#listen. god please listen to me. i Do Not. want to consume. Every Single scrap of content until the movie releases

[springlock-suits]

I'm going to just start blocking bitches who don't tag any of their fnaf movie posts. I won't do anything here like it does on Instagram but it'll make me feel better

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JULIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BRUTUS. Admin Rogue: There is always something about the way you write unvarnished truth that gets me, every single time. Boris is not a likable character by any means, but I still find myself curious about him when seen through your lens. You want to make ruin of him, or maybe for him to make ruin of us, and it’s so attractively despicable that I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know if we’ve ever had a character this unapologetic, not just to some but to every single person in Verona. Let them try and eat him, let them spit him back out, let them realize he will not be swallowed no matter how much he deserves it. I can already see the way he’ll burn across the dash, a torch-song I want to touch, and I couldn’t be happier to welcome you back to us in this new and exciting form! Please review the CHECKLIST and send your account in within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB. 

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Julie

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | Given that I’ll probably be stuck at home searching for a job for the next month, I figure my activity will be okay. The usual reply every other day or so situation, I hope!

Timezone | MST

Triggers | Already listed!

How did you find the rp?  | Two years ago I went diving into the LSRPG tag because I was curious and now here we are. :)

Current/Past RP Accounts | Santino, Loretta, Lucien

IN CHARACTER

Character | Brutus / Boris Kovrov

What drew you to this character? | Brutus, I think, is one of the most human characters in Diverona by default, without development, in the sense that he is so selfish it makes you want to tear your eyeballs out. It’s the same with most people: we encourage each other to take time to themselves, to put themselves first, but can feel rebuffed or insulted when they actually do that. Boris has taken that to the ultimate extreme: everything he does is for himself and no one else. He didn’t ascend within the Montagues because he wanted to further his family’s social standings, he did it because he alone wanted to succeed.

He’s not apologetic about it, either, and that’s what makes him so interesting. At all times, Boris is fully aware he is perceived as underhanded and generally disliked among the mob, but he’s so good at what he does that it doesn’t matter. He returns to Verona with a searing brand of shame in the form of his personal betrayal, and anyone could see that if they just fucking looked close enough, but they don’t. That’s where his talent really lies, and that’s what makes him so weirdly endearing to me: he makes himself valuable, and even when he does the worst possible thing a person could do in a mob, it still doesn’t undercut his worth. He makes himself out to be a friend, lies and lies and lies, and because most people don’t want to make the effort or choose not to, it’s believable.

Some might call him cut-throat, or a coward, a backstabber, potentially even brutal: he’s not ashamed of sprinkling rat poison into the food of his competition if it means he’ll succeed. He’s an opportunist at best and a manipulator at worst, and if there’s anything to be said about Verona, it’s that the manipulators usually come out at the front of the pack. The last sentence or so in his bio are what really sealed the deal for me: “The historians fail to mention that the traitors are the ones who survive, who outlive empires and kingdoms, who lay their sovereigns to rest and spread their ashes like trail markers.” God help him, Boris will come out of Verona alive, no matter how much of it he feeds into and how much of himself he lets it consume.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

• Fly not; stand stiff: ambition’s debt is paid. I’d love to see some real-time consequences for Boris’ betrayal of the Montague family. Others have been ousted for less, but somehow he gets to remain? That doesn’t seem particularly fair, but Boris couldn’t give a shit about fair if he tried. He sold his information to a mob in Russia for the purpose of a safety net. Other emissaries also deal with Russia – it’d make sense that one of them might hear about the dark dealings and try to use it to their own advantage, were they so ambitious. Or maybe it will come from someone higher up, like Castora, who knows more than they’ve let on. Maybe this will lead to his demotion, his death, Damiano’s assassination, the ushering in of a new era – who knows? These things don’t play out without someone paying the price, and I want Brutus to pay in full.

• I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. In my head, Boris has been out of the picture for some time now, working on relations between the American families and the Montagues to keep business booming. I’d love to explore the Verona Boris left a little over a year ago (totally headcanon, by the way! I’m happy to adjust wherever necessary) and how it’s changed in comparison to what it is now. Roman Montague has failed as an heir, the Witches hung in a public trial, all illusions of neutrality or working towards peace have been shot right through the middle. Damiano is unraveling at the seams, and the question of who will lead the Montagues lacks an answer entirely. It’s complete and utter chaos: messy, bloody, exactly the kind of environment Boris thrives in. I want him to wreak as much havoc as possible in his own way, and if he can’t do that, then I’d like to see him secure his seat closest to the throne when the concept of a coup becomes inevitable.

• But hollow men, like horses hot at hand / Make gallant show and promise of their mettle. He hunts Tomas Sabello and Bernadette du Pont because they are the easiest openings into both sides of the mobs. Bernadette is croquettish and manipulative but still naive, in Boris’ eyes, to the difficult path which lies ahead. I could see him trying to sway her to the Montagues if she would only listen. Grace Daly had done it for less, after all. Sabello, on the other hand, is Boris’ favorite target: throat exposed, head leaned back, weeping tears of sorrow over his wife. Boris has experience with the follies of the heart and he can see that Celeste has never loved the man, and frankly, Boris doesn’t think there’s much to the man to love. He’s hollow on the inside, scraped out with a metal spoon. His arrival so late into the act poses some difficulties, but he’s hopeful he’ll be able to pick up where he left off.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Absolutely!

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

Valentina Gallo dies a violent death. An inextricable, unforgiving death. An ugly death. When they take pull her body from her brother’s arms, and she is taken in to be seen by Damiano’s own eyes, witness the violence which has laid itself across the barren field of a corpse –

This is when Boris is called home.

Exit, Viola.

Enter, Brutus.

He bids Lorenzo and the rest of the Gambino family farewell that same night over the phone: Lorenzo calls him a bastard for not shaking his hand before saying goodbye, but Boris has other things on his mind: A plane. The brisk cold mornings that give way to blustery sunshine. Damiano greeting him as a member of the family instead of an extension of his long reach, like he had a year ago. He can remember the phone call well. He’d run it through, night after night, dissecting and picking apart intonation and tone and the speed with which Damiano had dismissed him, like a dog begging for scraps hastily shoved away from the dinner table. He lets the familiarity of the conversation wash over him as he settles in his plane seat the night of the twenty-seventh. He’ll be there by morning.

I’ll be there to greet you, Damiano had said. Boris had tried not to read into it too much.

New York was intended to be punishment and apology wrapped up into one. Damiano sent him off to deal with the budding crime syndicates and crush them under the imaginary Montague heel. He would spread seeds of dissent and terror: most fall silent when he enters a room for good reason, and it is in this way that he gets them to listen when he speaks. Most would not expect a man as imposing as Boris to speak so passionately; he’s always been a fan of turning ideas on their heads. By weaving tales of just what the Montague family has at its disposal, he alone would stamp out the passionate flames of greed and light his own small fire of fear.

In his younger years this would have intimidated Brutus. When he’d received the call a year ago, he’d only felt dread.

But he’d done well. It took him five months to chase down every single lead provided to him by men paid under the table, and after that, all there had been to do was clean up the mess and socialize. Shake hands with the shattered fragments of the once-powerful mob families, reach out to the contacts he’d had in Canada and New Orleans, as they were perhaps the most influential, the ones who could sway the boat with weaponry and other fun and exciting goods that still had his heart pounding when he looked at them.

He’d thought about calling Evgeny once, and only once: when Damiano had chewed him out over the phone for something that was not his fault and hadn’t been in his wheelhouse to begin with. Boris knew, that night, what Evgeny would say. Patience, Kovrov. We’ll be here when you’re ready.

When you’re ready. Whatever that meant. For all Evgeny knew, Boris would never be ready. He’d die with Verona just out of reach.

He startles awake as the plane hits turbulence coming into Verona, heading towards the landing strip. It’s a bumpy landing, but he’s never done well in planes to begin with. He thinks, often, of his father, who had marked to Boris that all would be well just before returning to Russia. The flight wouldn’t make it, of course. Damiano had ensured it: Sasha Kovrov had been dead weight long enough. All he could’ve hoped for, Boris thought, was that his son would prove worthy of something.

And he had. He’d crawled on his hands and knees across glass and gravel, waded through blood and sweat, and tears – never his own, if he could help it – to see the Montague family through to the other side. Could he really have been blamed for wanting to ensure he had some sort of future laid out for him, even if it wasn’t in the name of the two old bloodlines of Verona? In return, he’d gotten: a usurpation of a position that should have been his, a pound’s worth of rat poison that he couldn’t use, distrust among his peers and disgust from the one man who should have seen his dedication, and a promise he couldn’t act upon until he was ready.

враки.

He exits the plane, meets Damiano on the tarmac, and just as quickly they are swept away by Damiano’s driver. There is no discussion of previous business, tasks he has completed. Craven is mentioned offhandedly, but Boris had to admit some time in September that whatever illicit ties Everett Craven had to the Capulets when it came to his dealings in America, the man kept them wound up tight. He’d been impressed. Instead, they set their eyes on the future: Damiano speaks to him of the failures and successes, trials and tribulations, and Boris takes note of the way his brow knits together when he speaks.

It is like Damiano cannot bear to look at him, but is forcing himself to anyway. Surely his betrayal had not burned so badly. It wouldn’t have left a mark.

Valentina Gallo died for less. She didn’t give nearly as much away. She’d given what she had to give. Boris had given Evgeny everything, and then offered the grounds of the coffee to Damiano in return.

Boris is lucky to be alive, seated across from a man he might have once considered a better father than his own, who looks at him with poorly-veiled discuss and tells him what to do. Boris had sold his soul – this might just be the devil’s recompense.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, watching the city pass them by, nodding where appropriate and watching the sun rise over the river as they drive alongside it. If he gets his way, Damiano Montague will be sooner dethroned, and Brutus will have his rightful place as second-in-command to some poorer, less competent man. If he is anything, it’s stubborn. They drive by the Castelvecchio, and he’s saddened to see it is still a work in progress, not at all the shining beacon it had once been of unity or pride within a place being torn in two, right down the middle. He feels a pang of something hit him in his chest. Homesickness? He’s home, but—

Boris’ flat is small, modest, tucked away in an alley. Close enough to the library that he can be there within minutes just by walking, if necessary. All the pedestrians on the street avert their eyes when they see Damiano’s car pull up outside. He grabs the one bag he’d taken with him on the plane: he’s hopeful the rest will arrive within the week, but that’s an if at best. Before he slips out, Damiano clears his throat.

He stops, and finds a single piece of paper pressed into his hand. He can only assume what it is, won’t open it – it’s deliberately folded closed. It could be anything: a name, a number, a place, a threat, a promise.

“When you’re ready,” Damiano murmurs, like some sort of sick joke, which is to say that it will be when he asks, because Boris ceded any hope at control over his own life the minute he sold all he possessed to the Russian mob, heart and mind and soul, only to crawl back to Verona just after. Some might’ve called him a fool, but he’d only seen the future, then. If only others could see the eclipsing horizon always in his sight.

It’s here that Boris is left: a small alley, out of sight of the rest of the world, the morning sun shining on his face. The future in his hand. He opens it before he has the chance to breathe in again, the vitriol in his heart already beginning to sear out through his ribcage.

Extras: N/A

[sablesides-writing-corner]

cinderella, prinxiety? :))

"Virgil! Clean these dishes!"

"Virgil! Why havent you made breakfast yet!"

On and on and on went the nonsensical commands, pounding in Virgil's head like the inssesent beating of a drum. His stepbrothers had to be the absolute worst people he'd ever met, and his stepfather didnt fare any better. Always yelling at him to do one thing or another, he was terrified of even slightly screwing up. Virgil crawled out of bed with a groan and walked over to his dresser. After adorning what his stepfather deemed 'proper attire' he walked down stairs and grabbed a broom from the closet. He was halfway through work when his stepfather trudged down the stairs, clearly annoyed. Virgil braced himself, but as usually nothing could prepare him for his stepfather's wrath.

"You missed a spot." said the man.

Virgil's face stung, but he simply smiled and nodded "Yes father, sorry father," he said quietly, earning him another slap on the wrists. He tried not to flinch and continued cleaning the floors. He waited until he heard his stepfather's footsteps fade into the distance before letting silent tears fall down his face.

"Are you actually crying right now?" said someone behind him with a laugh. He turned to face his first stepbrother, Presley. "Goods gods you ARE pathetic." he said, stepping down the stairs, making sure to leave as much of an impression on them as possible, more work for Virgil he supposed.

"What do you require, Presley," said Virgil, his voice once again abnormally formal.

"Oh cut the crap you sad excuse for a human, Izzet and I require your assistance, our rooms are simply DREADFUL and we cant be expected to clean it all up!" Presley said, not even attempting to hide the smirk on his face, nor the menacing glint in his eyes. Virgil supposed the brothers had caused the mess themselves.

"Very well, I'll get to it as soon as I finish up with this," Virgil said, gesturing to the floors. His brother didnt seem pleased, he stormed back up the stairs, what Virgil suspected was mud splattered across them.

It took him what seemed like decades to finish every task assigned to him, every time one was accomplished his step family seemed to find another for him to do. By the time he got back up to his room in the attic it was already night fall. The mice and rats that lived in the floorboards had gathered around the fireplace, and proceeded to burrow into his apron as soon as he sat down.

Virgil didnt pride himself on his voice, he didnt pride himself on much of anything. But for a man who slept so near soot and ashes, his voice could have been enough to cause the heavens themselves to weep. Any chance he could find to sing, there he was, the words ready on his tongue for even the smallest moments of joy. The rodents adored it, which Virgil supposed was an improvement over what he could expect if his step family ever discovered this particular talent of his.

So Virgil sang, he poured his heart out for only the mice and rats and bugs to hear, blissfully unaware of the open window, and the runaway prince who had been out for a night time voyage, just close enough to hear the sweet music as it travelled through the air.

Virgil awoke the next morning to a loud knock on the door.

"Sort through the mail, we're busy," said his father. Virgil stood up and dusted himself off. Soot still clinged to his hair as he approached the door. He picked up the letters. As he sorted through them he noticed a very important looking wax seal on one, the royal crest.

"What's that? Who's that one for?" said Presley over Virgil's shoulder, before snatching the letter out of his hands and rushing off. Virgil followed after him and entered the kitchen doorway just in time to hear Presley and Izzet's shocked gasps upon viewing the contence.

"A ball?"

"The prince?"

"A husband?"

Virgil listened intently on the conversation, the gears in his head whirring and sputtering.

He finally spoke up when the conversation seemed to lull to a stop, "Do you think, I could go?" the glare his father gave him could've killed him in an instant, and the small smile that traced his face soon after offered no consolation.

"Of course, Virgil, as long as you remember to finish all your chores and find a suitable outfit, then you can go to the ball," he said, almost growling. Izzet and Presley exchanged looks, dumbstruck, until their thick skulls finally processed the sentence, then they broke into cruel smiles.

The demands started almost immeadietly, and they went on for eons, sometimes Virgil would complete the same task multiple times because something had gone wrong the moment he left the room, the poor boy felt as if he might explode at any moment.

The day finally ended, and Virgil hadnt found a single thing to wear, he hadnt had the time, nor the energy. He stumbled up to his room, ready to give up on any hope of being happy again in his life, but upon opening the door he was greeted with an unexpected surprise. A black suit with a purple ombre cape was set up on a mannequin in the room, the rats and mice were skittering around the room, appearently working further on the garment. Virgil felt tears in his eyes, but this time they were not sorrowful.

"You guys did all this for me?" he said to the small creatures scattering about the floor. They all looked up at him as if to respond with a yes, Virgil smiled. "Thank you, so much, I only hope its enough," said Virgil, before collapsing onto the bed.

He awoke the next day with a new found confidence, cape billowing behind him as he rushed down the stairs to join his father and brothers. But they looked absolutely appalled at the sight of him. Within mere seconds, the outfit his friends had probably worked so hard to get him, was reduced to scraps, his stepfamily cackling and snarling at him all while they ruined what he felt had been his only shot at happiness. He watched them leave for the ball, tears drenching his face. He walked out into the gardens and sat under a tree, the familiar feeling of emptiness washed over him.

"Why are you crying kiddo? Shouldn't you be at the ball?" said a voice Virgil didnt recognize. He looked up only to be faced with a short man with round glasses almost as big as his face.

"I cant go, I have nothing to wear and no way to get there, it's not like the prince would want anything to do with me Anyways, and dont try to tell me I'm wrong, I'll bet you barely even know me." said Virgil, the words burned like acid as they fell from his mouth.

"Nonsense! I'm your fairy godfather! I should think I know plenty of things about you!" said the man.

Virgil's eyes widened "Well what do you expect me to do? I cant fix this. . ." he sighed.

"Bring me a pumpkin, some mice, and a frog," said his fairy godfather. Virgil got up and completed the strange requests.

The fairy godfather took out a wand and began waving it over the various items, Virgil watched in awe as his mice turned into horses, the frog into a man, and the pumpkin into a carriage.

"Now, what to do about that dress," said his godfather. He pondered Virgil's tattered outfit for a moment before his eyes caught a sudden spark.

A flash of light and feeling of warmth enveloped Virgil, he let himself be consumed by it, an excited smile plastered across his face. When the light subsided Virgil was dressed in a black hooded dress-shirt, purple pants, and what seemed like black glass shoes.

"Now, all of this disappears at midnight, so you best leave before then, now hurry- go enjoy yourself," said his godfather, urging him into the carriage.

Virgil spent the entire ride to the castle marvelling at the scenery, and the view of the castle itself left him speechless.

Virgil had been off to the sidelines, singing to himself out in the castle gardens as he admired the flowers, when a hand fell over his own.

"You have a beautiful voice, you know," said the voice. Virgil turned around and was greeted by a man in a white and red suit embroidered with what may have been the brightest gold he'd ever seen. The man's eyes met Virgil's and he gave him a devilish grin.

"I was just uh, taking a break, I'm not the beat at parties," said Virgil, trying to sound calm.

The mysterious man took him by the hand, "Then perhaps you wouldnt mind dancing alone with me out here? It's much less noisy and crowded than the throne room," Virgil simply nodded and allowed himself to be lead into a slow dance, the world seemed to melt away as he and the man stared into eachothers eyes. His were so full of light and happiness, Virgil felt as if even the sun couldnt outshine them.

He was snapped out of his trance by the sudden chiming of a distant clock. It was then that he'd realized just how long they'd been dancing.

He broke away from the man's grasp "I have to go- I'm sorry-" before the man could even open his mouth Virgil had disappeared into the throne room again. He raced down the stairs, only to be momentarily inconvenienced by the loss of a shoe.

Virgil managed to get home with few issues, and he stayed up in his room until he'd fallen asleep, hoping to avoid awkward questions from his stepfamily.

He awoke the next day to the shadow of his stepfather looming over him- holding, to Virgil's horror, the second glass slipper. "Can you explain, why the day after an announcement about a mysterious young man with black glass slippers running away from the ball, I find this in your room?" he said, a wicked smile appearing on his face.

"I-I didnt- I'm not-" Virgil tried to explain himself but the words got caught in his throat.

"The prince is looking for the owner of this shoe, and I for one dont think it should be you that he finds with it. So while your brothers will be trying for a prince, you will stay up here." said his stepfather, walking out of the room with the shoe. Virgil tried to race after him, only to hear the door lock click. He collapsed to the floor in shock, his hand clutched to his chest. Tears ran down his face, he'd been dancing with the prince all night and hadnt even realized? He'd truly been that close to happily ever after and he'd thrown it away?

Virgil crawled over to the window and rested against it. Once again he began to sing, he heard the doors open downstairs, heard his father and brothers talking to the prince and his servants downstairs. He sung louder to drown them out, until he was so caught up in singing he could barely hear his own thoughts.

The thing that did, however, break this trance, was the opening of the door and the protests from his stepfather. Virgil snapped his head away from the window and stared at the sight before him, the prince, eyes wide, a smile broad across his face, standing in front of him.

"Its you. . . you were the man from last night. . . I recognize your singing," he said. Virgil turned to the window, he hadnt noticed that someone had opened it, the mice in the corner of the room seemed to nod at him as he stood up. He approached Prince Roman with hesitation, until the royal took him by the waist and held him closer than he'd every thought royalty would keep a simple servant. "I want those men in jail, they clearly havent been treating him properly," said Roman, waving a hand at Virgil's stepfamily.

"N-no, even they dont deserve that- perhaps exile would work better?" Virgil said, he had no idea why, he knew the three were guilty, but Roman simply smiled and nodded.

The castle seemed even more brilliant now than it had the night of the ball, perhaps it was Virgil's newfound happiness, or seeing Roman smiling at him as though he were a priceless gem. But for once in his life, Virgil felt happy, and he was never letting that feeling escape him again.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic prompt: as a kid, Len inherited his maternal grandfather's books. Old, valuable books. When things started getting worse, he would seek refuge among their pages, reading things meant for far older, wiser men - such as instructions in how to make a golem... Many years later he still hasn't found a way to tell Mick the truth...

for the magical creature bingo board, square: author’s choice :)

——————————————————————————————

He shouldn’t have done it.

Len knows he shouldn’t have, and feels almost bad about it, almost, and he doesn’t feel bad about anything anymore. Hasn’t for years, ever since he started helping Dad out at age five and got his ass kicked for asking about why stealing wasn’t wrong like they said on the TV.

He doesn’t really regret doing it, but that doesn’t change that he shouldn’t have done it.

He shouldn’t have stolen his grandfather’s books, to start with. They weren’t his to have: his grandfather would never have given it to him. Not the grandfather he spent most of his time with when he could, his father’s father, the kindly old man with the ice cream truck and the sad eyes and the deluded hope that his angry son would be content with his father and his wife and so spare his son, but the other one.

He called him grandfather, but he was Len’s mother’s uncle, since her father was long dead; the tall, stern Rav Eleazar, who smiled rarely and did not approve of Len’s mother but insisted on teaching her son Hebrew and the little scraps of Jewish faith he could fit into the one week a year he spent in Central. The one who Len worked so very hard to please, learning Hebrew even on his own time in the library. The one who, when Len read out a whole prayer by himself for the first time and beamed from the sheer pride of it, laughed softly and said, “You remind me of her.”

“Her?” Len asks.

“The Golem of the trenches,” Rav Eleazar said, and his gaze was distant and soft. “I met her in the Great War, where she stood tall among the men, with stars on her brow and truth on her tongue. She fought with honor and with love for all mankind, and walked freely through No Man’s Land where bullets could not touch her.”

It took some time for Len to put it together, the rumors and the stories and the legends, before –

“You met Wonder Woman?” he marveled. “For real?”

“Oh, yes,” Rav Eleazar says. “She is one of our own, you know – a long-wandering Jew taught her mother the tricks of it and stood by her as she formed her out of clay, wrote the shem of God in her mouth and on her brow, and now she is the guardian of mankind.”

“You met Wonder Woman! The superhero! She’s a legend! Tell me about her!”

And Rav Eleazer did.

But he told his tales too well, to a growing thief like Len, because Len couldn’t help but want to know more.

So Len stole his grandfather’s oldest diary.

The one with the stories of his time in the war.

The one with the secrets.

He meant to give it back, he really did, but his mother died a few months later and his grandfather never again returned to Central.

So he carried it with him.

Carried it when his father beat him for questioning his judgment about a job.

Carried it when that job went south and his father hung it all on him.

Carried it through the trial, which no one came to watch.

Carried it to juvie, where no one stood by his side.

Carried it to the hospital, a stab wound bleeding in his side from a shiv no one was there to defend him from.

Carried it through his stay there, with indifferent nurses and doctors barely even looking at him.

Carried it back to juvie, teeth gritted and eyes burning red with hate and hurt and loneliness, to be beaten again and again and again, for the color of his skin and the tenor of his faith and even just because, until he just couldn’t take it anymore

And he pulled out that book and he went to work.

The juvie catered to both of the Gem Cities, but it was located in a far off suburb of Keystone, where the streets had all but faded to rural fields and there weren’t enough people to complain and keep the juvie out, so it was Keystone soil Len went for, thick and strong, warm between his fingers and filled with life already.

He built himself a man, big and tall and strong, with a back strong enough to take the hurts of the world.

He shaped fingers to be clever and quick, shoulders to help support him, strong legs to brace himself against any onrushing force.

For his brain, he put a scrap of lettuce from lunch, to represent growth, and stolen lighter, to represent destruction.

For his heart, Len worried at his own lip until it bled, and he spat that blood into the mud that he mixes with the last few tears he has within him.

Defend me and be by my side, he wishes, with all of his cold little heart. Be mine always.

And he carves the name of God, the shem, into his man’s rib, where it will be safe, and puts the name of truth upon his brow.

And then Len sits back, fury spent, energy gone, nothing left, and closes his eyes.

Please work, he thinks.

He won’t be able to take another disappointment.

If his grandfather lied, if his grandfather’s stories were no more than stories –

It would break his heart.

Please work.

Please.

A warm hand touches his elbow and Len sighs, an exhale of breath. He’d hope to escape notice long enough to complete his task, but apparently that wasn’t to be.

“Hey, kid,” a gruff voice he doesn’t recognize. “You okay?”

Len opens his eyes.

His man of clay looks back at him, open concern in his gaze.

It’s been so long since Len has seen anyone look at him kindly, look at him with concern, that he’s almost forgotten how looks.

“Hi,” Len whispers, unaccountably shy, and smiles, just a little.

And his man of clay smiles back.

Len can’t bring himself to regret that much. Michael, Len called him, named him, and the system recognized him as Michael “Mick” Rory when he followed Len back in – a boy with no family, no home, a pyromaniac whose family burned in a freak accident that he blames himself for.

Len has no idea if Mick Rory actually existed before his Mick walked back into juvie with him, and honestly, he’s too scared to look.

That’s not what he regrets.

What he regrets –

What he regrets is never having damn well explained any of this to Mick.

He should’ve done it from the start, he knows that, but he was scared. That’s explanation, not excuse; he played dumb when Mick asked him what he recalled about Mick’s past, pointed to the story the institutions gave them, avoided any reliance on proof, let Mick learn it and re-learn it until even he thought that was his real past, until he woke up at night dreaming of faces of sisters and brothers he never had.

Or maybe he did; what does Len know of golems? Maybe those dreams are of faces of other golems – Prague, Vilna, Themiscyra – far away.

Maybe Len’s been keeping that from him, too.

Fuck, Len’s fucked this one right up.

And now it’s too late.

Now Mick knows.

It was the fire that had revealed everything.

Len crafted Mick with a lighter in the center of his brain, a pulsing, beating core that thrummed with a remembrance of its love of fire, and it manifested as pyromania. Len was able to help Mick manage it well enough most of the time, but then - the job in Shreveport.

The whole room went up in a rush of flame.

Len scarcely escaped.

Mick, trapped by his love of fire, did not, and the flames consumed him.

But Mick is no mortal man, and fire cannot kill him. He is a golem, made of clay, and you know what fire does to clay?

It hardens it.

Len goes and finds those that turned the warehouse into a trap and kills them, only crumbling after the deed is done, falling to his knees and bowing his head in sorrow and regret.

That is how Mick finds him. His skin is glossy from the heat of the flames, but his face is cold.

“You knew,” he says. It is not a question.

“Yes,” Len whispers.

“Tell me everything.”

Len tells him all of it.

Not just the beginning, born of pain and desperation and a terrible fear that no one would ever love him, but the rest of it, the sickening pangs of guilt, the growth of love, the wrench of knowing that he should speak but finding he cannot, the understanding that he betrayed Mick every day with his silence -

Mick listens, his face closed, his body uninviting.

When Len finishes, cracked open and empty, Mick says nothing.

There is nothing but silence.

Finally, Len can take it no more. “Mick,” he says - more a plea than anything else - but finds his well of words has run dry. “Mick -”

“I need to think about this,” Mick says, and his voice is flat and unfeeling.

Len nods, numbly. That makes sense. That’s reasonable. Mick can think as long as he likes, as long as -

“Alone.”

Len bows his head, the little spark of hope that had been kindling in his chest abruptly extinguished.

It’s only just that this be the result. It doesn’t mean he likes it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t ripping him apart, gutting him, but he understands it.

It is fair.

It is awful, terrible, all-destroying, but it’s fair.

Len brought this on himself.

On them both.

Mick leaves.

After a while, Len leaves, too.

The next year goes by in a terrible blur. Len runs heists, same as always, going through the motions with a dull heart and an empty mind. He gets money and dumps it into bank accounts and turns around and keeps going. He has to keep going.

He knows if he stops, he will fall apart.

He goes - and goes - and goes -

It’s all nothing without Mick.

Len worries about him.

Oh, he knows it’s ridiculous. He knows Mick is all but invulnerable - bullets, knives, blunt force, fire, water, it’s all the same to him. But he has one vulnerability - that mark of truth on his forehead, right between the eyes where it can be mistaken for the wrinkles of stress.

If anyone changes a single stoke of that mark - erases truth and makes it death, a mere letter apart in the original Hebrew - then that’s it.

Dust to dust, ash to ash - clay to clay.

Len wakes up in a cold sweat on a regular basis to images of Mick, his beautiful Mick, dissolving into clay. He’d always known of this risk, but somehow it had not terrified him quite so much, in such a bone-deep manner, as it did now, with Mick gone who-knows-where. Gone where Len cannot protect him.

Even finding a superhero wasn’t really enough to break Len’s apathy. Oh, it’s nice; it’s a challenge. Len spends the whole time thinking wistfully of how he would enjoy this, if he remembered how to enjoy things without Mick.

His heart is gone.

He adds the heat gun to the pile of gifts for Mick that he has no opportunity to give.

He starts planning the next heist - either Keystone or Coast City, since it’s all the same for him right now - when there’s a knock on his door.

Len’s heart throbs for the first time in a year. Anticipation.

He knows that knock.

Len wants to dash over to the door, but his body is seized up. He walks to the door, slowly and surely, and opens it.

It’s Mick.

He looks good.

“Mick,” Len whispers.

“Len,” Mick says, and smiles.

Len suddenly needs to sit down.

Mick catches him as he falls, luckily, and guides him to the couch.

“What the fuck,” Len says groggily.

“Sorry,” Mick says. “My fault. I didn’t realize - you never said - about the distance. You should’ve said.”

“Distance? What about it?” Len asks.

Mick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Of course you didn’t know; that’s why you didn’t tell me. I should’ve known. Len, to make a golem, you have to put your heart and soul into the making or it doesn’t work.”

“Okay..?”

Mick taps his chest. “My heart beats with your heartbeat. When I go away from you, your heart is gone as well. But I’m back, now.”

Everything is in color. Len hadn’t noticed how dull it was the last year, how everything was dull, how even his lovely, sparkling Lisa seemed flat and uninteresting, though he loved her just as much as ever.

“I think I know what you mean,” Len says. “But you don’t have to stay just because of that.”

“I don’t have to stay,” Mick agrees, and there’s a stabbing feeling in Len’s chest. “I want to.”

The feeling fades, replaced by a steadily growing glow of irrepressible joy.

“I’ve learned a lot,” Mick says. “About golems, about humanity, about life, but most of all, I learned that I don’t want to be apart from you.”

Len smiles.

He gives Mick the heat gun – he gives Mick all the gifts he saved for him, anything he thought Mick might like – and they go together on a heist, then on a supervillain spree, because they’re back together, and no one can stop them.

They even go travelling in time, but it doesn’t suit them, and they try to pull out of it. Len has a strict code, so they have to finish the mission first, but they want out. They want out.

Out doesn’t come the way they would have wished.

“The Oculus explosion will kill even you,” Len hisses to Mick’s ear. “This isn’t a fire. This is a nuke!”

“I know,” Mick says, and his face is beauteous in its calm. “But that’s my duty, in the end. I’m here to protect you. I will do it.”

“You will not,” Len says, and takes his place.

Sara carries Mick away, surprised by how light he is for his strength. She does not know that he is clay, and Len does not tell her. Mick’s secret will die with him.

Len braces himself, and wishes Mick well.

A glowing gold rope wraps around his arms.

“What,” Len says, a second before he’s quite literally lassoed into a glowing portal that appears right by his side.

He stumbles out onto a beach, surrounded by a lot of women.

Very tall, very scary women.

“Um,” Len says. “Hi?”

“Welcome,” one of them says, stepping forward.

Len’s never met her before, but he knows her on sight.

“Holy crap, you’re Wonder Woman,” Len blurts out.

She smiles. “Call me Diana,” she says. “After all, you are my brother-in-law.”

Len opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it, then closes it again. He feebly gestures his lack of understanding.

“Mick is a golem,” Diana clarifies. “As am I; and so he is my brother. And you have married him, which makes us kin.”

Len tries to say something and fails.

“He speaks very highly of you,” she says.

“Well, Mick’s the best,” Len finally says. “None better.”

There are approving smiles all around him, which is a surprise – Len never makes a good impression on anyone – until Len realizes he’s still wrapped in Diana’s famous lasso of truth.

Well.

Mick is the best.

“Unfortunately, I cannot find him right now,” Diana says apologetically. “Will you stay here until I can?”

“Sure,” Len says, a little dazed.

He was expecting a few weeks.

It’s a whole year.

Not that it’s bad – Len doesn’t mind being on an island entirely composed of women, even if his movements are somewhat limited for religious reasons. He finds enough to keep him busy, though they do make him give back everything he steals. They don’t mind that he steals, mind you – they seem to think of it as a very clever game, and that he’s remarkably good at it – but they like the way they’ve distributed things and he doesn’t get to rearrange that at will.

Actually, he ends up becoming rather good friends with Hippolyta, who created Diana all those years ago out of clay with the help of some wandering sailor, and who is the only person who understands why Len’s vitality dims and his world goes grey the longer he’s away from Mick. Diana carries her heart with her; Mick has Len’s own.

“He knows you live,” Hippolyta assures Len. “He knows, deep inside, though perhaps not consciously – do not worry. You will be reunited, in time.”

Len waits, and waits, and waits, even when he sees cracks in the timeline – helpfully laid out in the every-shifting tapestry of Arachne hung up next to but not inside the temple of Athena for obvious reasons – and worries about Mick.

Even when he collapses as his thread is plucked out of its line in the tapestry, and wakes a few weeks later with a new set of memories and a newly intensified hatred of brainwashing.

At least he can assure himself that he only shot Mick through the heart, which would not have killed him, and at any rate, that future was averted.

Still. That was awful.

“I really need to find him,” he says to Hippolyta, Diana having gone out on mission. “I really need to find him. He’s suffering.”

“You’re suffering, too,” she says. “Soon.”

“I’d really appreciate a timeline,” Len grouses. “You’re literally centuries old. Your ‘soon’ and my ‘soon’ are not the same ‘soon’.”

Luckily, it turns out to be closer to Len’s ‘soon’ than Hippolyta’s.

In fact, it turns out to be during a massive universe-crossing invasion.

Diana makes an appearance.

“Ohmigodohmigodohmigod,” Cisco hyperventilates. “It’s Wonder Woman.”

Barry is vibrating with excitement, quite literally. Iris is just making squeaking noises and waving her hands frantically. Caitlin is frozen in place and attempting to communicate her excitement through blinks.

Even Oliver Queen, master of the unimpressed face, has stars in his eyes. “It’s an honor, ma’am,” he says, shaking her hand. “I mean – that is –”

“Diana is fine,” she says, and smiles, and Oliver looks like he needs to sit down.

Len gets that. He’s amused, watching; he’s not expecting to be recognized, what with the armor he’s currently wearing while the resupply lines go and grab his gear from Thermyscia. He’d been training when the call came, and at any rate, you can’t wear a leather jacket or a parka in a Mediterranean island.

Not even if you have a theme.

But his heart is beating strong and the world is in vivid color once more.

The Legends have arrived.

Sara is out first, flanked by Ray and Firestorm.

“Oh my god, it’s Wonder Woman,” Firestorm says. “I mean. Wow. I idolized you growing up. We did. Both of us. I mean – wow, this is embarrassing.”

“Think nothing of it,” Diana says, laughing. “I am honored.”

“Ditto to what he said,” Ray says, looking dazed. “Wow – like, so much ditto. Wow.”

Sara looks like she’s been hit by a truck. It’s not uncommon when people meet Diana. “Yeah,” she says. “Seriously. Wow. And you and your Amazons will be working with us on this? Wow. Now that’s an honor.”

The other Legends follow – Nate and Amaya and Zari, which Len has seen in the tapestry, and Mick.

Mick.

Len would go to him, but his feet are frozen in place.

(Karma for being amused at Caitlin’s plight, no doubt.)

“This is so cool,” Nate says, while both Zari and Amaya seem to be bouncing up and down in a fit of excitement too intense to actually permit them to speak. “I’m going to go say – Mick, what are you doing?”

Mick ignores him and continues walking straight up to a distracted Diana, reaching out for her.

“Mick!” Sara squawks, echoed by Ray and Firestorm. “Stop!”

Diana turns, sees him, and embraces him warmly. “My brother,” she says warmly. “I hope you are well. I have him for you.”

“You’d better,” Mick says, looking relieved.

Nate attempts to insert himself between the two of them. “You’re just amazing,” he gushes, ignoring Mick entirely despite the way they’re intertwined. “I mean, you’re Wonder Woman – Mick, let me talk to her, you had your moment –”

“Buzz off, Pretty,” Mick says, pulling back and making a face at his crewmate. “I wanna talk to my sister.”

“Mick,” Nate hisses.

“Perhaps we can speak later, Mr. Heywood,” Diana says politely, her kind smile unaffected. “I have not seen Mick for quite some time.”

“Wait, you guys have met before?” Ray asks, looking between them. “For real?”

“Did you miss the whole brother-sister thing?” Mick asks dryly.

“We didn’t miss it, we were just stunned,” Firestorm says. “Man, Mick, why didn’t you tell us you’d met Wonder Woman?”

“Didn’t seem relevant.”

“How is that not relevant?” Sara asks, then shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. Really cool, Mick. How did you two meet? And what did you do to get called Wonder Woman’s brother?”

Diana laughs. “He did not have to do anything,” she says, squeezing Mick’s hand. “He was born. Is that not the typical way of it, with brothers?”

“She’s older,” Mick says. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

“Wait,” Cisco says. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re literally siblings? Mick’s from Thermiscyia?”

“How?” Ray asks. “I thought they were women only.”

“I’m from Keystone, idiots,” Mick says. “She’s still my sister. Listen, we’ve got something really important to discuss – more questions later.”

“Agreed,” Diana says. “If you will be so kind as to excuse us…?”

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and lets them pass, Diana leading Mick back towards the Amazons. Of course, as soon as they’ve left the group, and the Amazons have close ranks around them, blocking them from view, frantic whispers and gestures erupt in the group left behind.

Len would normally be wallowing in amusement, but his focus is elsewhere.

Mick.

He pulls off his helmet.

“You,” Mick growls, and lunges forward.

Len is moving at the same time, and they crash together, arms around each other, holding each other close. Len feels the wave of dizziness, the feeling of heat burning in his chest, and he knows enough now to let it flow through him, from Mick into the rest of his body, and when he regains his ability to stand, Mick still has him held tight.

“I won’t do that again,” Len promises.

“You’d better,” Mick says. “I won’t let you.”

They stand in silence for a few more minutes.

After a few minutes, Len says, “How do you feel about threesomes? There’s a list of interested Amazons I’ve been collecting.”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Mick says, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the smile off his face. “Maybe after the current crisis?”

“If you insist.”

“I think I do.”

They grin at each other.

“Cisco rebuilt your gun, you know,” Mick says. “Caitlin’s been using it.”

“Trust me, I know,” Len says. “I’ve been watching Arachne’s tapestry.”

Mick blinks at him.

“Long story.”

“No, I know what it is, but it’s only supposed to be readable to – you know what, never mind. Let’s go fight.”

“You can’t leave it at that!”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’ve developed a functional form of immortality by becoming an Amazonian prince –”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Technically, my dear, you did marry the brother of the princess,” Hippolyta says mildly. “You qualify. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Len’s reintroduction to the Legends and the Flash turns out to involve some unattractive gaping on his part, because his friends are all awful people, but it still works out somehow. He only has to punch a half-dozen of them or so.

Besides, he has a new job.

Namely, protecting Mick from avid fans trying to convince him to get Diana to give out autographs.

Len minds exactly not at all, as long as Mick’s by his side.

And in the end, they go back to where they ought to be.

The Gem Cities just aren’t the same without their golem.

[lxtent]

A reply for @iceprincesssooyeon one month too late, for the day that Leo will never find enough words to do justice to.

A birthday was just a birthday.

One day longer alone. Another year for him to recall how much things had changed. And he had changed them. He’d changed them, been changed by them in return. First his parents, then his grandmother. Then Taejin and Sohyun. Now Sooyeon.

And she should have left long ago. How many reasons had he given her now? Instead, she had come back. Not for the second time that month, Leo stood at his doorway in awe, a Sooyeon on his doorstep, carrying parcels and an umbrella. He reached for her without even thinking. No... he couldn’t do that. Scaring her away before she even feels safe enough to come in. Unless she had never intended to come in. Maybe she was only here to drop off some more of his things and go. What if she hadn’t wanted him to open the door. What if-

Leo froze and looked at his hand. It hovered just above her wrist, ready to take her hand. He took the wet umbrella from her instead. She... was as surprised as he was. Leo swallowed down the fear that had risen, unbidden in his throat. Perhaps she didn’t want to see him. But that was not the case. She had come here to see him, specifically for his birthday. The spark of hope he felt, so small, barely enough to set a match alight, caused Leo to press a hand to his chest. He rubbed it away, trying to appear casual. Sooyeon would not buy it. How could she? There was nothing casual about them anymore, not since they had met, nor since the day it had nearly fallen apart. Nearly. Because she waited for him now, on the doorstep of his house with gifts. There was a thread that still remained unbroken. Leo wanted to tug on it gently, pull her closer to find out the strength of it.

“Ah... I- I thought...” That you wouldn’t want to see me. That it would cause you too much pain. He stepped back to let Sooyeon past. It gave her plenty of space to avoid getting too close to him if she preferred. “Come in.” The scent of her perfume breezed past him as she went. Leo’s eyes fluttered closed. 

He watched her settle some of the gifts on the breakfast table, where they had once shared dinner they’d made together before Leo gave her a drawing he’d been working on. He had debated giving it to her for days. Her smile when she’d received it had told him it was the right thing to do. He could trust her completely. That was why she was here now, wasn’t it? He still trusted her. She could do what she wanted with him and he would have no objections. Leo didn’t understand how she could still give him gifts to celebrate when they had been apart for so long. But he was near speechless as she gave them to him.

The teddy bear came first. Such an improvement on the last one, technically. But it was not this that Leo loved so much for it. It’s soft fur brushed his fingers, almost as if imbued with all the questions he had left them with, the comfort they always gave him. He had left them. No explanations. He had done to them exactly as their biologic father had, as his parents had done even though it was not their choice. It was all Leo could do not to hold the bear tight against his chest and not let go. He held it close anyway, tucked into the crook of his arm as he took the card. The familiar writing tore at his heart. Wishes of happiness, hopes that they would like the cake, Minjin writing very articulately on how they decided to make the bear. 

When was he coming home?

Leo dropped his head, bringing the bear up to bury his nose in its fur. Sooyeon had seen him cry so often he hardly worried about showing her the emotion. But when he lifted his head, a smile, albeit weak and filled with guilt, appeared on his lips. “I’ve missed them,” he whispered to her, “I left them, didn’t? I did not want to Sooyeon, please believe me. I don’t know if they’ll understand. Making sure they were safe, away from me, was all I could do.” He looked at the bear again. “I miss them.”

Putting the bear down reluctantly, and placing the card beside it, Leo took one look at Sooyeon with unrestrained curiosity before opening the box. Inside, a cake in the shape of a cats head sat waiting. “Miya...?” he asked dumbly before the realisation dawned on him. Not Miya. It was supposed to represent him. He pouted softly, forgetting himself in the familiarity of it all. And Sooyeon’s laugh. Her hand seemed to rise slightly as she did. Leo caught the movement in the corner of his eye, met her gaze. He wanted to take her hand. Anything. Just to be close to her. He resisted, hand curling whilst holding the bottom of his jumper instead.

Listening to her speak was gift enough. It had been two weeks since their last encounter. Broken glass fragments and unrestrained truths still lingered in Leo’s mind. Hearing her talk so normally felt incredibly rare. He’d taken such small things for granted, having been so concerned with preserving the future and hiding the past. This was what mattered. His gazed down at the box. He read the note. These... were exactly what he’d missed. Everything. Her voice, telling him about her day, what the kids had been doing, asking him why... just why. Leo looked at Sooyeon, distraught. She couldn’t go now. “Please don’t...” he rushed to say, “Stay, Sooyeon. Please stay.” Then he did what he had been aching to do since she walked through the door, only a small fraction of it, and took her hand.

With the other, fingers lightly shaking, he pried open the lid of the box. Seeing the letters, the scraps of paper... Leo held his breath. Underneath them was a key. The key he’d returned. The trust she now gave back to him, so completely, in both letting him read her thoughts, and allowing him to find a way home again.

He started slowly, in silence. He did not speak the entire way through. The tears began to trail down his cheeks somewhere in between. She had been scared. Worried. Worried for him and herself. For Miyun and Minjin. She thought... that he had not loved being with her. Of all things, that was the furthest from the truth. He just couldn’t explain it. How words failed him at the worst of times. Being with Sooyeon was the brightest light he had ever experienced in his life. The days they spent simply getting to know one another; warm coffee cups in their hands as he walked him to work whilst she was still studying, the night she had kissed him whilst they were quietly watching a film and he had followed her rather than walked away. God, she even remembered how they met. The first few notes on paper cups. Leo ad kept those. He was certain they were somewhere here, filled with doodles he had added to them when his mind wouldn’t focus on work. He had nearly forgotten. How could he let himself forget that?

Slowly, the letters lay open around them, every single one. They hadn’t sat down. Leo had stood, still as death, feeling life and pain and love coursing through him at a rate that felt like it was setting his blood on fire. The song still sat untouched and it was this, at last, that Leo turned to once he had finished. Sooyeon had written a beautiful melody. There wasn’t a day that went by that Leo wished he’d kept his mothers old piano. Only one place existed where he could play this now. Until then, he would have to sound the notes in his head. He’d have the memorised faster than he possibly should. He hummed them now, gently, to give them a voice. 

It was like the sun reflecting on raindrops as the clouds cleared, but rain still fell; relief and sorrow all at once. And Sooyeon, still waiting beside him, the very reason why Leo could see all the colours. It was bright. Beautiful. He’d made her wait so long, caused her so much more pain than he ever could have done. Staying away had given her time to collect her thoughts but at what cost to them both? To them, as they were, together and apart?

They had to talk. This silence couldn’t go on a second longer. It suffocated them still. Leo let his fingers drift idly over the back of her hand and when he spoke, his voice was calm. “We’re not going to give up.” He said it as a realisation. That flicker of hope reignited. It would be impossibly painful, yes. Leo needed - no, wanted - to work everything out. He would have to talk, and not ignore the events that had slowly destroyed him. Whether it be Sooyeon, someone else... He had to give up every secret, completely break himself before he could rebuild.

He could do it if Sooyeon stayed next to him. That he could believe. Staying apart only hurt them more than he had ever thought it would. He took long, shaky breaths. Too much oxygen flooded through him. Or was that the weight that had somehow... eased? The fierce guilt no longer pressing quite so hard against him? “Not any of it,” he continued, “Keeping away from you does nothing. It is a punishment for both of us. I deserve that punishment, but you do not. You... you still want to try, don’t you?” Of course she did. She wanted it as much as he did, only he was too scared to admit it. If he made things right and still found some happiness with Sooyeon, Miyun and Minjin then something would come to take it away. But if it did, he would not be the one to take it away himself.

“I want to try to be a person you deserve to have loving you. It will take time... I don’t know if it can be done, but for the days ahead we still have, I will give everything I have to see them into reality. I promise you this. Because I- I love you. More than anything, I need you to know that. I love you, Sooyeon.”  That ache to lean toward her and kiss her, to cup her face in his hands and show her what this meant, nearly consumed him... He could not say everything now, but for the first time in months, Leo thought they had time. They had time to talk. They would have time to figure out how to love each other without this destructive force hiding between the tiniest of cracks.

A few minutes passed. Leo kept his hand in hers, his left hand now holding the key. Its weight was comforting in his palm. Enough to convince to ask one more thing of her. If Sooyeon turned him down, he would not protest. He’d make sure she left safely and worry about calling her, ultimately deciding not to. He’d sit at his desk half the night and follow her lead: he would write, and what he could not find the words for, he would sketch into sense. But if she indulged him, he could wait an hour or two more before he began. Leo bit his lip, then found a sliver of courage left to ask her. “I know we- we will meet tomorrow. But would you stay for a little while? Only... it would not feel right to try the cake alone.”

[steven-grandpa-rogers]

Not Much of a Punishment

summary:

after a particularly rough mission, it’s up to clint to bring you back down to earth

pairing: clint barton x reader

word count: 2.1k

prompt: #29 from this list (again?? yes i really like this list)

warnings: rough sex, spanking, dom!clint, unprotected sex (i am a bad influence pls wrap it up), smoking

You trailed silently behind Clint as he stomped into your dingy motel room, slamming the door with little regard for whether it hit you in the face or not. You caught it and closed it quietly behind you, not wanting to disturb other residents of the motel. It was late, something close to two in the morning, and you hated to be those people. By the time you kicked your boots off, Clint had plopped onto your shared bed and dug out a cigarette. He lit it without looking at you.

You weren’t sure what to do, so you resorted to what you usually did when he was pissed. You dropped to your knees and waited, staring at his back. Silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. It was like time ceased to exist - it could have been an hour, or it could have been five minutes. You weren’t sure. You were sure, however, that by the time he was ready to speak, he had gone through a good two or three cigarettes. So probably closer to an hour.

Your knees had begun to ache a long time ago, so much so that they were practically numb by the time Clint made so much as a peep. “You know what your fucking problem is, Y/N?”

You didn’t respond, not wanting to piss him off more. He glanced over his shoulder, probably just to make sure you hadn’t slipped off into the bathroom or even out of the room altogether. When he saw you on your knees, he turned back around to extinguish his cigarette.

“You don’t know how to follow orders,” he continued, answering his own question. His eyes were set firmly on the wall. “You go off on your own and you jeopardize everyone’s safety. My safety, the Avengers’ safety, and the safety of every goddamn agent in the field.” A beat, and then, so quietly you could hardly hear it; “your own safety.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. Normally, this rant would have pissed you off. Would have lit some indignant fire under your ass. You would have yelled back, thrown a few of his own dumb as shit moves back in his face. But this time, he was right. You had been stupid. You hadn’t listened. And people were hurt because of it.

“You fuckin’ should be,” he replied, his voice gruff. The words hurt, like he had kicked you in the gut. You wanted to curl in on yourself and cry. You wanted to run and never look back.

It felt like you were adrift in an ocean with no land in sight. You thought, distantly, that you were on the fast-track to a breakdown. You were sure that if he kept giving you this cold shoulder, you would end up a blubbering, shaking mess. “Clint,” you whimpered, voice barely a whisper. He didn’t even look at you, but you knew he heard you. “Clint, I need you. Please.”

Maybe it was the desperation in your voice, or maybe it was just because he loved you too much to ignore you too long, but Clint turned to meet your eyes. It must have been the look on your face that made him realize how torn up you felt, because his eyes softened immediately. His demeanor changed, as did the air in the room. “I don’t know if I should give you anything, Y/N. I don’t think you deserve it.”

The firmness in his voice was like a lighthouse cutting through the storm raging in your mind. You felt your shoulders relax just slightly. “Please,” you whispered.

“See, Y/N, like I said.” He pushed off from the bed, beginning to remove his vest. “You can’t follow orders on the field,” the garment hit the floor, leaving his torso exposed to you, “so what should give me the impression that you can follow orders here?”

“Clint, please,” your voice was practically manic with desperation, though still softer than his was. “Please, I’ll be good for you. I swear, I can be good.”

His belt clinked as he unbuckled it, sliding it out of its loops and discarding it on the bed, probably to be used later. Your mouth watered at the thought. Clint hummed as he approached you, his fingers making quick work of the button of his pants. His hand came down to caress your face, fingers trailing over your cheek.

He brushed his thumb along your bottom lip and pushed into your mouth; you took the digit gladly, happy to finally have some sort of anchor to reality. He tasted like sweat and cigarette smoke and his hands were dirty but you really, really didn’t have it in you in the moment to care. Your eyes fluttered as he rubbed his finger over your tongue, letting out a muffled moan around the digit.

“I think,” he mused, his voice having dropped in pitch. It was rough, but now with lust instead of anger. “I think you deserve to be punished today, baby.” Your eyes widened in excitement, heart soaring at the thought. “You agree?”

You nodded furiously, feeling desperation growing in the pit of your stomach. He pulled his finger from your mouth and knotted the same hand in your hair, pulling you up to your feet. Your knees had grown so numb that you were sure your legs would’ve buckled without the firm grip. Clint crashed your lips to his with a click of teeth. He wasted no time wandering your mouth with his tongue, his free hand coming down hard on your ass. You yelped against him and allowed your eyes to roll back, hesitantly resting your hands on his chest.

He shoved you towards the bed, sending you sprawling onto your stomach on the mattress. You felt him crawl up over your body, pressing bites and sucking hickeys into your neck. “What’s your color?” His voice was a growl, and you knew that he knew damn well you were green as a traffic light, but that didn’t stop him from caring.

“Green,” you replied, voice muffled by the pillow. “Please, Clint.”

He slapped your ass over your catsuit, groping you harshly over the stretchy fabric. You cried out into the pillow, feeling yourself growing wet with arousal already.

Clint went back to marking you up, sucking a red mark behind your ear before his left hand curled around your neck. He yanked you up and brought his right hand around to rip the zipper down. Before you had even really processed what he’d done, your uniform was off and you were laying flat on your belly once more, naked and exposed before him. You felt him trail his fingertips lightly down your back, punctuated with a smack to your upper thigh.

You moved to lift yourself up onto your elbows. He liked it when you presented yourself to him and you were practically consumed with making him happy right now, aching knees the farthest thing from your mind. However, as he realized what you were doing, he pushed you back down to lay flat. “No,” he grunted, slapping your other thigh. “You were on your knees for too long already, baby. Stay.”

You weren’t going to complain; instead, you nestled down into the pillows and rested your head on your hands, more like you were getting a massage than a punishment. You felt Clint slide your panties off, sighing in relief as the scrap of fabric was tossed over his shoulder.

With your underwear gone, Clint kneaded your ass roughly, massaging away the already-forming red spots there. “What should I use, babe?” He growled in your ear, nipping his way down your neck before coming back up. “Hm? My belt? Or my hands?”

You weren’t used to him taking your opinions into account when he got like this and your mind was so preoccupied that you didn’t realize he was asking you genuinely. Which was why shock addled your brain even further when he pinched your ass and growled “well, baby?” in your ear.

“Your hands!” You gasped out, writhing against him and pushing your ass up and back in a futile attempt to spur him on. “God, Clint, please!”

He chuckled roughly, bringing a hand down on your ass once again. You moaned into the pillow. He hit you three times then, a quick volley of sharp, stinging slaps. He hit you with two slaps, then one, then five. He alternated between fast arsenals and single slaps with dragging seconds in between. By the time he had had his fill, you were writhing against the pillows, sobbing in pleasure and pain, your cunt soaked.

Finally, he flipped you over and pressed his lips to yours, one hand capturing your wrists and shoving them against the pillow and the other rolling a nipple harshly between his fingers. “You want me, baby?” He growled, trailing his hand from your breast to your slit. He swiped a finger through the wetness gathering there and you watched his eyes flutter as he felt how turned on you were. He grunted as he kissed you against, mumbling something about how that ‘wasn’t much of a punishment’ against your lips.

“Clint!” You cried out, jaw falling slack as he circled your clit. Your hips bucked up against him. “Please fuck me, please.” You were a writhing, sweaty mess and you were pretty sure you would explode without having him inside you.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he smirked, reaching down to kick his pants off his legs. He bent your legs back against the mattress, spreading you open for him. The sound he made at the sight of your glistening pussy was absolutely animalistic, reaching between you to slip a finger into your hole. “Think you can take me, honey? You can handle my fuckin’ cock?”

His voice still held that rough, heady tone, though you knew he was using it to cover up genuine concern. You nodded fiercely. You needed him too bad to go through the torturous process of being opened and stretched, and you were wet enough that it wouldn’t be too much of an issue. And if you couldn’t walk tomorrow, well. That would just have to be the price you paid.

“Alright,” he grunted, thrusting his cock along your cunt. You let out a long, loud moan as the head of it bumped against your clit. “You know your safeword.”

Though he hadn’t phrased it as a question, you nodded anyway, figuring you might as well give him confirmation that you’d stop him if needed. With his peace of mind returned, Clint reached between you to line his cock up with your entrance, pushing in slowly. Your head fell back against the pillow, baring your neck to him as you felt every inch of him pushing inside of you, stretching you perfectly. There was, admittedly, a little more burn than usual, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. He paused to grind against you as he bottomed out and let his head drop down to your shoulders, muttering a string of expletives against your skin. “Fuck, baby, feel so good,” he gasped, and you let out a shout as he pulled back so the tip of his dick was pulling at your outer wall before slamming back in much harder than before.

He was mumbling praises against your skin as he built up a rhythm, punishing enough to keep you grounded but gentle enough to make it feel good for both of you. “Love you so much,” he groaned, rhythm growing rapidly uneven as you both neared your peaks. You knew you wouldn’t last long, and neither would he, and you were okay with that. “I don’t say it enough… oh, God, fuck, baby!”

Clint reached between you to set three fingers on your clit, circling it in just the way you liked. You cried out and arched up into him as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You convulsed against him, fingers clutching at the pillow. He got in about two more thrusts before he was coming, too, shooting rope after rope into your tight heat.

You laid together for a moment, both panting. “I love you,” he was mumbling. You felt him pepper gentle kisses over your neck, obviously completely blissed out. “Don’t do that again, please, I’m beggin’ you. Don’t know what I’d do with myself if I lost you.”

You nodded and stroked a hand through his hair. He had been strong and taken care of you when it would have been so easy to tell you to fuck off or to pick a fight or do something else Clint-like. Now you had to be strong for him as he went through his own process of coping.

You weren’t sure how long he stayed like that, mumbling soft, vulnerable pleas and declarations of love into your neck. Finally, he rolled onto the bed next to you and drew you into his embrace, exhaustion overcoming the both of you and pulling you off into a bone-heavy, dead-to-the-world sleep.

[xehanortsreport]

Indestructible Will [Fic]

[Eyyy, finally got down the other half of Tipping Point! It’s kinda cheesy, but I’m writing for a hypothetical shonen here! There’s probably going to be a third part to this as it ends on a pretty clear cliffhanger but? Lemme know what you guys think!]

"Now, Higashikata, I am capable of being benevolent when it suits me. I, unlike you, am mature."

As Kira let the words roll coolly off of his tongue, halting his stride, the bevy of mutated creatures behind him had their attention shift to small animals and neighborhood pets to sate what hunger was left among them. Blood spilled further into the streets, pooling at Kira's feet like a royal carpet rolled out for his magnificence.

"I am highly aware," the parasite continued, "that death is not the only, or even the best, option."

Josuke struggled to find a way to counter and was quickly losing hope of finding back-up--his mind turned again and again to the worst case scenario, and he struggled to hide his shaking as Kira's voice rose.

"Now you, being immature, probably have not taken into account the depth of my gracious offer. So, listen closely." Kira rose one thin, bony finger and wagged it at Josuke, lips curled into a detestable smirk. "I, Yoshikage Kira, am offering to spare you."

"Understand fully. I don't care what happens to you as long as you cease to interrupt the peaceful atmosphere of this wonderful little town. Killing you would be a waste of what could be another useful bodyguard."

"I could turn you, and no doubt your friends would follow. None of you would have to die. An ideal solution...and if you choose to resist, I can kill you any time I want. I can kill you now. I can kill you later. It doesn't really matter now, does it? Because I have already won."

Kira paused his speech, eyes widening as if the thought was a revelation to himself as much as it was to Josuke. A deep, rumbling laugh rose in his chest, bursting, shaking his torso, curling his fingers victoriously as if to rip the very air.

"I've already won! I am invincible, Higashikata Josuke! There is not a thing you or your gang of hooligans can do to take that away from me! This is the peaceful, quiet life I've always dreamed of!"

Something shifted vigorously under Kira's skin, and Josuke knew, disgustingly, it was that damned worm. The real Kira.

Still...Josuke couldn't think. He couldn't think of actions while that creature's laughter echoed in his mind. He crumpled to his knees, fury directed as much at himself as it was at Kira, horrified that he had gotten himself trapped in this very situation to begin with. To be separated from his comrades...to be cornered without a way to fight back...his fist pounded the pavement uselessly as his shoulder quivered with anger and fear.

What the hell had he done?!

...What the hell could he do?

"...fine. I'll...I'll go along with you."

Josuke's voice was quiet. Emotional. Self-hating. Kira's eyes swiveled downward grotesquely, face contorting into a look of confusion. Then...he let out a disbelieving, pleased shout, as if he hadn't considered that his own offer would be plausible at all.

Kira stepped closer, though his army hung back, and his voice was saturated with delight as he crushed Josuke further with his eyes.

"I'm no idiot, Josuke. Don't think you can use me to get closer to help."

Josuke watched, humiliated, teeth grit, as Kira's eyes swept their surroundings, and the mass of bugs followed his gaze, feet and claws splashing in sticky blood as they scattered and broke every single scrap that Josuke could even consider using as help for himself.

Kira wet his lips hungrily as he gazed spitefully back down upon Josuke.

"You will be a fine addition to my town."

Josuke's eyes fell hopelessly downward, seeing nothing to help him, nothing but a sea of red, red, red...

"Are you prepared?"

Josuke wanted to spit, but instead inhaled, deeply.

"...Yeah..."

The next movement was lightning quick. Kira moved forward, his pristine shoes sinking into a bloody puddle. He reached out towards Josuke, just as the other threw his head upward, staring down the parasite with a determination that seemed to visibly consume every inch of his body. With a shout, Josuke slammed his hands down into the streams of blood in front of him, and before Kira could register, too late, what Josuke was doing, a powerful surge erupted from his body. Large, bright sparks arced from his arms and torso, flooding into the liquid, spreading out among the web of blood into Kira and his crowd of followers.

"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH--!!!"

Kira let out a vicious, high-pitched scream that warped into furious buzzing as hamon flooded his body. The bugs behind him, caught in the trap as well and further disoriented by their leader's desperate wailing, collapsed onto themselves, adding their shrieks to the discordant chorus.

Josuke didn't miss his chance.

He bounded to his feet, propelling himself forward into a powerful leap, arm cranked back as far as it would go, hands curled into powerful fists as he flew into motion and bellowed--

"DORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

A solid, wet smack echoed through the street as the spiked brass knuckles made impact with Kira's cheek, knocking the parasite into the ground with a tremendous crash. He had already expended most of his hamon, but Josuke summoned every single sap into his fists as he slammed them again and again into Kira's face and torso, the bug screaming in agony as his skin peeled off in large, burnt swaths, writhing, looking for an escape.

"HIGASHIKATA--YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIIIIIIIIIIT--!!" The screeching barely sounded human, riddled with clicking and cracking and hissing.

In a surge of rage, taking advantage of Josuke's growing exhaustion, Kira grabbed his assailant, slamming him into the ground and throwing himself over the hamon user, shoulders heaving.

"I'LL WEAR YOUR FUCKING SKIN, I'LL MAKE YOU EAT YOUR GODDAMN FAMILY, I'LL MAKE YOU WATCH AS I MAKE YOU TAKE A BACKSEAT TO YOUR OWN BODY, HIGASHIKATA JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSUKEEEEEEEEEEEE--!!!"

Kira's jaw stretched open as he screamed Josuke's name, dislocating, revealing large, drool covered fangs and a black, gelatinous mass that rapidly rolled out of his mouth; rolling yellow eyes swirled about the worm's true body, the eyes that resided inside his host's skull leaking from their sockets as they streamed rapidly downward, over Josuke's face. Josuke instinctively opened his mouth to gasp for air, and the worm pressed forward, ready to take over--

"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--!!!"

Another inhuman shriek of pain and frustration rocked the street as Josuke flooded his body with hamon, forcing the worm out, leaving it to curl up on the ground.

"Hah!" Josuke spat, unable to fight back the small feeling of victory that pumped inside his chest. "You aren't thinking anymore, are you, Kira?! Working on nothing but instinct...you really are just a bug."

The parasite hissed, sloppily retreating back into Kosaku's body. The dazed citizens of Morioh seemed to be regaining their senses as Kira's screams came to a halt.

"Damn you...Don't you look down upon me...you useless human...RIP HIM APART--!!"

The crowd surged forward, and Josuke, content that he had at least gotten the chance to resist to the bitter end, faced them with beaten fists raised, acknowledging death...

And death came.

The clack of metal against pavement surrounded Josuke, and he jumped back, startled. Many small, metal canisters fell around him and into the crowd, and after a brief moment of inaction, began to smoke. The cloud grew thicker as it started to hiss from the canisters, and almost immediately, the crowd began to let out their own hisses and groans as they collapsed to the ground. Kira let out a panicked yelp as he realized what was happening...and Josuke's eyes, wide and filling with hope, darted quickly around the street until he saw them.

On the rooftops, throwing can after can of foggers and other pesticides, were Okuyasu, Koichi, and Jotaro. Okuyasu briefly stopped what he was doing to catch Josuke's glance with a hearty wave, grinning jovially.

"GOD DAMN! WHERE WERE YOU GUYS!?" Josuke shouted upward, and he felt his eyes prickle with tears.

Koichi shouted back down, his arm flying back to lob another canister into the crowd.

"Jotaro broke every law in Japan to get us to S-City and back here in time to help you out!"

Another volley of poison scattered across the street, and the asphalt began to fill with small, squirming worms as they vacated the bodies of those they possessed.

"Yeah, Kira may have gotten rid of all the bug stuff here in Morioh," Okuyasu said, bouncing a can in his hand before chucking it down. "But he couldn't touch S-City! Huh...guess that's what happens when you settle down?"

"Well, we're lucky he didn't think to take over Japan!"

Kira, panicking, began to scoot backwards, scrambling to get away while he could--but Josuke grabbed him by his suit's now filthy jacket and yanked him back.

"You're finished."