair, pulling him closer. Jack doesn’t need to be told twice, pressing his tongue deep inside, working him open with every swirl and flick and thrust. Davey is hot, searingly hot under his hands and on his lips, and Jack understands why the Jacobs’ were so worried, because there’s no way this is a regular heat. But the thought slips away as quickly as it arrived because this is everything, this is where Jack belongs⁠—eating Davey out until he’s trembling and desperate for it, just as wet from Jack’s tongue as he is from his slick.

“Jack,” Davey begs, nails digging into Jack’s scalp. “Jackie, please, I need more.”

“You’re not ready yet,” Jack says. He pulls off Davey’s hole just enough so that he can slide two fingers into him, and Davey cries out, a throaty, guttural noise that sends a bolt of want shooting straight to Jack’s dick.

“Jackie⁠—”

“I said, you’re not ready yet,” Jack growls, adding another finger and crooking them up, and Davey moans, back arching up off the bed. “You gotta trust me, sweetheart. You gotta let me help you.”

Davey quivers beneath his hands. “I can’t,” he sobs. “It’s not enough⁠— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, cielito,” Jack murmurs, working his fingers even deeper. Davey tears at his sheets, scrabbling for some kind of anchor, then one of his hands comes up to wrap around his cock, jacking it hard and fast in his fist. “That’s it, Dave, c’mon. I wanna see you. I wanna watch you come on my fingers.”

“Jack,” Davey mewls, and he’s soaking, dripping all over Jack’s hand, pretty and perfect and so, so close. “Jack, I need… I want… Jack.”

“Give it up for me, David,” Jack commands. He twists his hand, scissors his fingers, finds that little spot inside and presses it hard, over and over again. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

Davey’s voice breaks on a scream, his body locking up and his muscles clamping down around Jack’s fingers like a vice. His eyes are glazed over with pleasure, come striping his belly as he twitches in Jack’s arms, and it’s like something reaches into Jack’s chest and pulls, shifting the landscape of his heart around until Jack can barely breathe around the discovery of Davey, Davey, always Davey that ripples through him in time with his pulse.

“God, Davey, you are fucking gorgeous like this,” Jack says, eyes raking greedily over Davey’s form. “Tan bonito, tan guapo, y es todo para mi.” 

Jack leans over him, biting and kissing at every bit of skin he can get at as he works his way up the long lines of Davey’s body. Davey’s even prettier in this moment just after: that edge of burning desire bordering on pain soothed away, leaving only sweet satisfaction behind… and with a plea for more simmering just underneath. Jack can’t do anything except oblige.

“Jack,” Davey moans when Jack’s lips find one of his nipples, his hands threading through Jack’s hair once again. “Oh my… mnh.”

“Tell me what you need, Davey,” Jack rasps against that fever-hot skin, moving over to give the other nipple the same attention, swirling his tongue around it until it pebbles in his mouth. “Let me give you what you need.”

“You, Jackie,” Davey says, arching up into Jack’s mouth with a breathy sigh, his knees coming up to bracket Jack’s hips. “Just you. Always you.”

“No,” Jack says, pulling away and bracing himself with his hands on either side of Davey’s head, forcing Davey to hold his gaze. “Tell me, David. I need you to tell me.”

Davey looks utterly debauched lying underneath him, mouth open and panting, pupils blown wide and eyelashes fluttering against the rosy flush of his cheekbones, but his voice is steady and serious when he says, “I need you, Jackie. I need you to fuck me, I need your knot. Please, alpha.”

Jack’s whole body shudders at these words, his heartbeat a deafening roar in his ears. “You have me,” he breathes. “I’ll give it to you, you’ll have me, omega.” Then he closes that whisper of space between them and kisses him.

It’s hot and deep and a little frantic. Davey groans, his lips parting eagerly to his own, and then Jack’s licking into his mouth, needing to lay claim to every inch of him. Because Davey is his, that lush mouth and those bright eyes are Jack’s, those soft little keens of pleasure and the spike of sugar sweetness in the air are all for Jack, only for Jack. He takes Davey’s lower lip between his teeth and sucks, swallows down Davey’s answering moan and keeps on kissing him, starving for more of him, and it’s only then that Jack realizes that he’s growling, actually growling into Davey’s mouth, the vibrations rumbling through the both of them from where they’re pressed together. 

Davey looks stunned, just absolutely amazed and overwhelmed, and he reaches up with trembling hands to cup around either side of Jack’s face, thumbs sweeping gently over Jack’s cheekbones. “Jack?” he asks, voice hushed with reverence. 

“I know, Davey,” Jack replies, nuzzling at Davey’s neck as he tries to regain some semblance of control. “I’m right there with you.”

Because he’d understood the explanation, he’d known, distantly, what a scent bond meant, but that’s nothing compared to this⁠—this feeling of perfectly matched pieces finally slotting into place, of home and right and mate. Of yours and mine, and mine, but yours.

Davey squirms in Jack’s hold, his eyes starting to smolder and his scent surging with a fresh wave of arousal, and Jack latches onto it, uses it to ground himself. Davey needs him, that’s what matters. Everything else can wait. 

Jack kisses him again, then leans over to grab a sheath from where he dropped them on the floor, rolling it on with shaky hands. 

“This still what you want?” Jack asks.

“Yes, but⁠,” Davey bites his lip, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I want⁠ to⁠... Can we⁠...?”

Davey flips over onto his stomach, lifts up on his hands and knees, and presents, just like that. Jack inhales sharply, feeling his eyes bleed red. 

He’s only human. And Davey is everything.

Jack’s instincts take over. He kneels behind Davey, curls his hands around his hips and tilts his pelvis up, gets a perfect view of shiny, slick-covered thighs and a dripping wet hole, then lines himself up and pushes in, pressing forward until his hips are seated right against Davey’s ass.

Hot, scorchingly hot, hot enough to burn Jack from the inside out, and devastatingly tight. Jack can’t breathe, can’t think, his spine stiff as he fights against the urge to just take and take and take. Davey makes a noise that’s all startled pleasure, spreads his knees even wider, then tries to fuck himself on Jack’s dick, desperate and clumsy with it. Jack tightens his grip on Davey’s hips⁠—an unspoken command to settle, to let Jack lead⁠—and then takes over, fucking into him in long, powerful strokes.

It’s a rush of sensations. Jack feels completely in control and two seconds from losing it, pulled out to sea by the rip current of Davey, of how Davey feels, a tight silken paradise clenching around him, of how he sounds, the little gasps and grunts that tear out of his throat punctuated by the slap of skin against skin, of how Davey smells, that heady sweetness tempered by Jack’s own scent blending and melding with it.

Jack grinds in deep, pulls out slow, then picks up the pace, driven by some primal need to claim, to wreck Davey like no one ever has before, to possess everything Davey can give him and then give himself right back in return, until they’re so tangled together that they can’t be torn apart. Mine, but yours.

Davey is fucking gorgeous beneath Jack’s hands, head hanging down and his back bowed in beautiful submission, clutching at the sheets as he mewls and sobs. Jack presses a hand to the nape of his neck, then works an arm underneath him and hauls him upright so that they’re pressed together, back to chest, and the change in angle makes them both cry out. 

“Fuck, Jack,” Davey whimpers. “Oh, god, right there.”

It’s so good and yet not enough. Jack can feel his knot starting to swell, catching on Davey’s rim each time he pulls out, and the hot, wet sound of it is driving the possessive, alpha side of him absolutely crazy. He’s distantly aware of mouthing at Davey’s throat, lapping up the salt and sugar there and murmuring a stream of praise against his pulse: some in English, some in Spanish, and some that just comes out as indistinct growls, their meaning lost to a rush of primal instinct. 

Because Davey might be the one in heat but Jack feels like he’s about to shatter right along with him, every thrust of his hips dragging him closer and closer to his breaking point. It’s push and pull, give and take, each brush of skin and wisp of breath shared between them stitching them together: two halves of a whole. That’s what they are now, or maybe that’s what they’ve always been, and now that Jack’s found it, now that he’s figured it out, there’s no chance in hell he’s letting it go. Yours and mine and ours.

Jack’s not going to last much longer, his knot starting to fill out in earnest. From the sounds he’s making, Davey can’t be far behind. Jack presses in hard, then rolls his hips into his next several thrusts, trying to give Davey that last push over the edge. His hand slides down to sit low on Davey’s stomach, as if he could somehow pull him closer, somehow take him deeper, and he works a mark into the space behind Davey’s ear, thrilling in the wrecked little moan that leaves his lips as Jack stakes his claim.

Jack nips and bites his way down Davey’s throat, setting his teeth right against that perfect spot where Davey’s neck meets his shoulder, and Davey lets out a noise of pure want and tilts his head to the side, baring even more of his throat to him.

“Alpha,” Davey begs. “Yes, Jack, please, bite me, Alpha, bite me, pleaseohfuckyes⁠—”

It’s with the last fraying thread of his control that Jack manages not to follow through with this request.

“David,” he grits out, fingers digging into Davey’s hips to the point that he has to be leaving bruises. “Dave, are you sure? You gotta be sure, sweetheart, ‘cause we can’t come back from this.”

“We already can’t come back from this,” Davey says, and it’s true. They’re already changed. “I want this, Jackie, please. Please.”

“Mine,” Jack growls, grinding in one last time as his knot fully pops. “My omega. Mine.” He places one last kiss to Davey’s neck, then bites down, hard, and comes.

Davey locks down around him like a vice, his body jerking and twitching as he rides out his own orgasm, panting through the sharp pleasure-pain of Jack’s teeth breaking skin. It feels like nothing else, this moment of togetherness and completion⁠—like he’s found a piece of himself that he hadn’t realized was missing until it fit itself neatly back into place. 

Davey. Mate. Forever.

When Jack comes back to himself, it’s like floating back into his body after the most incredible dream. There’s the decadent warmth of skin pressed all along his front, the steady thump of Davey’s heartbeat against his chest, the comforting weight of him in Jack’s arms. He shifts them around so they can lay on their sides, careful to keep from jostling Davey too much with the motion, hands settling securely around his waist. He swipes his tongue along the rapidly healing mating mark, then tucks his nose into the space behind Davey’s ear and inhales, something settling smugly in his chest when all he scents is deep satisfaction and a blossom of happiness⁠—no undercurrent of pain or discomfort. 

He feels Davey curl back into him with a quiet, contented noise, limbs heavy with exhaustion and relief. Jack opens his mouth to ask him how he feels, if he needs anything, if he’s okay. What he actually says is, in a raspy whisper right next to Davey’s ear, “I love you.”

Davey shivers. He lifts one of Jack’s hand up and kisses his palm, then weaves their fingers together, their hands clasped right over Davey’s heart. 

He says “I know you do, Jackie. You wouldn’t’ve come if you didn’t.” Another kiss, this one to Jack’s knuckles. “I love you, too.”

“You’re mine now,” Jack says, half amazement, half promise, drawing Davey more tightly against the curve of his body. “All mine.”

Jack feels more than hears Davey’s answering smile. 

“Oh, Jackie, love,” he says tenderly, perfectly relaxed in Jack’s embrace. “I was already yours.”

[lihikainanea]

every time you talk about swedish naked saunas, sign me up. what if a few days later, bill gets back from a day out with old buddies and a brother mentions gustaf and tiger went into the sauna. and bill, poor boy, practically runs to it and opens to door to her in a swimsuit and gustaf in a towel. and sweet gustaf just wanted to make her comfortable with the sauna, because he assures her it’s a lot more relaxing without all the naked men in it.

DID YOU JUST JUNK PUNCH ME WITH GOOD DUDE GUSTAF.

Ohhhhh fuck, Gustaf who only ever wants people--especially women--to feel comfortable around him.

Alright so look, tiger has a bit of a misunderstanding about the Swedish sauna sitch. And she walks in to be greeted by some very naked big boys. And Gustaf not only knows that it’s probably a bit jarring, but he also saw the way Bill reacted and Gustaf just wants to do a bit of damage control. Truth be told, tiger is so fucking wound up the Gustaf thinks the sauna might do her some good and help their little morning yoga routine. So maybe while Bill is on a hike or something, Gustaf goes to find her.

“I was just about to head into the sauna,” he says, “If you’d like to join?”

But like, tiger’s only sauna experience has been....nekkid. So maybe her brain misfires for a second and she thinks Gustaf is trying to get her naked. Her eyes widen, her cheeks go a little pink, and she stutters. Gustaf realizes, and in turn his eyes go wide and he holds his hands out in front of him.

“Normal sauna,” he says, panicked, “Not swedish sauna.”

“Oh, uh...” tiger stammers a bit, “Sure. Yes, sure.”

And Gustaf maybe knows a lot about psychology, or maybe just knows a lot about tiger. And seeing a bunch of dudes naked is not traumatizing, but it’s a little unexpected and a little jarring and Gustaf kind of just wants to bring her back to the place it happened, chat with her, spend some time there, so that she’s not skittish around him or any of the brothers and doesn’t like, avoid the sauna.

And that’s exactly what he does. He tries to get the blond one in too, but he’s absorbed in his video games. So Gustaf and tiger just sit there for a good half an hour, just talking, and it does some good because like...tiger has questions.

“Do Swedes always get into the sauna naked?” she asks. 

“Often, not always. Friends, sure. Family, it depends,” he smiles at her.

“So I guess brothers is no big deal?” she asks.

“Nah,” he says, “It’s no big deal for brothers.”

“Do all Swedes have saunas?” she asks.

“Most do, the winters are long and cold otherwise.”

She nods.

“So in general,” she says, “I should be careful when opening the door to this thing when all of you are around.”

“In general, you might want to be careful, yes,” he says with a smirk. She nods again.

“We’re not so open with the nakedness,” she says, “I admire that. It seems very...free.”

“It’s very liberating until you’re 16 and you bring a girl home and your dad is cooking in the kitchen, naked.”

Tiger guffaws loudly.

“Yes I suppose,” she says with another laugh, “That wouldn’t be so good.”

And like, they just talk. For half an hour they just talk. And when Bill gets back, he doesn’t even have time to ask where tiger is before Valter pipes up.

“Hey bro, your girl’s getting a proper intro to the sauna,” he has a shit-eating grin on his face, “With our other bro.”

Bill’s eyes narrow.

“She’s not my--oh fuck off,” he snaps, and to Valter’s delight he actually sprints through the house and out the back door. He all but fucking gallops down the dock and when he whips open the door and it slams against the wall, tiger shrieks in surprise and GUH GOOD DUDE GUSTAF he probably even throws an arm out to block her, instinctively, just protect her from...whatever the hell just barged in.

Bill’s eyes are wild, he’s standing fully clothed in a dry heat sauna, tiger’s eyes are wide and her hand is on her chest as she tries to slow down her heart beat. Gustaf just eyes his little bro, and has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Oh,” Bill says, “I thought--”

“I know what you thought,” Gustaf says calmly. Bill has the right of mind to look a little sheepish.

“Yeah, this is fine,” he says dismissively, his shirt already sticking to him. He pulls at it, fans it out a bit, and tiger finally catches her breath enough to get her wits about her.

“Really, bud?” she asks, accusingly. Bill looks even more sheepish. She stands, puts her hand on Gustaf’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Gustaf. This was nice,” she says, and then she walks over to Bill. She walks over to him and, in front of Gustaf, she just pulls him down for a sweet kiss. Bill looks even more embarrassed at himself when she pulls away.

“And you,” she says to him accusingly, and she squishes his cheeks between her hand as his lips puff out and he looks at her guiltily.

“You should know better.”

With a condescending pat to his cheek, tiger just walks out and shuts the door behind her. Bill just stands there already covered in sweat, mumbling a pitiful apology to his big bro, and big bro just crosses his arms and smirks.

“You should know better,” Gustaf echoes, “And you should tell her you’re in love with her, too.”

[antihero-writings]

Stolen Sunlight (Ch2)

Fandom: Tangled | Tangled the Series | Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure

Fic Summary: Arianna never thought she'd find herself afraid of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the events of Secret of the Sundrop won't seem to leave her.

She needs to talk to Varian in prison. Not for his sake...but for her own.

Character focus: Arianna 

Notes: Oh my GOSH you guys, thank you SO MUCH for that incredible response to chapter 1!! My writing rarely gets into the double digits as far as notes go, and I'm lucky if I get one comment... You have no idea how happy it made me to wake up this morning to so many notes, including a bunch of super nice comments...I really can't thank you enough. I hope you guys like the second chapter too! ...I know it's pretty different from the first one, haha!

(Fyi, I'm not usually this fast in posting the next chapter of something, I just happened to have the two beginning parts all edited together XD)

Chapter 2: The Cracks in Their Hearts 

Arianna’s eyes flare open, her heart firing and misfiring, taking its panic out on her own ribs. And for a second she can still feel the stone beneath her, the shackles around her ankles, can still hear his voice, feel the weight of his gaze.

The world behind his eyes then was so cold then: all hate and no hope. So different from the world she lived in. She didn’t want that world to infect her own view.

She clenches her fingers into the sheets.

It wasn’t a dream. That much she doesn’t have to question; at some point in a twisted history, it was real.

How the scene of the boy who smiled and laughed, helping Cassandra with her chores, making the library gleam for little recompense, and the scene of the boy who created a metal monster as a diversion, wrapped chains around her ankles, and teased death and amber before her eyes, could both exist in the same timeline…How the same boy who created machines and compounds to forge solutions, could turn around and use them to manufacture problems, could be played by the same actor, that the only thing that had changed was time…and, at the very end, the same voice that once laughed, and spoke so happily of alchemy and friendship in these castle halls could scream no and I’ll make you proud from a prison cart…she doesn’t understand. It all seems like some sick joke, played with a trick of the light.

The Queen tosses her legs over the side of the bed, pushing back her hair, careful not to wake Frederic, whose chest is rising and falling to the rhythm of uninterrupted sleep.

This isn’t the first time. That is, it isn’t the first time her mind parroted and parodied her memories as nightmares.

She tiptoes up to the door and slowly turns the knob, glancing back at Frederic to be sure he doesn’t wake, and quietly shuts it behind her.

She needs to walk the halls, clear her mind; if she lays back down to sleep now, her heart won’t be able to stop its war march.

She knows from experience.

The castle halls are quiet, doused in a blue-violet tinge, spilling through the windows. She steps up to one of these panes, sighing to the night sky speckled with stars.

The same stars she and Willow chased the sunrise under. The same stars she kissed Frederic under. The same stars, worlds she and Rapunzel gazed at, charted together, asking each other what was out there.

The same sky he kidnapped her under.

The same sky. The same boy. The same queen. The only difference is time.

Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? Likes to play pranks. Heals things. Makes you forget things too. Bad things, yes, but also good things; makes you forget what you lost…and consequently less grateful for what you have. And sometimes it only makes the bad things worse, when your mind won’t let go of them.

She glances down the hall—the same hall she had met that chipper voice and those eyes so full, so accepting of sunlight.

The same hall he captured her in.

She recognizes too, it’s the same window she was looking through that day, down upon the town square, watching those she loved be attacked by a beast of the alchemist’s making. The same window at which he threw sleep into her face.

He looked so different that night. He wasn’t the cute little boy with the gloves, and the apron, and the stripe in his hair, and the glint in his eye. This was a masked criminal in a large, dark coat, which hid weaponry. No boyish twinkle in that blue this time; now the goggles glowed green, like a demon, no soul or sunlight behind them. His raccoon wasn’t the only one he morphed into a monster that night.

How could a person so easily shut himself off from the bright light inside himself, and turn to such immense darkness? As if the shadows had been asking to play this whole time, and he finally accepted their invitation. That was the question she never could quite wrap her mind around.

How could he treat those he once loved like that?

Is that sweet boy still in there? Is he trapped somewhere inside the darkness, within that prison of blue, crying for mercy?

She couldn’t imagine any circumstances that could drive her to treat those she loved like that, no matter how angry she was, or how much she had lost.

Her heartbeat picks up the pace.

She knows she is safe. Her family is safe. Or at least, she has no reason to believe otherwise. They made it out of that lab, and Varian is just a boy swearing vengeance in the dungeons below her. She knows he cannot come back to haunt her. She knows she is safe.

He’s just a boy.

So why does she still feel so...uneasy? Why does the thought of him in the dungeon feel, not like the end of a story, the end of a nightmare, like justice…but instead like the beginning, like a crime in and of itself? Why does she still feel sick, and cold, and far too old thinking of him?

When Rapunzel was taken from them, so long ago—(though it always felt like yesterday)—sorrow was a constant reminder and companion. A quiet buzz of tragedy in the back of her brain. A crack in her heart, making it so she was never fully whole, never fully satisfied. Today’s melancholy, tinged with tomorrow’s hope, tomorrow’s despair. Now the tragedy, the threat, is over. Nothing is missing from their lives. Their hearts are whole again. And Rapunzel has faced many villains on her own, and defeated them with flying colors—him included.

But Arianna still feels something isn’t right.

Maybe it’s because this has happened before. Because she had spent so much of her life grieving the loss of their daughter, hoping in the deepest corners of her heart she would come running into the castle one day.

Maybe because, when her lost princess did come back there was this new thing in the back of her mind saying Maybe you don’t have her back forever. Maybe she’s not safe. Maybe she’ll be taken from you again. A part of herself she had to willfully soothe each day. …A voice Frederic was unable to quiet within himself.

Is it because Varian gave credence to this voice inside her? Because he took their own personal demons and brought them to life in a lab?

But it wasn’t Rapunzel he took…it was her.

Is that the point? Is it because she herself was the one who was kidnapped, for the sake of her daughter? That he used her to get to, to hurt, to in turn use, Rapunzel, too? Because she hadn’t anticipated that? Because the shock of it brought new ammunition to that voice? That now it was clear her daughter wasn’t the only one who could be taken, that any one of them could be stolen away, and used by the opponent? Was it that act of both of them being used as chess pieces in a grand game, instead of people with souls, who were hurting, that keeps her up at night?

It could very well be. But even so, together they had won against him. Arianna was confident that together—be it the three of them, or Rapunzel and her friends—they could face whatever came their way. She wasn’t afraid of him that night, when she was sitting handcuffed to his laboratory floor. She knew they would win. They always did.

Is it because he was one of her friends, a friend she thought could help Rapunzel face the darkness, a friend who had such light in him? Because he made it so terrifyingly clear that our worst enemies are not faceless monsters in the dark, not really…they are the friends we couldn’t save. His greatest offense was not treason against his kingdom, but against his friend. Is it that thought, that tomorrow’s villains are today’s heroes that sends her heart reeling?

But he is down there, in the dungeon, she repeats to herself, as she walks down the hall. She knows where he is; he cannot surprise attack her at any moment. He was not the first villain they faced, the first traitor, to Corona, nor will he be the last. That prison is filled with people who tried to take their sunlight away, and lost.

But she does not feel sick thinking of anyone else down there.

So why, when he is put behind bars—

Or says a voice in the back of her head, a very soft one she’s been trying not to listen to, maybe it’s because he’s down there.

…Because he’s down there, so close, and if he were to escape it would be so easy for him to strike where it hurt?

—(No, says the voice.)—

Or—(dare she admit it?)—Maybe it’s because he’s down there, when she knows he once was, and still could be, more than this. Because he’s down there, wasting away, repeating threats to empty walls, while she walks safely in her golden palace above, not caring what happened to him, what’s still happening to him, even now…how much pain he’s still in….

How much his mind is surely tormenting him.

(Just like her.)

Two scenes, one boy. But maybe it isn’t the way he turned to the dark…maybe it’s because she knows the dark isn’t all he’s made of.

Corona isn’t a place where villains and criminals are shut up, or beheaded for their crimes. It’s a place where they’re taught to be better.

She hadn’t given all that much time to mull in her head before, but now it gives her pause, sinks into her brain. Perhaps this unease is not entirely for herself, her family. Maybe its not fear…it’s guilt. Maybe some part of it, even if it’s small and cowering, is not for herself, but for him.

They all looked away. Frederic looked away when the rocks were destroying their kingdom. Rapunzel looked away when he came to her for help. They all didn’t go to him; looked away when the storm ended, assumed he was better, for fear of facing the fact that he wasn’t, that the storm had left wreckage behind after all, wreckage they would have to clean up. It was easier to look away.

Maybe this isn’t about the way he treated her…maybe it’s about the way they’re treating him, when she knows he was once a boy who cleaned libraries, fixed problems, helped people. When she knows he is still human…and they left him there to rot in the dark.

They’re still looking away.

What does she know? Maybe they’re right to leave him there. She doesn’t know him well. All she knew were the stories Rapunzel told, and the brief interactions they had. And the stories proved he was dangerous when good, and the interactions proved he was deadly when evil.

—(But…was he ever truly evil?)—

She met him twice, and their second, longer meeting was made of metal, and amber, and moonlight. If he could cross straight into the night without a sunset, then maybe she didn’t know him well enough to say they shouldn’t have looked away.

Still, even though she didn’t know much else, she knew—when she did look at him—the look in his eyes. She was certain that, though his gaze was harsh and unrelenting at those times…there was tragedy behind that ice, frozen in time. She could see the cracks in his heart. Could hear the voices in his head saying Maybe you can’t save your father after all.

A criminal was not all he was. A cell was not all he deserved.

He was just a boy, lost and hurting.

Like she was, once.

She paused, peering around a corner at two guards posted at a door. She knew behind it was the staircase to the dungeon. To …him.

She’s so close…

She could go see him right now. Sleep deprived and unsteady in mind she could march down there.

What would she do if she did? Yell and question him? Lecture him on the merits of a non-criminal life? Demand answers, or expect no answers, just want to see him hurt like he hurt her?

She tempers her breath. The thought fades quickly as it comes.

That is not who she is. That is not who she wants to be, to appear to him as; all fear and anger. If she does, if she wants him to hurt, she is no better than the darkest parts of him.

And it is not what either of them need.

She turns away, deciding the bed is more inviting now that her thoughts have coalesced into resolve, and her bare feet take her swiftly back to her room.

Not tonight. Not now.

She will talk to him again. She needs to, for both their sakes. She’s not going to look away anymore.

Because she knows they are the same.

[razzle-zazzle]

Yes, I am calling this AU "Sad Jay Noises"

1918 Words

In the aftermath of the Oni, when Ninjago struggled to rebuild itself, in those first, fledgeling weeks, all the ninja could do was grieve.

Maybe one of them would go out to make an appearance, help with the reconstruction efforts. Maybe two. And maybe it’d just be one of those days where they all stayed in the monastery, desperately avoiding the empty room where dust clung to the bedsheets, their grief choking the air. Even Wu tended to give the doorway a wide berth when he passed it in the hall—a hall he rarely walked now, avoiding it entirely when he could help it.

Several times Jay had found himself stopping by that door, tracing his hands over the wood while contemplating going in. And every time, his mind would bring up the memories unbidden, so real and visceral and painful—

He didn’t scream. He just fell, silently, into the cloud. He hadn’t screamed—Jay had.

He didn’t scream, but Jay could never recall him looking more terrified.

And then Jay would find himself in the bathroom, splashing cold water in his face. Telling himself that everything was okay, when it clearly wasn’t. Telling himself that he’d go in next time.

It was after those first few weeks that they all—Jay wasn’t sure how they even managed to reach this decision, acting as one even as more than a few of them threatened to leave—wordlessly agreed enough was enough. They would go in that room, collect the meaningful things, and give him a proper memorial. They would mourn, and then they’d move on. Maybe they’d split apart again, like when Zane had sacrificed himself to defeat the Overlord. Maybe Jay and Nya would finally start putting together plans for their wedding.

Of course, fate was rarely so kind. Just as they had finally worked up the courage to confront what they had been avoiding, an alert came up. A break-in at the museum.

A welcome excuse to leave the room untouched.

And so the team assembled, meeting the new villain on his way out of the museum, stolen papers in his bag. “Stay out of my way.” He’d huffed, voice distorted through his mask. A mask painted in a way clearly emulating the oni, sending another pang of grief through the group. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, so stay out of my way.”

They didn’t.

He mopped the floor with them, though Kai grumbled that it was only because they were out of practice. That they’d underestimated the guy. That they’d win the next time he showed up.

They didn’t.

“We’ll win next time. One person can’t beat all of us that many times.” Lloyd promised. Yeah. They’d do better next time.

They didn’t.

“Vengeance” was what the public had taken to calling him, based on how his mask and style seemed to be emulating the oni scourge that had so recently been defeated. Media stations speculated on his intentions, social media threads discussed theories about his techniques. There was something achingly familiar to Vengeance, something about the way he moved and fought that reminded Jay of something he couldn’t identify. The others agreed, there was something familiar they couldn’t identify.

“We’ll unmask him in the next battle, everyone. We’ll get the drop on him.”

They didn’t.

And, throughout all of this, the empty room had gone untouched, the priority pushed down in all the chaos Vengeance had been causing. They’d brought it up, once, after a particularly embarrassing battle, but couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Decided they’d get to it after cleaning themselves up.

They didn’t.

But Vengeance did, breaking into the monastery while they were away, rummaging through the things in that room with no care for them. No care for how he was desecrating the memory. It made Jay's blood boil. How dare. The audacity to just dig through their brother's stuff like that.

Kai swore that they'd take Vengeance down next time, to make up for letting this happen.

They didn't.

+=+=+=+=+

It had been a more successful battle than the other times, Zane managing to immobilize Vengeance with ice just long enough for Lloyd to get a good swing in.

Of course, that didn’t last. Vengeance, as always, found a way to regain the upper hand, trapping Lloyd and Kai in a pile of rubble. Nya managed to knock Vengeance off balance with a blast of water from the nearby river, but the extra water on their impromptu battlefield plus a misfire from Zane only served to make everything spiral out of control faster.

But then Jay saw an opportunity. No longer taking the time to think, he rushed Vengeance, tackling him to the ground. “Why are you so frustrating?” He’d asked, while rolling around in the dirt. Vengeance said nothing, just moved to push Jay off of himself.

But Jay wasn’t having it. This weirdo had been causing trouble in the city—so soon after the oni invasion, while emulating those monsters to boot—for so long now, and Jay was done. How was he supposed to grieve his best friend if he was constantly being reminded of the circumstances that killed him? Jay wasn’t thinking, couldn’t hear anything past the sound of blood rushing in his head.

So he punched Vengeance, putting as much voltage as he could into it. He couldn’t help but be satisfied at the whumph sound Vengeance made, the way he twitched and spazzed under Jay as the electricity coursed through his body.

But all too soon, Jay was flying through the air from the force of Vengeance's throw, slamming against Nya before he could even process what happened. When he did, when he heard Vengeance's cry of "JAY YOU FUCK THAT ACTUALLY HURT" as the man charged towards him, Jay had to double take.

He'd put in far too much voltage for Vengeance to have recovered so fast. And yet, there he was, grabbing Jay by the neck and lifting off the ground, ready to throw him in the river.

But Jay wasn't going down that easily—at least, not alone. With a well-placed kick, Jay turned what would have been another take down into a struggle, getting both himself and Vengeance into the overpowering current.

His friends called out his name as he continued to struggle against Vengeance, trying to gain an upper hand. But all too soon, he and his foe were washed away.

+=+=+=+=+

Jay groaned as he coughed up water. He must have hit something in the river, if he'd fallen unconscious. Blinking the bleariness out of his eyes, Jay had to double take once again.

Vengeance was leaning over him, hands on his chest. It took Jay a moment to realize. He had been doing compressions.

He might have even saved Jay's life.

Noticing that Jay was awake, Vengeance backed away. "You okay?"

Jay's jaw was on the floor. Was… was this a trick? It had to be.

"Alright, what's your ploy here?" Electricity sparked in Jay's hands as he backed away, hackles raised.

Vengeance, though his expression couldn't be seen past the mask, gave Jay a blank stare. "Is it so wrong for me to be concerned, Jay?"

And there it was again. He'd referred to the ninja by name before, but something about the way he said Jay's, the sort of familiarity in his tone, gave Jay pause.

Well, two could play at that game—even if Jay wasn't sure what that game was. He relaxed somewhat, though he remained ready for action at any moment. "And why would you be so concerned?"

Vengeance recoiled, as if hurt by that remark. He looked away. "Because I still care about you, Jay."

What the actual fuck. "And why should I believe that?" Jay demanded, hands sparking again.

Vengeance looked back to him, before wordlessly raising his hands to his mask. He took it off.

Jay froze.

It was the last thing Jay expected to see under Vengeance's mask, and yet, there he was.

Cole.

"C-... C o L e?" Holy shit. Holy forking shit on a waffle. Cole was alive. He was there, breathing, breathtaking, alive. Jay stumbled forwards, choking a sob out. His tears were hot on his face. But that didn't matter, because Cole was alive and he was right there and Jay could hit him for being such an idiot and making everyone think he was dead.

So Jay did.

"You jerkass! This whole time, we thought you were dead!" Jay's fists pounded uselessly against Cole's chest, tears running hot down his face. "Do you have any idea how much we've been hurting? How much we wanted you back?" He let out a cry, sagging forwards into Cole's arms. Cole's strong, comforting arms, that always kept Jay safe late at night. Jay wailed again, shoving his face into Cole's chest as his shoulders shook.

Cole said nothing, letting Jay cry it out. When Jay finished, Cole backed away, reaching for his mask to put it back on.

"What are you doing? Cole, stop."

Cole looked back towards Jay, his expression neutral. "I've still got something to finish, Jay."

"Then let us help you." Jay came forwards, taking Cole's hands into his own. "Come back to the monastery, everyone will be so happy to know you're alive. Please." At Cole's unconvinced look, Jay continued. "Whatever's going on, whatever this 'Vengeance' phase is—" And Jay had no doubt in his mind that vengeance was the last thing on Cole's To-Do List; Cole wasn't that type, "—We'll help. We'll support you. We're your family, Cole. Let us help you."

Cole gently removed his hands from Jay's, one of his arms moving to rub nervously at the back of his neck. "Wow, Jay. That's—I don't—" His expression turned cold as his grip tightened on the horns of his mask. He looked away.

"For a moment there, I almost believed you."

Jay's blood ran cold.

Cole replaced the mask, adjusting it once it was on. "Not that it matters." He said grimly. "Even if I wanted to go back, I really can't."

"What… what are you talking about, Cole? Of course you can come back. You can always come back."

Cole shook his head. "I don't think you get it, Jay. Even if I could, I don't want to. There's nothing left for me there." He moved to leave, but Jay latched onto his arm, the tears already back.

"Cole, please." And boy, if that didn't sound pathetic. But Jay was fine with sounding pathetic. His image wasn't important right now.

But Cole just shoved Jay off, knocking him to the floor.

"Cole, wait—"

Cole whipped around, kneeling so that he was directly in Jay's face. The snarling face of the mask met Jay's heartbroken one. "I don't want to hurt you, Jay. I don't want to hurt anybody, so stay out of my way." Cole then stood up and began walking away, leaving Jay with words that went straight through Jay's heart.

"If it makes you feel better, it's not because of something you did do."

"It's what you didn't."

And when the others found Jay, lying there in the dirt pathetically, sobbing inconsolably, when Kai angrily demanded to know what "Vengeance" did to get Jay so worked up like that, when Nya helped him up, when Zane asked what happened, when Lloyd tried to console him, something in Jay broke. Something he didn't think he could fix.

I'll tell the others once we're back at the monastery, Jay told himself. They'll know what to do.

But he didn't.

[mirrorfalls]

The Joker 80th Anniversary Super Spectacular (2020)

“So Lego,” said nobody ever. “Now that you’re got some decent free time and the spoons to write, what are you gonna do? Get some actual work done on that Detective Conan longfic you’ve been rattling about the last two years? Actually start your long-overdue cert paper, that thing you need to graduate?”

Oooof course not! Instead, let’s dive back into the wonderful world of Cape Comix, featuring Tumblr’s least-wanted villain! Will any of these ten little tales actually manage to find something new - or at least interesting - to say about Laughing Boy? Let’s find out.

“Scars” by Scott Snyder and Jock. A pretty typical Snyder gonzo-horror jaunt, complete with “haha, the Joker really is the godmode manipulator/killer you’ve been denying he was all story! Sucks to be you!” ending. It’s stories like these that make me wonder why the hell Bruce’s rogues gallery even needs Scarecrow anymore, even in concept.

“What Comes at the End of a Joke” by James Tynion IV and Mikel Janin. Ahh, Christ, why didn’t I expect there’d be a Joker War tie-in somewhere in this... Well, there ya have it, the Secret Origin of Punchline. There’s a germ of an interesting idea here, likening the Joker’s “the hell with anything else, I just want to fuck over The Powers That Be” influence on Gotham’s youth to the Alt-Right’s influence in real life, but even then I reckon other writers have already done it better.

“Kill the Batman” by Gary Whitta, Greg Miller, and Dan Mora. The first creative team I had to look up - apparently, one of ‘em used to run IGN, and the other co-wrote Rogue One. This is also the first one built as a comedy, which I approve of in theory; in execution, though, the setup is a bit too mawkish for its own good (not to mention way too eager to quote-mine Chris Nolan) the last-page punchline is exactly the kind of dad humor our “hero” was complaining about halfway through the story. All in all, I’d still recommend “Going Sane” as a better take on the whole premise.

“Introducing the Dove Corps” by Denny O’Neil and Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez. Guys, whatever differences I’ve had with his work over the years, I really wanted to report that O’Neil went out on a high note. And I will say this one probably has the strongest premise in the whole book, with Joker trying to not only (gasp!) play hero but (horrors!) do it without bloodshed. O’Neil doesn’t quite cheat the premise, but the story is still bogged down with at least one unleapable logic hole (a Special Forces Team doesn’t know who the fucking Joker is?!), a bunch of pointless continuity-mining (See! The origin of TKJ’s tourist getup!), and a predictable-as-hell ending. Whatever faults the other stories may have, none of them end on a line as hacky as “Killing is so much fun.”

“The War Within” by Peter Tomasi and Simone Bianchi. Okay, first thing - it’s not “Batman/Badman” levels of faux-cleverness, but it’s not quite out of that ballpark. There’s no real plot outside the narration (except maybe to set up some future arc in Tomasi’s Detective), just Bianchi doing a Joker-through-the-ages showcase. Said showcase hits most of the obligatory choices - Golden Age, Silver Age, TKJ, TDK, TDKR - but I will say I was pleasantly surprised to see The Batman’s Joker getting a shout-out, dreads and all.

“The Last Smile” by Paul Dini and Riley Rossmo. Huh. Wasn’t expecting to see Dini do a riff on Joker: Devil’s Advocate of all things - and only slightly that it would average out as the best story in here. After his less-than-stellar writing on the Arkham games, it’s heartening to see Dini’s still got some of the old magic, with a genuinely insightful look into what might scare the Joker: the possibility that Batman can have his cake and eat it too, can get rid of his not-so-eternal dance partner without endangering his precious code, because sometimes, the law is good for something after all. Kudos, too, for a more creative use of Harley - and rapport with Ivy - than years and years of Harley-centric media have ever managed.

“Birthday Bugs” by Tom Taylor and Eduardo Risso. A strong competitor to the previous one - you can almost never go wrong with “the Joker tries to do something nice for an innocent” as a premise - with some choice lines that carry the theme smoothly without ever feeling like grandstanding. That said, Risso’s art is a lot more hit-and-miss than Rossmo’s - some panels are absolutely beautiful, but others - especially if Joker’s actually in them - just look hideously tryhard - and the gore in the last couple pages feels more cheap than disturbing.

“No Heroes” by Eduardo Medeiros and Rafael Albuquerque. See previous opening line. The themes discussed here (why be a hero for a soulless Capitalist engine?) are a little triter, not helped by the fact that the story’s not really long enough to let them breathe properly, but the art is on the whole a lot stronger; and in an age where artists are falling over themselves to out-demonic each others’ Jokers, I especially dig the choice to put him in a mask for most of the story, rooting his scariness in unmoving minimalism instead of hyperexaggerating every wrinkle and pore of his face,

“Penance” by Tony Daniel. Ah, yes. The perennial weak-link of the Reborn era and the inventor of that whole skinned-face idiocy back at the start of the New 52, Daniel’s turn here... threatens to be interesting a few times, but never manages to get all its ideas into anything coherent, much less good in execution. Shame, really - apart from “Birthday Bugs” it’s the only one to focus on “normal” crooks, a perennially underrated element in Joker romps.

“Two Fell Into The Hornet’s Nest” by Brian Azzarello & Lee Bermejo. This was the one I was least looking forward to... and it looks like ol’ Brian anticipated that, given the line (”Have you checked the credits on who’s writing this?”) he kicks off page two with. I suppose it, more than any of the other stories, cut to the heart of what the Joker’s stream-of-consciousness should look like - but that doesn’t really stop it from feeling like something Azzarello cranked out on a lunch break. Even random nonsense needs to be handled with care to not feel like waste of the reader’s time - and whatever else this one has going for it (I did smile a little the nurse taunting Joker about being as much an empty corporate symbol as Batman himself), care's not really on the menu. Stick with his Calvin & Hobbes parody from Superman/Batman #75.

So there ya have it - three (possibly four) stories I’d legitimately read again, surrounded by a sea of mediocrity and misfires (and some intermittently interesting pinups - JRJR’s Joker-as-007 piece hit my sweet-spot best). That’s honestly a better record than I would’ve expected for the J-Man in 2020 - better, by all accounts, than the 80th super-spectacular the Robins got.

Would it have been too much to ask the Lego Batman guys to contribute something, though?

[myshipshipsitself]

Title: It’s You Fandom: Andi Mack Ship(s): Tyrus, Muffy (brief) Word Count: 3143 Summary: When Cyrus and TJ both get jealous over little, stupid things, they realize that maybe it was never about a swingset or a shirt. (Aka., the one where TJ gets jealous seeing Jonah in the shirt Cyrus had picked out for him, and they end up on a bench in front of a fire pit.)

Also available to read on ao3.

“Calm down. You’re acting like we weren’t over at Andi’s house just yesterday,” Buffy teased. Cyrus was practically skipping beside on the sidewalk as they made their way towards Andi’s.

“Yes, but yesterday wasn’t the end of the school year party at her house,” Cyrus pointed out. “It was just the three of us. Jonah wasn’t there, or Marty.”

“Or TJ,” Buffy added, making Cyrus blush a little, though his smile only brightened.

“Him too,” Cyrus agreed, though his smile fell a little as he looked towards Andi’s house. “You don’t think he’ll invite Kira, do you?”

“I don’t think he’ll be hanging around Kira again any time soon,” Buffy said with all the confidence Cyrus had come to expect from his friends. Still, he had his doubts, and the expression on his face conveyed them perfectly, making Buffy sigh over dramatically as she grabbed his arm, tugging him along the sidewalk to Andi’s front door. “I mean it. I might’ve talked to TJ after the basketball game last week.”

“You did what?” Cyrus froze, eyes wide. “Why would you do that? I don’t want to come between him and Kira. You shouldn’t either. It’s fine. I’m happy for him, I mean it. You shouldn’t have said anything. What did you say? Why did you even say anyth—”

“Breathe,” Buffy cut him off sharply, shaking his shoulder a little as she finally got him to remember that he needed to stop talking long enough to take a breath. “All I told him was that Kira wasn’t a really nice person, and that it seemed like she was manipulating him. Keeping him from hanging out with you? That’s isolating him, and it’s not cool.”

As much as Cyrus didn’t want to see Kira, he also felt bad about possibly being the reason TJ lost a friend. Even if she wasn’t a very good friend, according to Buffy. But he dropped the subject when And opened the door, pulling them both into excited hugs.

It was still early for everyone else to arrive, so Cyrus set in helping Bex and Andi with the decorations. He had all but forgot about the conversation with Buffy by the time everyone else started arriving.

“Someone got dressed up,” Buffy teased when Jonah walked in.

“Hey, you liked the shirt,” Cyrus chimed in, offering a bright smile.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Jonah said, arms spread wide to show off the dark blue button-down Cyrus had given him at the free sale. “So what can I help with?”

“I think we just need to set out the food, and we’ll be good,” Buffy answered. Cyrus and Jonah followed her back to the kitchen, each loading their arms with plates from the fridge and counter to take out to set on the table.

People started streaming in before they’d even uncovered all of the food. Cyrus didn’t pay much attention to the newcomers until a familiar voice greeted him.

“Hey, Underdog,” TJ said as came over to join the small group by the food table. If Cyrus’s smile was a little brighter because TJ had shown up alone, he was pretty sure only Buffy noticed anyway.

“Teej, glad you could come,” Cyrus answered with a warm smile.

TJ looked around, smiling at Buffy and Jonah, before his smile faltered a little upon seeing the latter. Cyrus’s face fell a bit, and he caught Jonah’s eye. He looked just as confused as Cyrus felt, but TJ wasn’t saying anything. He had thought TJ and Jonah were okay, but now he was wondering if some other bizarre childhood memory was resurfacing.

“TJ? Something wrong?” Cyrus asked.

TJ seemed to snap out of whatever thoughts he was drowning in, offering a slightly forced smile to Cyrus before looking back at Jonah. “No, of course not. Nice shirt, by the way,” he added in a deadpan tone. Cyrus looked between the two for a moment before TJ's words registered; he had sent a picture of that shirt to TJ before he ended up giving it to Jonah.

“Hey, TJ—“

“Are these chocolate?” TJ cut him off, reaching for one of the cupcakes Buffy had set on the table. “I’m gonna see if I can find something to drink.” Cyrus didn’t miss the way he walked right past the end of the table where plastic cups and a large punch bowl were set out, alongside a cooler of sodas.

“What was that about?” Jonah asked quietly.

Cyrus didn’t answer, just looking from TJ’s retreating form over to Buffy. Her eyes widened and she jerked her head none-too-subtly towards TJ in an obvious signal for Cyrus to follow him. Cyrus shrugged weakly and shook his head a bit, continuing the silent conversation with the point that it wouldn’t make a difference, why would TJ want to talk to Cyrus anyway? Buffy rolled her eyes in response, reaching over the table to smack him sharply on the shoulder.

“Ow,” Cyrus broke the silence, rubbing his shoulder before he finally gave in and followed TJ, ignoring Jonah’s increasingly confused stare.

When he caught up with TJ, he was outside, alone on the bench by the fire pit, the forgotten cupcake sitting on the arm of the bench. “Hey,” Cyrus said gently as he walked over. “Mind if I sit here?” He asked, gesturing to the bench beside TJ. The boy only shrugged. “Are you mad about the shirt?” Cyrus finally asked after he couldn't take the silence anymore.

“Why would I be?” TJ asked. “It’s just a stupid shirt.”

“Yeah, and it was just a stupid swingset,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. He didn’t really intend for TJ to hear him, but the boy looked up and turned to stare at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Cyrus said quickly, looking away towards the dancing fire instead of at TJ. He really didn’t have any reason to get jealous over seeing TJ and Kira on the swings. They didn’t own the swings.

TJ fell silent for a moment before he spoke again, softer this time. “You did come out to the park?” It sounded like he meant it to be an observation, but it came out as a question. Cyrus only nodded. “We went there cause Kira said she wanted to feed the ducks. Then she wanted to swing and just—“

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Cyrus cut him off.

“It feels like I do,” TJ said. The sadness in his voice made Cyrus want to do something stupid, like apologize a thousand times for ever making him feel that way, and promising never to again. Or hug him. Or something else equally as stupid.

“Well, you don’t,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “You should’ve invited her to the party.” The words made him feel sick to say, but if being with Kira made TJ happy, then that was all he wanted anyway.

“I didn’t want to,” TJ said quickly. “I don’t like Kira.”

“It seems like you do,” Cyrus said. He looked back towards TJ, giving his best impression of a comforting and encouraging smile, even while he wanted to cry. He was really good at it, actually. He could always fool And, and usually Buffy too. But TJ’s face fell, and Cyrus hated that he couldn’t fool TJ too. He couldn’t even pretend to be happy to make TJ happy. He was a terribly friend. “It’s okay that you like her. You’re allowed to like someone, and to spend time with her. I mean it, I’m happy for you.”

“I don’t like Kira,” TJ repeated. He shifted this time though, a bit uncomfortably, his eyes not quite meeting Cyrus’s. He propped one leg up on the bench between them, turning a little so he could face Cyrus better. For his part, Cyrus was trying not to look him in the eyes. Maybe if he didn’t look straight at TJ, it would be easier to get him to believe in Cyrus’s fake happiness for him.

That turned out to be a mistake though, when TJ rested his arm against his leg, his fingers dangling a bit, barely brushing over the back of Cyrus’s hand. Cyrus couldn’t breathe. It could've been a mistake, but TJ wasn’t moving away, and when Cyrus chanced a glance up, TJ’s gaze was set on their hands as well.

“I don’t like Kira,” TJ said, his voice shaking a little the third time he repeated it.

“You already said that,” Cyrus pointed out, though his voice was quiet, as though worried that if he spoke too loudly, he’d break whatever moment was happening. Or felt like should be happening.

“Yeah,” TJ breathed. He fell silent for a moment before his hand twitched a bit, fingers brushing against Cyrus’s hand again. His words were slow and careful, as if he was processing each one before he spoke it into existence. “Actually, I don’t like any girls.”

Out of all the moments Cyrus had dreamed of TJ saying something like that to him, of all the times he wished that maybe, just maybe, he had the slightest chance with the basketball player, he always had something to say. In all of those dream scenarios, he had the perfect words. Comforting, supportive, friendly, maybe more than friendly, but always perfect. Always the exact poetic words that TJ would need to hear to know that Cyrus supported him, thought he was brave for coming out, and trusted him.

Cyrus said none of them.

“Oh, ok.” Those were the only words Cyrus could form. The words didn’t sound happy, or supportive, or anything positive at all. Just neutral. Just, there. Cyrus felt like his brain was misfiring, trying to piece together something to say, but he couldn’t come up with anything. The only words running through his head were TJ’s. He didn’t like girls. Or maybe he just didn’t like any girls at the moment. That didn’t mean he was gay, right? Or maybe it did. Maybe that, and the fact that he still hadn’t moved, that his fingertips were still barely resting against the back of Cyrus’s hand meant that he was gay. That he liked Cyrus? No, that wasn’t possible.

Except that, for the first time since he’d started to realize his feelings for his friend, Cyrus thought that maybe it was possible.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” TJ’s voice broke the silence, and Cyrus’s eyes flicked up to meet his, uncertainty and hope warring inside his mind. He knew better than to let hope win that battle, but still. It was a close fight.

Too close, actually. As he ran through possible ways to answer that question—of just telling TJ that he didn’t like any girls either, or just that he was proud of TJ for telling him—some part of him overrode every logical thought in his brain. He let hope win.

“Yeah, there is,” Cyrus said quietly, eyes dropping down to their hands again. He didn’t turn his hand over to glass at TJ’s—he wasn’t feeling that brave—but he did raise his thumb a little from the bench, enough to brush over Tj’s fingers. He forced himself to look back up at TJ before he spoke again, knowing that he needed to look him in the eyes for this, as terrifying as it was.

“I like you,” Cyrus said, his voice quiet, yet more confident than he expected.

TJ’s answering smile was all Cyrus needed to be able to breathe again. Bright and genuine, and just for him. “That’s good,” TJ said, his tone something closer to his normal teasing.

“That’s good?” Cyrus asked with an amused smile. Some part of him wanted to laugh, but another part wanted to scream. That’s good? What did that mean?

“Yeah,” TJ said simply. Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat when TJ’s hand dropped down to cover his completely. He still didn’t move to lace their fingers together, afraid that if he moved the slightest bit, this was all going to go away, as irrational as that sounded even in his head. “Because if that was just one-sided, our friendship was about to get a little awkward,” TJ added, making Cyrus’s eyes snap up from their hands.

He hadn’t just heard that, had he? Except the proof was there. TJ was smiling at him, telling him that he liked him, holding his hand.

“You like me too?” Cyrus asked, confusion written all over his features, even as a small, hopeful smile started to stretch across his lips, barely daring to exist until he knew it was true.

“Of course,” TJ said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. As though he were explaining that the sky was blue, or that he was better than Buffy at basketball. Even if the latter wasn’t true, TJ still believed it, and said it as though it were fact. “Why do you sound so surprised?” TJ asked with a short laugh.

“Because,” Cyrus gestured with his free hand vaguely towards himself. Towards his own awkwardness and his not-as-impressive-as-Jonah-ness. “It’s me,” he said, with as much certainty in the obviousness of his statement as TJ had been. He was a mess. He was never anyone’s first choice, so why would he be TJ’s? Of all people, star basketball player, redeemed school bully, amazing friend, why would he like Cyrus?

TJ’s smile only softened though. His voice dropped, and his eyes—Cyrus couldn’t find words to describe the look in his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s you.”

Words could not make a person melt. It was physically and scientifically impossible. And yet, here Cyrus was, feeling his chest expand and melt at the sound of those words. Those perfect, sweet, warm words, that TJ spoke with so much sincerity that for a moment, Cyrus believed him.

TJ might just be dangerous for him in that way, but he couldn’t bring himself to be upset about it. Not with TJ looking at him like he was something to be treasured, cared for and protected. Like he was important.

He knew he had to say something equally as perfect and beautiful back, but he couldn’t think of anything expect how much he wanted to latch onto TJ and never let go. Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully—Cyrus wasn’t sure yet—he was saved the trouble of coming up with something to say when TJ broke eye contact with him, his smile turning to something more friendly as he raised his free hand to wave at someone over Cyrus’s shoulder.

Cyrus whipped around in time to see a blur of dark hair ducking away from the screen door. He groaned, turning back around to TJ, who was chuckling a little at their eavesdropper. Without thinking, Cyrus leaned forward, his forehead bumping against TJ’s chest and just staying there. He felt TJ’s and leave his, and almost said something, but then it came to rest against his back, and that was acceptable.

“Andi?” Cyrus questioned.

“And Buffy. She was just faster than Andi,” TJ answered, amusement clear in his tone. TJ’s hands rubbed up and down Cyrus’s back for a moment, and he could happily stay there for the rest of the night, avoiding the party and his friends in favor of just staying there with TJ.

TJ didn’t seem to be in much hurry to leave either, but eventually Cyrus pulled his head up from TJ’s chest, looking up at the boy with a small, hopeful smile. “We should probably go inside before they decide to come out here and drag us back in,” Cyrus said, though he knew his friends wouldn’t do that. They might try to sneak a peek through the door again, and would absolutely hound him as soon as they went inside, but weirdly enough, he kinda of looked forward to that. He wanted Buffy to ask him what was said, and what happened. Because he wanted to tell her.

“Okay,” TJ agreed easily, taking Cyrus’s hand as he stood. He interlaced their fingers together as though it were just a common, everyday occurrence, nothing out of the ordinary, even as Cyrus bit his lip in an effort to not make some embarrassingly high pitched sound of excitement.

As expected, And and Buffy were just inside the door, pretending they hadn’t just been trying to spy on Cyrus and TJ. Cyrus didn’t even have it in him at the moment to fake-glare at them for it. He was ecstatic, and no amount of meddling friends was going to ruin that. Not when he had TJ’s hand in his, and a warm smile directed at him every time he caught TJ’s eye.

“About time,” Buffy said, not bothering to hide the knowing smirk on her lips. She never tried to hide when she thought she knew something before everyone else did, even this. Just as she said that though, Marty came up behind her, handing her a drink before resting his arm around her shoulders without a word.

“I could say the same to you,” Cyrus returned easily, earning a laugh from Andi, and a simple shrug from Buffy, a silent admittance that she wouldn’t deny his words.

“Hey, Lady Macbeth,” TJ said brightly. Marty groaned, but everyone else just stared at TJ like he’d lost his mind, including Cyrus. Great. He finally found an amazing guy that actually liked him, and said guy lost his mind exactly .5 seconds later.

“Sorry, Lady Macbeth?” Cyrus questioned.

Marty drew his attention by waving a hand vaguely in the air between them. “Me. He’s talking about me,” he said with a defeated sigh. “We had to read Macbeth in our English class earlier in the year, and no girls wanted to volunteer to read outloud, so I read the part of Lady Macbeth.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know Marty,” Buffy pointed out, looking back at TJ with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, wait. This is Marty from the party?” TJ asked, no hint of irony of joking in his tone. He honestly didn’t know Marty’s name, despite having a ridiculous nickname for the guy. Buffy and Andi found it hilarious, while Cyrus just groaned, turning to bury his face against TJ’s shoulder.

This was the guy he picked.

Even as the thought occurred to him in annoyance though, it pulled a smile from Cyrus’s lips as he drew back to watch the teasing now going back and forth between TJ and Marty. Because as much as TJ was annoying and oblivious sometimes, he was sweet and thoughtful. He made Cyrus feel important, and pushed him out of his comfort zone, while always being right beside him the whole time, encouraging and offering support.

Yeah. This was the guy he picked.

[vethyourhalflingmother]

third session of not critical role critical de rolo was today, back after a four month hiatus! 

here’s the last session if you haven’t read it!

to remind you of our players, we have:

Vax’ildan “Bard Boy” de Rolo, (Bard), played by @indigoire

Cessair “Cess” de Rolo, (Ranger/Alchemist) & Trinket, played by @winking-owl

Elaine de Rolo, (Paladin), played by @monkbeauregard

Percival “Freddie” de Rolo IV, (Artificer), played by @swiftbell

Maeve de Rolo, (Cleric), played by @because-seconds-not-the-same

the theme for this episode was finding mom & dad & oh boy they aren’t doing great:

-(dm note: i ended the last session summary saying percy was holding animus; i meant to say he was holding retort! he starts combat with retort, and it’s pretty relevant to what happened today)

-(second dm note: percy and vex are modified under the in-game explanation that it’s been over 20 years since they’ve been out actively adventuring)

-the party started by rolling initiative because something was clearly wrong with percy

-freddie went first and buffed his siblings’ hp

-trinket tried to approach percy & found a not-so-warm welcome when percy brushed him off

-elaine hid behind a tree and remained there for most of combat

-percy shot trinket, much to the distress of all my players (and something about playing percy gives you Great Luck because i rolled that at disadvantage and got a nat20 and a natural 18) 

-bard boy put a cloud of daggers on percy 

-maeve also buffed the team from a safe distance beside elaine

-cess decided to get really close to percy and cast protection from good and evil on him, which was ultimately very helpful but was not great for cess

-because at the top of the round, freddie pulled her out of percy’s way & percy did in fact shoot her, even with the disadvantage. just a flesh wound tho

-elaine and maeve continued helping from a safe distance of over 20 feet away

-more shots were fired by percy, but he was missing a bit

-bard boy used a mage hand to get percy’s gun away from him (because mage hand does disarm if your dm likes your plan enough!) 

-cess noticed that percy seemed to be possessed by something and that somehow they had to get that thing out of him

-percy pulled out animus - and immediately misfired, doing damage to himself

-the quarter-elves seemed to noticed throughout combat that their father could hear them at times, and seemed to actively fighting against whatever was wrong with him (as evidence by shaking, twitching, eye-closing, head-shaking, various expressions of shock after being hit, and a receding/pulsing of the bulging veins in his face)

-freddie shot his father with a crossbow bolt. because that’s what happens when your family is alive in dnd. trinket sliced open percy’s arm. the daggers rained down upon him. 

-my players finally let themselves believe that the power of love was the answer after all, despite their earlier skepticism, because my puzzle is “cheesy” i guess

-freddie and elaine, the twins, started talking (/whining) at their father

-trinket tackled percy and pinned him to the ground

-percy coughed up blood and an oozy black shadow creature - and he was back to (relatively) normal! and stewing in Guilt and Trauma once more, of course

-literally every single quarter-elf used a healing spell on percy, which almost brought him back to max HP

-percy explained that he and vex had gone into the parchwood to find a missing child, and that they were attacked by undead, which they easily defeated... and then he didn’t remember anything

-the party set up camp for the night

-freddie asked percy if he knew corinthia the drow wizard; percy said that he remembered a nursery tale about an elf in a tower that his mother told him, but that he didn’t know anything else

-there were three watches: first consisting of elaine and freddie, and they ribbed at each other & told jokes. elaine insulted freddie by calling him straight. the second was bard boy and maeve, bard boy tried to startle maeve with his eyeshine and maeve was not impressed, the third was cess and percy, percy apologized, cess tried to give him the gun talk again, percy was like okay but this was literally me not a weapon i created. 

-in the morning bard boy made breakfast. cess confirmed the food he found was not toxic. freddie still didn’t like the taste.

-the party took off into the parchwood following trinket’s nose

-bard boy asked percy about his spellnotes written in celestial; percy explained they were vex’s idea, and that he’d only been transcribing them for her because she did not speak celestial, as that seemed like the appropriate language to write spells tailored to the undead in

-the sky started to get unnaturally dark, to the point where those who did not have darkvision (everyone but bard boy), could barely see

-trinket led the party to a temple-like structure that reminded everyone, unsettlingly enough, of the corrupted temple beneath castle whitestone, if that temple was made hastily from wood instead of stone

-trinket led the party around the temple, where they found vex among corpses killed by arrows, though her bow and sheaf were nowhere in sight. vex was unconscious. it took some effort and some rope to wake her up, but everyone really leaned into the power of love thing this time so it was much quicker - though she still had to cough up the inky gross darkness blob as well

-vex remembered more than percy. she said that the undead they fought were a distraction, and that she herself had fought possessed percy before succumbing to the possession, and that she remembered a woman in a grey robe. this woman was not among the dead. unfortunately most of the dead seemed to be members of whitestone’s pale-guard

-vex and percy had a tender moment where percy cringed at having heard that he attacked vex also, and vex told him that it was not his fault. (very odd but gratifying to rp the greatest couple of all time with myself)

-the party decided to explore the temple in the next session 

[roger1na]

careful ch6 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and fall in love with the sweetest man on the planet.

word count: 2.8k+

warnings: swearing

author's note: it's over 16k now, i'm legally allowed to call it a slowburn :,). aa i've had so much fun with all of this writing and this series wow thank u for all the sweet comments<3. also i know -15% about swan lake so it's probably hideous to read about that. (i tagged some people who didn't ask, so if u want to be untagged just shoot me a message).

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter six

The alarm pierced the silence of friday morning at 5am. You snoozed it groggily and buried your face into your pillow. You hadn’t slept properly at all. With the nerves of the show and the nerves of the promise you’d made to John.

“You didn’t pick up on the subtext that I’m definitely kissing you the next time I see you?”

You hadn’t kissed anybody in years. And back then, it was probably totally different. Maybe nowadays they wanted only tongue. Sometimes you slipped a glance at whatever your co-workers were righting. Kissing and sex were at the top of the list of celebrity scandals and sometimes they terrified you. What the hell was the world doing?

A piercing call made you jump. It wasn’t your alarm, but your phone ringing in the living room. The floorboards were cold as you raced barefooted to answer it.

“Y/N!” Rose shrieked in your ear as soon as you. You winced and held the phone further from yourself.

“Rose, what the fuck.” You groaned annoyed.

“She broke her leg!”

Your mind was struggling to connect the dots. Everything was hazy in the morning and you just really wanted some coffee.

“She broke it. It snapped in half like a fucking twig.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Frances! The prima!”

Slowly, the pieces were beginning to fit together. “What happened to her?”

“Freak accident! She was hit while driving. Or being driven around like the spoi-”

“Rose! She’s injured!”

“Oh yeah! You know what that means don’t you?”

“Rose you’re going to have to stop with the guessing games, I just woke up,” you mumbled and rubbed your forehead.

Rose shrieked on the other end impatiently. “Y/N you don’t get it. You’re the understudy.”

The phone slipped out of your hand as your arms went numb. Holy shit, you thought. If the original prima was unavailable, you’d be the one dancing. You were going to dance as Odette. That was your moment. It took a few seconds and then you screamed.

“Rose! I’m going to be dancing as a prima!” You were jumping around in hysterics. Then you paused for a moment and picked up the phone. “You didn’t have anything to do with the accident, did you?”

Rose giggled. “Of course not.”

“How come you’re the one calling me, not the studio or the teachers?”

“You never gave your number to the studio. I think half your documents are missing, you really need to get your shit in order. You’re going to be prima.”

“I’m going to be a prima!”

“Yes! Now get ready you dumbass, you’ve got a crowd to win over!”

You hopped around in excitement a bit more until you rushed to shower and get dressed. The sun was slowly peeking from the horizon and you grinned at your reflection in the mirror. Adrenaline coursed through your veins. It’d all been worth it. All of it.

London was only rising when you stepped into the musty tube carriage. Drunks coming home from nights slept away from their own beds and people in similar situations like yours, where work and life just started early. You flipped through a stranded newspaper, relieved that you didn’t find your own name among the pages.

You thought about John and how proud he’d be when he’d see you. He didn’t know about the news. Would he recognize you with heavy show make up and an tight bun? Would he wear a t-shirt and jeans combination? What did he know about ballet? Nerves coiled in your stomach, but you let them be. It was your day.

Across the city in a tiny student flat, John Deacon lay awake. He had tossed and turned all night thinking of you, your dance and your promise. He followed the cracks in the paint on the ceiling with his eyes, eyes tired but mind not letting him sleep.

The fact was, John Deacon had fallen in love. With your absent-minded gaze and with your babbling. With the way you stared off at him when you thought he couldn’t see. With the perfect way your palm fit into his. With the way your voice made him want to write a thousand embarrassing and poor quality love songs. And as he breathed and lay awake and pondered the great mysteries of the universe, he was brought back to the first night you had met.

Your eyes had glinted in the multicoloured lights of the show and you had been so mesmerised by the act on stage. And when you knocked on their dressing room door with confidence, John had almost felt apprehensive towards you. Like every interviewer, you were going to spin your own story without listening to them. But then you talked and listened and laughed at his jokes and suddenly the light caught your hair in a new glow and John came to love the confident interviewer in you. Not stuck up, not cruel and not fake. Just confident.

He loved how you let life take you but didn’t stand for its bullshit. How you were so vocal about issues in the workplace and misogyny in dancing and the issues in falling in love with an art and a person at the same time.

Overall, he just loved you. And sometimes it felt so stupid, so foolish to lie awake and dream of your peachy lips and rose scent but today of all days, the butterflies felt good. They felt promising.

The day wore on. With little sleep he walked to the studio, enjoying the fresh air and trying to ignore the growing fog in his mind. The boys couldn’t stop yelling today. He just sat in the corner, pouring over his notes for the song that you suggested he write.

It was called Misfire and it was exactly what it sounded like. He laughed when he thought about how you’d react to the lyrics. How you’d have a hesitant smirk at first, and then you’d be bouncing to the music, like the little ball of joy u were. Along the margins, he’d scrawled notes for another song he wasn’t quite ready to pull together. Words like sunshine, and my best friend jumped out from the messy handwriting, but otherwise it was almost illegible.

“He’s got her show today,” Freddie whispered over coffee. Brian and Roger were giving each other the silent treatment over Dear Friends and John was silent in the corner, scribbling his notes down. “Do you think he’s writing her a love song?” He continued.

“What, Deaky?” Brian looked up from his cup. “He doesn’t seem the type. His first song for Queen being a love song.”

“Bri’s right. He’ll write something silly. He’s like that.” Roger added. The argument diffused as fast as it had started. “You forget he’s only twenty two.”

“Twenty three in two weeks, right?”

“Yeah.”

They all looked at him simultaneously. John felt their stares and looked up, flashing a gap-toothed smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they all replied in unison.

“You excited about seeing Y/N today? Do you need a suit?”

“Freddie,” John rolled his eyes and snapped his notebook shut. “I have a suit. The funky checkered and white one.”

“Aw,” Brian leaned on his hands. “Will Y/N like it?”

“Shut up, you all,” John walked over and took his coffee, black with one sugar, and took a sip. “I’m perfectly capable of going to see a ballet on my own. No need to be babied.”

“But you’re so small!” Roger grinned but John gave him a death glare.

“Bring her roses,” Freddie advised him. “You always give roses to a ballerina after a performance.”

“Gee, Freddie, you seem to know so much, why don’t you go instead? Kiss her for me as well.” John stuck his tongue out.

“You’re going to kiss her? John that’s first base!” Brian teased.

“I hate you all.” John groaned.

“We love you too,” they replied in unison once more.

“And she’s going to love you too,” Freddie grinned.

After an exhausting day of teasing for John and training for you, evening was drawing nearer. The girls were all in one room, putting glitter and makeup on each other’s faces and brushing up hair into tight buns.

“Y/N’s man is coming over today,” Rose told a girl who was dancing next to her, a she was applying mascara.

“Rose,” you warned her slightly.

“Ooh, who is it?” The girl, Pamela, blinked fast, adjusting to the mascara.

“This guy, he’s called John.” You mumbled, incredibly flustered suddenly.

“John Deacon.”

“Who the hell is that?” Beverly, the girl who danced as Odile asked.

“Only the bassist of Queen.” Rose bragged.

“Rose! Shut up, we’re barely dating.”

Rose mouthed, it’s because she’s a prude behind your back and the rest of the girls giggled.

“Well, Y/N, I hope your man can behave at a ballet show, if he’s from a rock band.” Pamela pumped her brows up a bit.

“He’s great! Calm, sweet, but so energetic.” You told them.

“Fantastic.” Beverly clapped her hands together. “I hope he’ll enjoy our show.”

“And what comes after it,” Rose teased. You frowned at her but didn’t reply. The bustling of the crowd outside was finally heard through the walls of the dressing room. Some children, younger siblings and all that, parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, dedicated friends all walking into the auditorium with an excited buzz.

Among them was John, fiddling nervously with a bouquet he’d bought for you. Red roses, almost blooming. He hoped they’d last through the show. Some people did a double take when they saw him, perplexed not only by his imposing height but also his long hair. A young girl came up and asked for an autograph, scribbled on the program they were handed at the entrance.

The auditorium was huge. Seats for maybe thousands. He elbowed his way to the front rows, hoping to have the best view of your dance. You’d told him you were dancing in the background with your friends Rose and Pamela and that when you wore identical makeup, it was almost impossible to separate you, except by Rose’s red locks. He had promised you he’d be able to recognize you among clones and you had playfully shoved him on the shoulder, although you were very happy.

The lights dimmed and the show started, delicate beginning notes being played on the piano. And then the main character he was told was called Odette danced on stage.

His breath stilled. It was you. You with your tight stage bun and glimmering makeup, so strong you were almost unrecognizable. But it definitely was you. You danced with a sorrow in your step. He was told that the story was really quite sad, and he saw it in your mourning movements.

You were so graceful, he couldn’t help but be in awe that he was so lucky to have you. Occasionally, when the music turned to a minor key and the dance turned into sadness and pain, he felt tears brimming in his eyes. When Freddie gushed about ballet, he had been skeptical at whether it was truly possible to convey such intense emotions through dance, but when he saw you in action, all his doubts dissipated.

You received a standing ovation. Well, from John. Everybody was clapping heartily, having enjoyed the show. Some people had stood up with John, others were wiping their eyes. Some children had already began an excited gabble to their parents about the show.

John beat the crowd outside, managed to get to the front of the buzzing people. He couldn’t stop his grin. He heard the girls chattering to themselves on the other side. Somebody screamed in joy and everybody laughed.

You were only separated by a pair of sturdy oak doors and a dimly lit hallway where at the end every dancer was cursing their sore legs and undoing tight hairdos. Rose helped to take out all your pins and you did the same for her whilst gushing in excitement.

“That went really well, don’t you think?” You smiled at her as she tried to to remove some of the glitter plastered on your face, with little success.

“I think so, yes,” she paused for a moment, tilting your head back to get some of the stuff off your neck. “Did you see him?”

You looked at her and smiled. “Well, uh no, not really, I got so caught in the stage and the motion and the music. But I felt him, y’know? Like, his dopey grin just shone to me.”

“Aw, Y/N’s been turned into a sap,” Beverly joked, pulling on a sweater and trousers.  

“Excuse me, you would too, if you were around him.”

“I wish I had someone,” Pamela wiped off her lipstick and grimaced.

Rose looked at her quickly, flushed a bright red only you noticed and then turned back to you, smiling sheepishly, saying nothing. You studied her face and caught her eye but didn’t say anything.

“You ready?” She whispered as you glanced in the mirror one more time before nodding and leaving the dressing room.

The chatter was becoming more obvious the more you neared the exit. Pushing the heavy doors open, a pang of hot air hit your face and then you were out and you heard the excitement and the little children and your eyes were searching the crowd.

When you saw him, with his lopsided bowtie and gorgeous red roses he was holding, your heart stopped. He was grinning, ear to ear, flushed with pride. John thought you were so beautiful, breathtaking, with your hair just taken down from a tight stage bun, show make up still glimmering slightly on your face.

Cupid twisted the arrow he’d embedded into your heart and common sense was thrown out of the window. The feeling of being in love embraced you and left your heart soaring. Nothing could stop you as you ran up to him and before he could open his mouth to congratulate you, you took his face in your hands and on tiptoes you kissed him, slightly missing the center of his lips but hitting the mark all the same.

He kissed back, almost dropping the roses. It wasn’t ferocious or possessive, it was sweet. He tasted of cigarettes and red wine and the smell of his cologne flooded your nose. It was like a dance, synchronised, almost practiced. It was perfect, passionate and soft.

When you pulled away, slightly out of breath, he was starstruck, eyes shining. “Wow, I-” he blinked and laughed. “If I got a kiss everytime I went to your shows, I would’ve come sooner.” You giggled and took the roses.

“Thank you.” People were staring, but you didn’t care. “Really, it means a lot.” He was still grinning like an idiot and you were sure the same grin graced your face, eyes squinting, nose wrinkly, all in the glory of being in love.

He giggled then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours. “You were so amazing dancing, I kept thinking I know her. You’re my favourite celebrity.”

"Oh, I'm hardly a celebrity," you laughed, blushing.

He handed you the roses after one more kiss and you marveled at how good they smelled. He had held them so close to him that part of his cologne had gotten stuck to it as well, and you revelled in the scent.

More people came up and congratulated you, a bit intimidated by John’s presence but happy for you all the same. A small child ran into you for a hug and gushed about you being their favourite princess. He was pulled away from you by embarrassed parents.

After the crowd had cleared a bit, John laced his fingers with yours. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Of course,” you smiled at him softly and on your tiptoes, kissed his cheek. You felt like you were in the best place. Warm and comfortable with his hand in yours, his hair tickling your face as he leaned down and whispered more compliments to you about the performance to you.

He lead you out, where the evening had darkened to night, making jokes and acting like the happiest man on earth.

“John?”

“Yes love?”

“Thank you,” you grinned as his eyes found yours and sparkled.

“What for?”

“For the roses. And the kiss. You’re a great kisser.”

“Oh?”

You nodded with a serious expression.

“Well, I’m not actually really sure how I think of you as a kisser, can I kiss you again? Just to be sure?”

You giggled and let him softly cup your face with his hands and lean down to kiss you gently. He pulled away fast and had a mockingly thoughtful expression on his face and he smacked his lips. “Hm, I’m not quite sure yet,” he teased before leaning down again. You giggled into the kiss, arms wrapping around him.

Your heart fluttered, but not from nervousness or confusing feelings which had been far too present for the past three weeks. Your heart was fluttering because you were in love and you were happy and okay with it. You were more than okay with it. You loved it.

***

@fourmisfits @deakysgirl @im-happy-at-home @obsessedwithrogertaylor @itsametaphorbriansblog @rhapso-kei @deacontaylormaymercury @queenmylovely @imgonnabeyourslave @weirdestmentalityphilosopher @thefatbottomedmay @heyyyyyyyleykiyoko @brujademente @painkiller80

[missjackil]

My 14x20 Season Finale Opinion

Moriah

This was absolutely AMAZING!! It ranks in there with the Season 4 and 5 finales with me! Definitely one of the best!! I came away from 14x19 saying “ooooh my boys done fucked the fuck up!” and came away from this with “OMG MY BOYS REAAAALLLYYY FUCKED THE FUCK UP!!!!”  So without further ado, let's get to it.

Absolutely nothing I predicted to happen happened. Even with clues given from trailers, sneak peeks and spoiler shots, which is fantastic, because that means they can still surprise me, have not gotten too predictable, and the writing is STILL top notch!

I was completely and pleasantly thrown by the segment where no one could lie. This is the first finale that had a good strong dose of comedy, where it would seem to not fit but was so well done it was great! It was reminiscent of Lebanon which started off very light and humorous and quickly changed to deeply dramatic. Since the beginning, one of my favorite things about this show is its ability to take me through so many different emotions in just one episode.

We start off with a very angry Jack. Sam Dean and Cas looking on in terror as he emerges from the smoke. Sam, though a little terrified, actually shows a little relief that Jack made his way out. .Now Dean and Cas have at it, because Dean wants Jack dead and Cas does not. Which solidifies that this, season 14, is the first season in 10 years that had absolutely 0 Destiel moments (Thank you Dabb!!) not a welcome back hug, no “sex eyes” no stupid mixx tape... nada zip nothing :)  so while so many of you have bitched since Dabb took over in S12, that he's breaking down the brothers’ co-dependency and is a Destiel stan, he has proven both accusations wrong by a long shot. 

Now let's move on to the story.  Jack walks through town and hears everyone lying to each other. One of the first things we know he has learned is that lying is bad. He’s expressed this a few times that he is uncomfortable with it, now even without a soul, he doesn’t like it, so he orders everyone to stop lying, simply by shouting it. I knew this was going to be fun. 

Sam and Dean go to a facial recognition company to try to find Jack. Right away I notice that the sign says “Mirror Universe” and they hold the shot for a moment, making me wonder if this is something I might want to remember later. Not unlike in Lebanon when the boys walked up to the pawn shop and their reflections appeared over the sign “Precious Pawn”. Are these things a hint to something, like in 7x02 when Sam and Hallucifer/Dean got to the office building that was named “Morning Star Inc” (Lucifer is Latin for Morning Star)? Could just be a coincidence but Im going to put that on my “hmmmm” shelf. 

Right away Dean comments about the nerds and Sam says “Takes one to know one” and we know they can’t lie either. We learn Dean is not only a geek also, but watches Jeopardy every night, and Sam’s favorite singer is Selene Dion! This tickles me because I love learning new things about Sam, and my little wincest heart sighs at the thought of My Heart Will Go On, Because You Loved Me, and It’s All Coming Back to Me Now are songs maybe he thinks about Dean to?

On that note, I must include that my good friend @supernaturalnardog pointed out that in the early years, being made to tell the truth, led the brothers to say biting, resentful things about each other, and now it was just silly brother teasing. How much closer and trusting they have grown since those days 😍 

Meanwhile, we have Cas doing something that made no sense to me. After bitching at Sam and Dean about trying to contain Jack in the Malak box, he is now trying to get into Hell so he can see if he can put Jack in the cage?? Ummm sure yeah Cas, that's a much better choice.  Jack goes to find Kelly’s parents, and sadly, they don't like him anymore. They looked him up and no one heard of him, and Kelly’s peers believe she is dead. Grandmom believes Jack killed her. She screams at him and all we see are glowy eyes and STOP!! Ugggh did he just Mary Winchester another grandmom?? Back at the ranch, Chuck shows up agrees with Cas that Jack is a problem and they go meet up with Sam and Dean. Dean is automatically pissed and breaks Chuck’s guitar, the office is crazy with people telling the truth, so Chuck zaps them all back to the bunker to talk. Emotions rise from there...

Cas splits to go find Jack, Chuck talks to the boys makes them a gun that can kill anything, but the catch is, that whatever the gun does to someone else, it also does to the shooter. Dean takes the gun. 

After some monologuing between Cas and Jack, we go back to Dean in his room, filling a flask. Sam is looking for him, so Dean invites him in and asks him to have a seat. Here comes “the talk” that Sam must be all too familiar with now. Dean informs Sam that he’s going to kill Jack, and consequently kill himself as well. Looking for Sam’s approval, blessing, acceptance, or whatever, Sam isn’t having it this time. He admits he’s still angry with Jack and part of him still wants him dead too, but

 “Dean, we never even tried to save him!”  “He killed mom!” “He has no soul!” “And who’s fault is that?” I actually thought Dean was blaming Sam for a second, until Sam took the blame himself and Dean’s expression clearly showed that wasn’t what he was trying to say, he was trying to say it’s Jack’s fault he has no soul. 

Sam says it’s his own fault because he brought him back, and Jack burned his soul off saving both of their lives. So Sam tells Dean if he thinks hes going to give him permission to go kill Jack and himself, so he can lose them both all at once, then no... just no.... he’s lost too much already. Sam peaces out.

Sam meets up with Chuck and the meta here made me a little dizzy to be honest. Chuck reveals that Sam and Dean are his guys, of all the Sams and Deans in all the universes, they’re his favorite. They’re SO interesting. And now Sam manages to make me feel guilty about watching them over and over and even writing fic. I empathize with Chuck a little bit here because he “writes” them this way because they're his favorites. They’re the most amazing heroes ever, they save the world but to BE those heroes, they need to go through tragedy. Show of hands here how many of you Sam girl’s write or enjoy fics with hurt!sam? Or Dean girls who write/enjoy hurt!dean? Wouldnt it suck if the boys in your stories started yelling at you to stop it?? What a dark and crazy thought! And I empathized with Sam too, because of how much I love episodes like Red Meat because Sam is badass... but now hes kinda saying, “why did I have to suffer like that to show you Im a badass??” ya feel me fam?? 

Anyway. Sam gets very angry and then Chuck tells him Dean already left. Dean is at the cemetery about to shoot Jack with the special gun, and Sam doesn't want this, Jack is on his knees, telling Dean he understands and its ok. It flashed me back to the end of S10. Dean cant do it and drops the gun. Chuck is like “nooo pick it up this is the big Abraham sacrificing his only son on Moriah and Dean’s like “nope” and he doesn't even care if Chuck brings mom back in the trade. He’s done, Chuck can fekk off... Chuck’s like fine snaps his fingers and the lights all go out and Jack dies, Dean goes after Chuck and Chuck flings him hard. Sam is completely done, gets the gun and is like fekk all “Chuck dies, I die, Dean dies, the whole freakin universe dies... GAME OVER!” But (un)luckily Sam misfired. And dont @ me Sam and Dean both are crack shots, but they also miss pretty often. And Chuck, from what Ive seen between the show and the fandom said “If all you can do is bitch about the show? Welcome to The End” 

Now we are being shown all Sam and Deans hard work being undone. From the Lady in White in  1x01 to John Wayne Gayce’s ghost in Lebanon. All the demons rising and the graves spitting out their dead and ganging up on 2 pretty helpless Winchesters and a pretty useless angel. My boys done fUcKeD tHe FuCk UP!!!! Jack is in The Empty, he’s awake with The Entity and Billie... I cant even imagine where this is going. 

 Im fairly sure this storyline won't come to a close in a few episodes in the beginning of next season. Since its the final season (side eyes the haters who made sure of it by bitching and not just changing the damn channel like civilized humans would) it will probably be a season-long arc and have reconciliation between the boys and Chuck by the end. If we have learned anything from the past 14 years of this show, its that good intentions don't always turn out good, with love we can forgive some pretty bad shit, and unfortunately, we tend to hurt the ones we love most. 

Overall I think this was one of the best finales we’ve seen. I plan to write about and meta the crap out of what's gone on this whole season, because I think the season itself, aside from a few crapisodes, (which every season has) was by far one of the best!

So on a scale of Bloodlines to Lebanon, Im giving this a 9. Well done everyone... well done!!

[thebabemobile]

Summer had dwindled down into its typical self not long after the Near end-of-the-world. The thick fog of unassumption dewed over Tadfield in a hundred-degree frost, the last of its kind before autumn's onset. The break was coming to a sunny end. This was the only end that remained (or mattered) to Adam, his knees wading through the tall grasses of his forest's treeline. Alight with the nearly set sun were the curling oak tree leaves, which Adam decided would be where he'd settle after a moments deliberation. Dog skirted around his shins during the majority of their walk, trampling grasses in a wormish fashion as Adam made for a tall tree just shy of a few steps away. And he climbed and sat down and thought back on his week.

As mentioned before, the earth had just dodged a major bullet. A bullet the likes of which were not unheard of but never so certain as right then at that moment. A bullet so graciously bitten by an eleven-year-old boy less than twenty-four hours ago. Adam was well aware of this. He'd become well aware of many things recently. And even though the abominable bullet and its aftereffects would seem like the normal thing to sit in a tree and think of while your dog yipped at your dangling toes, Adam decided that his most recent escapade after becoming a free boy again was of much higher importance. And much easier to reflect on.

It wasn't every day that a circus came to town anyway.

When the Them had seen Adam come running from their perch on a set of bike racks, Brian made a space between him and Pepper without a word, his eyes fixed on the outskirts of Norton.

At the foot of the hill, a mass of cars and people gathered to watch the circus set up. Carnival games and rides loaded themselves into their clusters, a caravan of animal carts were being pulled into a neat little line, and just out of sight, an ice cream cart hid behind one of the many white moving trucks pulling into the unused lot in the valley below.

"What have I missed?" Adam had asked. Dog made himself comfortable on the grass slope below.

"Nothing actually," Wensleydale replied, "The tent isn't entirely up I mean. So it doesn't count, I think."

As a matter of fact, it wasn't up at all. Adam took a look around.

"Have any clowns passed us yet?"

Pepper sighed as if she'd wondered the very thing.

"Not a single one. Brian thought he did but its shoes couldn't have been big enough."

Brian protested, "Were too, you just couldn't see them as big as they were."

"He must've just had big feet," Adam settled. The Them hummed amongst themselves in agreement and went back to their staring.

After a while, Pepper shot him a glance. "Whatever happened to you staying behind until tomorrow?"

He shifted in his seat.

"..Do you not want me here?"

He knew he wouldn't have been able to judge if she didn't. Or if they all didn't.

Pepper surprised him.

"No, I like you right where you are. You change your mind so quick is all. Mum let you off easy, then?"

"More like Mum let me out of sight too easy." He tried to quip. This earned a tiny laugh from his surrounding companions.

The change of topic didn't settle his concerns. The uncertainty of forgiveness was almost worse to Adam than being shunned by his best friends. He wasn't able to explain why. Perhaps the gravity of it all was finally settling in his mind. Perhaps he believed that their loyalty was misplaced, a thousand things revealed at once to him that he couldn't try to ignore. Why they weren't running away from him was a mystery he wasn't sure he could solve. It made the most sense. To say goodbye and accept that Adam had made a mistake and ruined their friendship with him. Having your mouth vanish and reappear all in one day couldn't be a great experience to endure. Especially not while your friend, whom you trusted, yells at you over the end of the world that you most certainly were not expecting. He could understand them interrogating him, or demanding he 'leave them alone!' Carrying on what they'd threatened the day before. Or at the very least wondering. Some part of him begged that they wonder. Maybe they were. But no one showed it. Adam suddenly longed for the two hours he was sure of everything.

A low yell came from below, and the children looked over the grassy edge. The tent suddenly jostled before them and the shapes of men hurrying beneath the tarp collected around the center, where a long metal dowel poked slightly out from beneath all the red. It seemed as though they were ready to begin. Which meant a lot of adults started yelling back and forth below. The effort of getting up a several-hundred-foot tent within the next three hours was no easy feat. Teamwork's yelling filled the air, undeniably loud. It was kind of powerful. From what Adam read, circus performers grew up together and lived everywhere together. Everything was done as a team. They lived in carts with the lions and tigers and traveled everywhere on foot. Or at the very least by train. Living with tigers in trains seemed like the sort of thing he'd do with his friends, he supposed. Perhaps the lot of them would make good circus performers.

Pepper would be a good lion tamer, he decided. That seemed like her general scene. And Wensleydale might do well as a fire-eater. He'd find some way to get through the burning. Maybe he'd like the taste. Brian would make a perfect clown. And Adam would be their ringleader. They'd go off and perform in the forest, Hogback Wood filling up with tourists and passerby to see Adam walk into the ring with a top hat (or if worst came to worst, his father's old trilby,) and say something loud and crack a whip to send a hush over the crowd and suspense through the ring; then show would finally begin! It really was a lovely little daydream. Framed in the red sea of tarp below, he could see his circus ascend higher than any circus tent ever.

Doubtfully he looked over the swelling tarp, full of the impressions of men hefting poles over their shoulders. There wasn't a yell misfired, or an angry shout shot. No man was above his fellow man. They were wonderfully together on their task. Together like together had never been. The thought of the day before still stung like a scraped knee. The sight of tarp bled red over his vision. His lips trembled. What exactly made him think he could ever ask Them to trust him like that again? Did they already? He stiffened. Or was it him again? Him manipulating and controlling, operating, bending, breaking, tearing, mauling their trust away because he'd changed his mind and made this perfect evening real. To him, to Them, to all who could see them on their perch. Who was to say he could ever call him their ringleader again?

Someone spoke up over the yelling. Impossibly soft to a fly drifting by or perhaps the sparrows flitting away overhead but it spoke louder to Adam than anything happening downhill.  

"It's actually really nice to have you back, Adam."

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Then another on his arm.

A small brush of someone's shoulder against his and Adam's chest began to ache. 

"S'nice to be back."

And it was.

[douxreviews]

American Gods - ‘Muninn' Review

"Burn, baby, burn."

American Gods mostly gets its groove back after last week's misfire, Wednesday and Laura go on a literal trip down memory lane, and New Media finally makes an appearance.

Billie is not going to be OK with what happens to the library, however.

Interestingly, after my complaint last week about missing the Bryan Fuller signature soundscapes and dreamscape imagery, we open with exactly that. To be fair, that was probably largely due to avoiding the cost and logistics of actually showing a train derail after hitting a car on the tracks. Disorienting yet suggestive imagery combined with an off putting soundscape tell the story of a train v. car collision just as well and are much, much cheaper.

Whatever the reason, it was nice to have them back. It's interesting however, to note that there were several instances where the stylized camera work made it difficult to follow what was actually happening. For example, it wasn't entirely clear what was going on when Betty the Car reformed herself post accident. Were they reversing the footage of the car being crushed as a way to indicate the fractured way one of the characters present experienced that moment of the accident? Was it a visual metaphor? A dream someone involved in the crash was having? No, apparently the car was literally reforming itself, as it was sitting there good as new a few shots later. Another instance was when the scene transitioned from Shadow looking out of it in the wreckage to Shadow walking through some trees in daylight. All of the visual language of television was indicating that we'd transitioned to a dream Shadow was having, but we weren't, we'd just cut to later in the day when he'd gotten out of the wreckage and that hadn't been communicated to the viewer in a clear way.

Honestly, the whole immediate aftermath of the crash sequence just made you realize how good Fuller is at that sort of thing, because I can't think of a single occasion where he's used that same distorted imagery technique and it resulted in the action being unclear. At least, not in a way that didn't feel one hundred percent deliberate.

So, after last week's absolutely delightful pairing of Sweeney and Laura, this week we get Laura paired with Wednesday which worked much better than I was expecting it to do. It seemed odd at first that Laura would reject Sweeney and choose to go with Wednesday instead, particularly as she knows that Wednesday basically destroyed her entire life just to get her out of the way. She and Sweeney clearly were really connecting last episode, so turning on him for picking up her body parts off the road seemed like a forced way for the show to separate them. Then I thought about it for a minute and remembered that sabotaging her relationships with people that care about her is pretty much Laura's entire character description. Viewed with that in mind, the whole sequence of events makes perfect sense. It would have been nice if the show had made that point a little clearer. I hate to criticize a show for giving the viewers too much credit for figuring things out on their own, but in this case they could have stood to underline her motivations a little more.

Ah, Mad Sweeney. Pablo Schreiber continues to be the show's standout, and is more so every week. Thank god(s) that they kept both him and Laura around past their appearances in the novel and that they continue to give both of them so much to do. Hypocritically, I also feel like they probably should have cut Sweeney out of this episode after they left the funeral home, as all we really got of him were comic relief bits showing his bad luck road trip to New Orleans. But then, if they'd cut him out we'd never have seen the look on his face when he realizes that he's been 'rescued' by a Christian rock band, and nothing is worth that.

The thing that this episode felt like more than anything was a series of videogame side quests. Now, I'm not a gamer myself. I have an inherited tremor which makes trying to use a game controller kind of a pain in the ass. But my understanding of the whole side quest thing is that at various points in the game you have to stop working toward the main goal of the game, whatever that may be, and instead fulfill a little side mission, or earn some money, or solve a puzzle or something. That's what this episode felt like to me.

Taking the side quests in order, Laura and Wednesday head off to find another old god that has allowed himself to be co-opted by the new gods because Wednesday wants to kill him and somehow doing that will 'recharge' the coin in Laura's chest that's keeping her alive and making her superstrong. Again we continue this episode's theme of not explaining things properly, as it's never really made clear why killing Argus will do that, plus we're all pretty sure that Wednesday is lying to Laura the whole time anyway, which it turns out he is but the coin recharge thing still works anyway because reasons. Having accomplished that, Wednesday immediately betrays Laura and leaves her stuck in whatever Argus' realm is supposed to be. It might possibly be a TARDIS, there were some very distinctive roundels in that last hallway.

Great job with the design of Argus, by the way. This is our first god that we've seen who doesn't look like a standard human to us as his standard desktop theme and they did a great job making all of the eyes look real and disturbing. The fiber optic cable bundles that writhed like serpents were also a nice look. I don't recall ever seeing anything quite like it.

Technical Boy and New Media are also on their way to see Argus, because Mr. World wants them to... um... scold him for not updating his Norton Antivirus or something, possibly? Again, it's not entirely clear what they're there to do. You might be seeing a theme here. Similarly vague are New Media's actions with Argus. Was she actually betraying Mr. World to join an alliance with Argus? It would make sense, as he represents watching and she represents being watched, but if that's the case shouldn't Technical Boy have reacted in some way to that development? Instead he just politely stands back and doesn't stop Laura from killing Argus, then he and New Media leave without even mentioning it. And I've been remiss in mentioning it, but Bruce Langley really deserves a lot of praise for his work on this show. It's hard to play a character that irritating in a way that isn't irritating to the people watching at home, and he pulls it off.

Then we have Ifrit and Salim, who head to the corn palace to pick up a magic spear, as you do. Instead of the corn palace, they end up at a strip club called the Porn Palace, whose neon sign has a faulty first 'P,' making it appear to be a 'C' at first glance. That was a cute reveal. There they pick up the spear with no incident from a Lakota trickster god named Iktomi, who was played by the always wonderful Julian Richings, who many will remember as being the definitive Death over on Supernatural. This plotline felt the most perfunctory, and probably could have been replaced with a line of dialog later on down the line, but it's always nice to see Mr. Richings.

Lastly we have Shadow and his new friend Sam Black Crow, who gives him a lift to the storyline's next destination. Again, not a lot happens here and Sam feels very much like a mouthpiece for the writing staff to muse about things philosophically, but it works. Mostly because Devery Jacobs has an indefinable charm about her, but also because it opens up the concept of Two Spirit gender identification, which more people should know more about.

Quotes:

Wednesday: "Ah, Mrs. Moon. Did we sit on a wall?"

Mad Sweeney: "You just gonna lie there, let nature have her way with you?"

Laura: "Are you eating me?"

Sweeney: "Coward? I saved you." Laura: "I’m dead, coward." Sweeney: "Well, you’re welcome for picking up all your gory little f**king pieces up off the road."

Ibis: "The advantage of love at first sight is it doesn’t require a second look."

Technical Boy: "How the f**k is that an upgrade?" This felt like the writers pre-empting complaints about New Media. It probably was intended as such.

Wednesday: "So, you’re working on faith, huh?" Laura: "I definitely wouldn’t use that word."

Sam: "You ever hear of the Crow nation warrior named ‘Finds Them and Kills Them’?" Shadow: "No, but he sounds very efficient."

Laura: "Please. Tell me more about what I want."

Wednesday: "What’s the worst thing you can do to a book?" Laura: "Um.. Ignore it..?"

There are not words for how much I love the Hello Kitty collar on this shirt.

Bits and Pieces:

-- It's awfully convenient that Laura was literally blown to pieces in the train crash and Shadow only got a little bruised. But then, her body is actively decaying, so I supposed she'd be more explodable.

-- I know I'm fighting a losing battle here, but I have to say it again. A lit cigarette will not ignite fuel, no matter how many TV shows and movies show it happening. It will either be smothered by the liquid before it gets anywhere near generating enough heat for combustion, which doesn't happen in the liquid but happens in the off-gasses, or it will smolder until it burns out unless by some miracle the off-gassing reaches LEL (Lowest Explosive Level) before that happens. Please stop.

-- You could, however, use a lit cigarette to start a fire in a library full of parchment. It would take a little effort, but you could do it. But despite having a lit cigarette on hand at the time, Laura takes the easy route and uses a match.

-- It seems that Sweeney's bad luck only hits him when he's not around Laura, which sort of makes sense since he's also near his coin at those times.

-- It's interesting that Sweeney is still heading to New Orleans to see someone who I presume is Baron Samedi, since he was only going there to help Laura and she's not with him anymore. That's sweet. I hope he's the one who rescues her from Argus' domain.

-- Sweeney seemed genuinely hurt when Laura chose to go with Wednesday instead of him. I'm 'shipping those two so hard.

-- Argus isn't in the book, nor are any of the Greek Gods. Neil stated that he decided against featuring any of them since they get used so much more often in popular culture.

-- New Media just isn't working for me yet, although I know it's way too early to judge. I miss Gillian Anderson's celebrity impressions.

-- Laura's dad was a drunk. Now we know why he wasn't at the wedding. No word on if he's dead or alive.

-- I wonder what Wednesday is going to need the seedling for?

I know I'm sounding like I didn't enjoy much about this episode, but that's really not true. There was a lot of good stuff here, and many, many little details that show that someone was really putting their heart into it. I just wish that some of the storytelling had been a little clearer.

Three out of four creepy eyeballs.

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water

[roseate7]

Any words of consolation about what’s probably going to happen tonight? It hurts so much and it hasn’t even happened yet. You seem to have good perspective and I could use some.

I’ll answer this one because it’s very sweet and must’ve come in right before I switched anon off.

I can very easily and confidently say to you that this indeed shall pass, because unlike many a swift rout in which a team and fanbase must cast about in bewilderment for what went wrong, the enemy has shown himself and it is within. For all that the superstars were gassed with overwork by the time the playoffs arrived, and for all that the eventual lineup were too bewildered to pull out a cohesive performance by the end, the man responsible for all of this - and I mean all - is Jim Rutherford.

A lot of folks understandably held out on my level of bolshiness toward him this year, but from day one of this playoffs series the truth of the entire season’s mess and muddle and hasty plastering-over had shown itself in rapidly coming undone beneath playoffs pressure. And he’d done the same botched jobs before in Carolina.

I know most folks don’t agree with me on this point especially but the Hags trade set the tone of Rutherford losing the team’s confidence in him entirely. The bulk of the work was done then. His “point was made” but the point was both a misfire and an eventual backfire. But whatever difficulties the Pens had at the start of the season, we only ever got to see them just beginning to repair the longer the team got to bond and gel… only for trigger-happy-trader Jim to come and throw it all into disarray again.

There’s no way of ever knowing which of the trades were truly any better because there was no time the crucial identity to be formed with any of them. He lucked the fuck out with the Florida trade, but what good are two solid players in isolation on a disjointed team they barely know and may not even stay with past the summer? Where is the hunger and fight for them? To lift a Cup with men they’ve known a matter of months? They’re not Black Aces, they’re key players who felt rushed in and did their best which is honestly a waste of talent in the end. Certainly no way to form that team identity. All it did was help keep the Pens on life support.

That’s the theme of Rutherford losing this season: what good are solid players in isolation? Do they make a defense? Do they create goals? Do they give his superstars space to work while leaving the speed up to the younger and lighter, or even just faster…. oh yeah those are all gone. So, no. No they don’t. They add up to a first round sweep and have done ever since the late fall.

It might seem like strange comfort to know that the season was ultimately jeapordized by a man who we can only see the back of if pressure mounts outside and in, but ironically when you look at all of the good that he has wasted in either neglect or over-work, it is reassurance.

Because it’s very good to know that the Pens have a core on the other side of thirty who are hitting and breaking franchise and league records and are still able to overcome major mid-season injury and reignite the team’s playoffs hopes. They’re not the Hawks or the Kings. Their core leave ample cap space in their salaries and more importantly, the problems aren’t scattered all over the locker room and the coaching and the management. It’s down to one man getting into a job using more talented colleagues and then reverting to type once left to his own devices. Hell, even Sully being out-coached wouldn’t have led to a first round exit if the team had formed the kind of identity and drive that it should have. 87/71 can lead a motley crew of a roster to the second round just fine, so long as they can get to know them before March.

And 87/71 being what they are - an isolated and rare organism - and having veteran status, none of the past two seasons will be allowed to remain when they return to Pittsburgh in the fall. They’ve proven how fearless they are in doing what is right for their team and that they’ll run up against any level of front office to fight for glory again. Hell, just look at Geno’s post-games after tonight! He is already planning on the upturn of all they’ve settled into that doesn’t work. I truly do not think Rutherford has the clout, especially after these past two years on his own, to stand up to what those two want. They’ve got the ear of the owners far more than he has. I doubt he’ll be gotten rid of, but his workload could easily become much ‘lighter’ and the purse strings taken out of his hands.

From my hockey perspective, this exit honestly feels like a logical turn in direction for a team who have needed to be wrestled out of the jaws of victory rather than the other way round for most of one dynasty. The years between 2009 and 2016 were such twists and turns, and they’ve all faded into normal and natural lows and suffering that happen to absolutely every club - especially to ones who have had success so frequently. The past two seasons aren’t at all unusual for a much older club whose legs have largely never bounced back from a gruelling back-to-back and an unbroken succession of playoff appearances.

All of Rutherford’s botched work needs to be either undone or removed. I’m sorry folks, I know it’s extremely unlikely and most don’t agree with me but getting Hags back would restore heart and identity to a team that couldn’t bear to have lost it in the first place. But even if not him, then a team assembled and left to actually find itself next season. I’m also not convinced that dropping Horny makes sense, it feels way too much like the overly-reactionary trades of the entire season and yet more loss of identity. Bringing in youth and speed is doable without disintegrating the core even more. We all love Olli but he’s sadly become disposable (I don’t really know why) and I say it’s far wiser to shift a younger player who is already showing signs of slowing than a teammate who brings much needed heart to the locker room.

Anyway, all of this can be done. There is now time, room and with intelligence there can be money. Geno will rest and clear his head and be Russian and Miamian for a while, Sid will go off with trainers like last summer, and they’ll both return of one mind: to never, ever allow their ship to be steered so wildly off course ever again.

So when it comes to the pain, the bitterness, the feeling of desolation and confusion of tonight I really can promise you this will be a kinder loss in the long run. It didn’t drag on, it was against a team who had the jump and the desperation on the Pens, and there were no cruel twists of the knife to age-old wounds. The Isles were better and wanted the win more and they won. It’s clean, if still gutting.

I can say all of this because I was baptised by fire and blood into hockey. I saw Bloody Wednesday and I had seen the previous season’s lead-up to it, all of which is told best by Kris Draper himself. I saw hatred and cold-bloodedness and rage that transcended ‘just hockey’ between the Avs and Wings of those days. I can safely say that no one will ever experience transcendent agony and ecstasy of the like ever again because the sport is now more about... well, the sport, rather than the spectacle.

And as I soon realised, all that gnashing of teeth from the players represented the most pathetic side of a game that was already on it’s way to losing it’s audience precisely for a lack of substance. It all stopped being satisfying when the enforcers were no longer made invisible in their traumatized retirement and the gladiatorial was proven to be ultimately almost as fatal and cruel as the old coliseums. We all got sick of games halting for the latest wild man to do his bit and to have teams hoarding up talent in ways that even refs could tilt the balance in their favor so well. The rivalries are boring younger fans now that testosterone flare-ups no longer run the show, and instead look like weak distractions - or downright dangerous in ways that are no longer considered acceptable - from letting your hockey speak for itself.

And well, as Draper and Nick Lidstrom proved to me many years later when they both went belly-aching that a 21 year-old Sidney Crosby wasn’t prompt enough to shake Lidstrom’s hand after the 2009 final. I will always respect those guys as players, but hoo boy the irony of their childish sore loser attitude in calling Sid immature and unprofessional still looks terrible for two men who won four Cups in their time. Same with the fans and journalists who saw fit to bemoan this perceived slight from Sid due to nothing but sour grapes over the fair loss of yet another trophy to add to their groaning coffers. Especially targeting a kid charged with rescuing his sport and his franchise, who had returned to the Joe after a bitter disappointment the previous season, and at last gained the achievement that had been expected of him since he was between fourteen and sixteen.

For shame on two men I had witness do battle and perform so valiantly, even after some of the glory of their days had begun to tarnish, to gang up on a boy because their days of domination were fading. I still love those first seasons I watched, but I am glad the days are gone of two men knocking forty launching a PR campaign to damage the image of a kid only just realising the dream they had many times repeated themselves before he was even in the draft combine.

Why did I take that trip down memory lane, you could well ask if you’re still even reading this, anon???

Because while players like the 90s Red Wings represent the last of the old dynasties, the post-2004/5 lockout effects on hockey haven’t been felt in full effect really until the Penguins back-to-backs. You know, the team who won using speed and cohesion? The team who set the standard which all other teams were not-so-secretly rushing to copy? That was a core of existing champs who dictated their own identity and who had two leaders with their eyes wisely on the future-present style of hockey.

The Kings and Hawks days of glory had one foot very much in the past. They are both in different stages of trying to work out the puzzle of a league whose playing style has been flipped even more on it’s head in just the past three drafts. Forget McDavid: how does Mitch Marner weigh what he weighs and do what he does and bounce back up every time old-style defense tries to knock him down? How do you get more of those little nuggets of your own to find gaps and evade muscle and create chances? That’s the question the Pens already know they have to get back to answering as they had before.

But Jim Rutherford has fumbled his two years unsupervised, this is resoundingly true, and his old ‘grit and size’ tendencies are coming up against a Pens core who have far more knowledge of what it takes to return their team to being champions because they have seen the sea changes taking place in their franchise from day one.

Ol’ Jim’s can come and go. But Crosby and Malkin are neither petulant veterans who would moon about over their losses and angrily deflect onto the youngsters who beat them, nor are they superstars existing in a bubble and bemoaning the slow decline of their team after each short or non-existent post-season. Neither of them will mind handing over some depth work to speedier youngsters. Neither of them will mind adjusting their roles to accommodate the next generation of Pens, because it’s what they’ve been doing for a good few years now. No clashing of egos or sense of grudge over age and perceived superiority to stop these two from doing whatever it takes to keep the club on the right path.

The Pens will always have a shot at being champions so long as Sid and Geno are on the thrones in Pittsburgh. And the more they come into their age and embrace their sway over a franchise that knows it owes it’s existence to them both (even if fucking nobody else seems to remember that Geno’s throne sits in every way equal to Sid’s) the more chance there is for more Cups.

At the very least, and it’s still a wonderful least, seasons like this one will stand as nothing but a stark but isolated reminder of how close to disaster their ship has ever sailed.

I have absolutely no doubt that they know what to do in the wake of it, and I have no doubt that they would gladly fly in the face of front office if it meant a more harmonious locker room.

They’re two heroes who won’t complain about the young bucks coming in and the league changing around them, and trust me when I say Pens fans should take endless comfort in that, even in the toughest years. And the natural order of things in hockey absolutely dictates that you’ve gotta at least have some of those.

[abundantchewtoys]

HS Epi: Meat, p8 reaction

It doesn't FEEL like it could already be time for the Masterpiece, but then, what else is there? Until now we've been switching back and forth between Earth C & John. Unless we now go see what post-retcon Terezi has been up to, I guess it might be time to witness the penultimate moment of Caliborn's ascension to Lord English, the last moment being when LE hatches from Doc Scratch.

---

"> JOHN: Zap to your final destination.

Where the hell are you?

DAVE: where the hell are we DAVE: i cant see shit"

Welp it's time for this?? ... Unless John misfired and they're in the Furthest Ring, I'd think that they'd find Caliborn in his station on LOCAM. ... I don't suppose there's going to be an actual stage like in the Vine videos. :P If that were so, it appears someone killed the lights, though.

Maybe something prevents them from actually going to Caliborn, like they're missing a crucial artifact and they wouldn't be able to escape from LOCAM with John's powers to return to the same moment with another retcon. We know the juju almost instantaneously can absorb them. ... It'd be something if the events of the Masterpiece somehow preordained them into doing something first.

"JADE: shhh!

It’s dark. Not like “someone turned out the lights out” dark. More like “someone destroyed the concept of light at its very source” dark." I suppose that, in Caliborn's art, it would be "vantablack" dark due to the absence of a light source he never bothered to draw, but I doubt they just zapped into one of his scribbles he made after John beat him up.

Also, it's a good Light wasn't capitalized in that description. Though, to think about it, Void would look enormously black, wouldn't it? ... Did John zap them into the Void somehow??? It IS the place where Caliborn's soul was stuck for a very long time, after all, but that is after the Masterpiece took place.

"It’s a darkness that fills up your skull. Jake puts this more eloquently, as always:

JAKE: By golly it is indeed dark as fuck." A+ observation, Jake.

"ROXY: shoosh!!!" That makes two of the girls shooshing them. ... For a minute there I thought they recognized this void, until I remembered it was Game Over Roxy and post-retcon Jade that ended up meeting Calliope's ghost.

"Jade breaks off from the group. She moves through the air gracefully, ears twitching as she sniffs through space like a bloodhound. “There!” she exclaims, and points down. All the way down." Being a bit destracted by unformatted sentences uttered by one of the main characters, I'll be honest. But yeah, I suppose the Space and Void player are most qualified to navigate this... realm. Caliborn's version of the Veil, maybe? Since it would appear they're not alone here, after all.

"All the way down beneath you there is a light source. Gray, focused—like a spotlight, except that it’s folded over the curvature of the space beneath it. At the center of it stands teenage Lord English, all decked out in his ostentatious god tier jammies." ... Ah. Not a stage in the literal sense, but Caliborn did prepare a grand scene for this faceoff, in that he literally prepared the shittiest scene imagineable: none at all.

"Gamzee’s there too, for some unfathomably stupid reason. There’s a robot bunny chilling out on top of a chest, lookin’ cool and kicking its cute little bunny legs back and forth." Welp, that sure are the beings present for the Masterpiece. That was the chest Caliborn kept the juju in, hoh boy.

"You hope that neither of these unexpected dramatis personae will play a role in the coming battle, because it wouldn’t feel right whaling on either of them at this point." Of course they're going to stay irrelevant, what are you saying? :B

"Lord English is holding something that looks like... Lil Cal? It’s definitely Lil Cal" So, uh, John recognizes the puppet then? ... Well, granted, he did see baby Dirk/Bro with it on the meteor, and during the ten years since someone must've described the thing to him at one point.

", and Lord English is definitely waltzing around with it in his little spotlight in the middle of the nowhere, swinging the puppet around by both its floppy arms. Well, rather, he was waltzing around. He stopped the moment you looked at him." ... Pffff he wasn't even expecting them right then? He was just playing pretend with Cal for who knows how long.

"> Behold your adversary.

JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ..." No. No, we're not doing this again, are we? The epic frown off.

"JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: ... JOHN: ... CALIBORN: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

What. The fuck. ... Does... Does Caliborn not recognize John because he's an adult???? Or... I mean... Timelines... Okay, yeah, Blaperile reminded me about something.

Caliborn in the Masterpiece didn't seem to recognize John. So. That could mean that. This. Is. Pre-retcon Caliborn.

Fucking Hells. Even if they get sucked into the juju...

That means. Lord English is pre-retcon Caliborn. But post-retcon Caliborn might be a seperate entity. That means he's an unknown quantifier, but that would mean Paradox Space is seriously screwed, right? A Caliborn not destined to become Lord English would be free to do whatever he pleased with his Lord of Time powers, and then all bets are off. Even if his pre-retcon self became the bane of endless universes, he was still limited, sanctioned by Paradox Space.

FYI, with pre-retcon & post-retcon, here I meant that I think that, this Caliborn never had John zapping into his room. But, now that I think about it some more... He would still have recognized John and the others from the consoles. (Hmm, unless the consoles only showed Caliborn images from B2, but I didn't think that was the case.) Meanwhile, I don't think the ghost of the Caliborn that Alternate Calliope 'ate' would be dressed in god tier jammies and be chilling with Lil' Seb and Gamzee...

"You simply refuse to answer his question. Instead, you do something so much better. Something that will make both his inevitable fate and your regard for his character incontrovertibly clear." Is it a punch in the face? Tell me it's a punch in the face. If this Caliborn turns out to be blameless in the rise of Lord English, the second hand embarassment will be palpable.

"> Give him a thumbs-down." Ah. Beatdown, imminent. :P

"Lord English drops the puppet. For a moment he looks shocked, maybe even a little afraid, but it passes quickly. He starts laughing." Wow, okay. I didn't think I was ready to consider liking the idea of a version of Caliborn that is more jerk-with-low-self-esteem, but, here I'm getting there.

"JOHN: uh. CALIBORN: NEVERMIND. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE." ... Oh, then scratch everything I just said. :P Guess the dorky theatrics finally gave it away, huh? Well, granted, Caliborn is a self-professed slow learner and been shown to be slow in the uptake in some regards.

"CALIBORN: IT WAS FORETOLD. BY THE MASTERPIECE I MADE. WHEN I WAS BUT A BOY." With Caliborn, it's never clear if he's just boasting or being sincere. It might be that 7 years passed for him in his session too, but if he had been 13 at the time he could be 20. Then again, if he was 11... He'd still count as a teenager.

"JOHN: what? CALIBORN: BE QUIET. CALIBORN: I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST INTERRUPTED A GROUNDBREAKING INTERPRETIVE ART PIECE. CALIBORN: IT WAS THE FIRST OF ITS KIND. PERFORMED ONLY ONCE. AND MADE MORE VALUABLE FOR ITS RARENESS. JOHN: wow. CALIBORN: I SAID SHUT UP. IT’S RUDE TO TALK THROUGH THE OVERTURE. CALIBORN: BUT DON’T WORRY. ALTHOUGH YOU MISSED MY VERY IMPORTANT DANCE DEMONSTRATION." ... Interpretive dance. His wickedness really knows no bounds!!! :mspa:

"CALIBORN: NOW YOU WILL PARTICIPATE IN SOMETHING EVEN MORE IMPORTANT." Welp. Caliborn has Fate on his side in this one. He knows what's coming! Guess we're left to see how straightforward everything will unfold now.

"The young Lord’s face begins to distort. The unhinging of his jaw reverberates in the empty space. He laughs through the remainder of his nefarious soliloquy, which he has possibly prepared in advance for this moment." I was thinking he'd start shooting lasers, but it would appear the rest of his 'soliloquy' may consist solely out of "HA. HA. HA." repeated ad nauseum.

"CALIBORN: BY NOW, SURELY MANY HAVE WITNESSED MY MASTERPIECE. CALIBORN: AS IT HAS CIRCULATED THROUGH THE BLACK VEINS. OF THE DARK WEB. CALIBORN: TRILLIONS HAVE WITNESSED ITS MAJESTY. HATERS AND FOOLS ALIKE." That might be a LITTLE bit overestimating it. :P Unless, of course, he's talking about all of the ghosts in the dreambubbles, rebubbling the memory ad infinitum. I'm reminded of Gamzee's rap, though, about the trillions being bled.

"CALIBORN: BUT NOW. THE TIME HAS COME. CALIBORN: FOR EVERYONE TO SHUT UP ABOUT HOW GREAT MY MASTERPIECE WAS. CALIBORN: AND THE TIME IS NOW AT HAND..." To see the truth or lack thereof in the masterpiece.

"CALIBORN: FOR YOU ALL TO *BECOME* MY MASTERPIECE!" ... Wow. Epic.

Okay, that was delivered perfectly.

If we weren't in the epilogues, I'd have expected an [S] page next.

Gotta say, for knowing how this will go in broad strokes, I'm glad at getting the finer details filled in.

So, Caliborn seemed to imply in his Masterpiece Jade still had her First Guardian powers. Guess this scene still takes place in the Green Sun's gaze then. I hope I'm forgiven for being confused. Post-canon takes place outside of it, but Caliborn's session was spawned in Universe C. So at some point, he fell back into the Green Sun's domain somehow. Maybe simply by Entering his session. He thusly entered canon, and gained quite a bit of relevance to Paradox Space.

"A young Lord stands on his stage. It just so happens that today, the thirteenth of April, 11111111111, is this boy's wriggling day. Though it was 18 sweeps ago he was given life, it is only today he will obtain ultimate power.

What will this young Lord do?"