#ma and pa remember him but that too makes NO fucking sense like does ma remember pa dying???

[mamawasatesttube]

every time i remember how bendis completely destroyed the kon & clark bond i want to start biting and maiming. literally what is the point of it all!!!! just kill kon again im begging!! it'll be funny when the second time around comparatively nobody gives a shit fdklsjdjkd

[ae-azile]

Kim isn't sure what he is witnessing. In hindsight, maybe he should have suspected that Fern may have crossed paths with Namphueng at one point. While he didn't know about Namphueng’s initial connection to their family until a couple of years ago, he hasn't given much thought about who else would have met her. Ma would have known her, although Kim knows she wouldn't have accepted Namphueng being forcibly medicated and kept in a room. That was not the person she was. She was never like Pa. 

But he never thought about Auntie Milan knowing her. That's the only thing that makes sense, considering how emotional Fern is right now. He knows Uncle Gun met Auntie Milan when they were teenagers, that she was two years younger, but they didn't start dating until sometime in college. He never really thought of why she would have been around their family prior to that because he didn't know about Namphueng until recently. 

But now that he does know about her and this is happening, he realizes that Namphueng and Auntie Milan would be about the same age, and it makes more sense for Namphueng to be Auntie Milan’s initial connection to their family than Uncle Gun.

Especially when Fern seems so overcome with emotion, as if her world just stopped as soon as she laid her eyes on Namphueng. 

“What happened?!” Fern says, gripping Namphueng’s shoulders, “You were…She broke down and said…You were dead! You, Pat, and the boys were dead!” 

Namphueng doesn't sign a word. She is just staring at Fern in a trance, and Kim doesn't know if she doesn't understand or is just completely shutting down, but he can see that she is overwhelmed. There are tears dripping down her cheeks even though her expression is almost emotionless. It's as if she is frozen. 

Going by the way Chay, Porsche, Macau, and Vegas seem frozen too, it could be contagious. 

“Fern?” Pete says , surprisingly the first one to intervene as he touches her shoulder to get her attention, “She uh…She doesn't voice. She understands it, but she only signs now. And her um…Porsche? I’ve mentioned Porsche to you before-” 

“You didn't tell me who his mother was!” Fern signs harshly, “You didn't tell me he was alive! I thought it was someone else! A different Porsche!”

“I didn't…We didn't…” Pete says, trailing off, “We didn't know you knew him or Namphueng-” 

“Of course I know Namphueng!” Fern snaps, “I was close friends with her parents! I’ve known her since she was four! She was Milan’s closest friend for years! She was-” 

Fern cuts herself off, turns back to Namphueng, and brushes her hair back in a maternal manner.

“What happened? Tell me everything.” 

Namphueng seems to be shaking, but her stunned expression crumples as soon as she spells out one thing. 

“Milan?”

She follows that up with a sign Kim vaguely remembers as a sign name.

His aunt's sign name.

“Uh…” Khun says, standing up as well, only to go over to where Tay, Time, Jom, Tem, and Yok are sitting, “Maybe…Maybe we can do this a different night. I think we need…Obviously, we didn't expect-” 

“We understand,” Tay says as he gets to his feet and beckons everyone else at the table to do the same, “I hope…I’ll text Kinn later to check in.”

As the five head out and Arm goes ahead and arranges for his sisters to get a ride back to the hotel rooms Khun unnecessarily treated them to, the restaurant soon has eight less people inside. It's probably for the best - both with Namphueng’s nerves and the fact that Fern looks like she is seconds from lashing out until she gets answers. 

“What happened to her?!” Fern says, her gaze turning fiery. Porsche finally snaps out of his confusion and steps forward. 

“Can we talk privately so we don’t stress her out?” Porsche asks, then signs the words to make himself clear, “Chay…Chay will come too. Right, Chay?” 

As Kim looks over at Chay, he sees him nod and step forward. While Fern looks extremely hesitant to leave Namphueng, she reaches over, squeezes her hand, and leads Chay and Porsche through a door. 

“Fuck this,” Vegas mutters, walking towards the door too, “I want to know what’s going on. I need to check on the baby anyway.” 

Vegas is gone before anyone can talk to him. It seems like none of them even know what to say anyway. Kim isn't sure what could be said, considering they aren’t completely sure what is happening. 

Before Kim can overthink it more, Namphueng taps Kim’s shoulder roughly to get his attention. 

“Milan?” she signs, seeming desperate for a response. 

Kim blinks, then isn't sure what he is supposed to say. 

“Milan is my aunt. Fern’s daughter-” 

“Where?” she signs, then starts looking around, “Where where where where where?”

When Kim redirects his gaze towards Khun and Kinn, they seem like they feel helpless. 

When Kim looks at Macau, he seems heartbroken. 

[terrence-silver]

idk if ur still doing this but “Say you love me, and only me.” for Old man Terry?

A long time ago, Terry's pa' got his ma' a parrot.

An exotic bird with vivid, brightly colored, lush feathers, his mother absolutely adored the creature and she'd teach it songs and phrases to say, nestling it in an ornate cage hanging next to her make-up boudoir as she'd doll herself up in the looking glass for hours. Some of the lines she'd teach it was 'I love you, I love you, I love you' sung back to her whenever she'd sit and apply her red lipstick, sweet-smelling perfumes and compact powder and the bird of paradise would complement her and keep her company. In equal measure, whenever his father would enter the room, the bird would declare its love and ma' and pa' would smile at each other, fondly, as if saying it to one other through the beak of a trained animal, relaying their own affections --- and Terry's parents did care for each other, in a strange, obsessive, manic manner few people understood, yes. Likewise, whenever anyone interacted with the pet, it would say 'I love you, I love you, I love you.' on command. It was always an I love you. The only thing the bird could utter in the whole world. Why? Because it was taught. It was a childhood memory vividly etched into his mind.

Now, he is an old man and he still remembers the song bird.

It comes back as a swift recollection as he's grabbing a fistful of your hair, tangled in his fist as you squint in pain, having you firmly pushed against him so you cannot wiggle, run or move, chest to chest, your heart heaving and beating next him pondering how he wants you to sing, just like the parrot so long ago did. -“Say you love me, and only me.”- Terry's close enough to smell you, speaking into your mouth and truth is, he doesn't remember when was the last time someone said they loved him or when the last time he actually wanted to fucking hear it out of somebody. There's been a lot of people, yes, but how many have, explicitly and truly loved Terry for Terry? The unabashed, open, unfiltered Terry? Maybe the songbird didn't love its owners either, it was merely trained to repeat an empty, gimmicky mantra without understanding, fundamentally what it meant, bribed by too many crackers and treats for comfort. They were only empty sounds to the animal, but you would be different because he too would train you. That's what a Sensei does. A Sensei teaches you. You'd repeat your own mantra for his pleasure and you'd feel it too, in the truest sense, because he'd drill it into you. You'd become his caged parrot.

[badacts]

the water is rising/i’m too tired to swim

There was nowhere else on Earth like Smallville. Or, for that matter, off of it.

Of course, little but the high holidays and complete disaster seemed to bring him back here these days. Sometimes he had to wonder whether regular adults felt the same as him, living so far from the places they’d grown up in. That aching wonder at being able to come home, with the overlapping whisper of a sense that that home couldn’t last forever.

Disaster made Clark Kent more introspective than Christmas, it turned out.

Bruce, who had stripped down to the suit baselayer with a pair of Clark’s sweatpants pulled over top, was leaning against the railing of the porch. He appeared to be watching the sunrise, though Clark suspected that was a front for him staring into the middle distance lost in thought. Clark would swear part of the reason the man kept the lenses in his cowl down during League meetings was to disguise the difference between his absent thinking expression and the force of his focus.

“How’s he doing?” Clark asked, voice kept low. Ma and Pa would be up soon anyway, but after the late night they’d caused it was the least he could do.

“Lantern is fine,” Bruce replied. His only tell was a tightening of his knuckles on the railing, there and then gone.

“And you?”

This earned him a look. “Any word from Diana?”

“She’ll be here by tonight with news. But we have our orders.”

“Orders.” Bruce’s expression was one of immense distaste. “We have a round table for a reason.”

“That’s what I’m usually telling you,” Clark replied, just as he normally would, and then winced. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

Now Bruce’s face had gone still, an indication either that he was angry or that he genuinely had no idea what Clark meant. Clark, used to treading that particular line on the side of caution - at least in this one respect - felt his eyes becoming inexorably attracted to his feet. Being back home turned him into an ashamed eight-year-old too easily.

“I should have been prepared,” he said. 

Because he should have been. He should have known. Of all the temptations and causes, there were few other things Hal Jordan would like to throw his life away for with that particular degree of abandon. This had been Clark’s problem, and he should have been able to solve it without ever involving either of these two men, with their particular idiosyncrasies.

Just - kids were a hotspot for both of them, even kids from far-flung planets being trafficked across a variety of civilisations that just so happened to include the human ones. Bruce had long accepted that it was more reasonable to live for children, not die for them, but Hal hadn’t got that memo yet.

“You can’t possibly imagine that I’m angry with you.”

“I,” Clark began, and then stopped. To be honest, he hadn’t really imagined that Bruce wasn’t.

Bruce turned to look at him more fully, coolly assessing. The huff afterwards was indecipherable. 

“Bruce-”

The man had turned back to the horizon. He said, “Clark, have I ever struck you as the type to make excuses for Green Lantern?”

Clark stepped up and leaned against the railing next to him. “There was never any danger of anyone accusing you of favouritism, certainly. Well, not towards Hal.”

The huff this time was definitely shaded with amusement. “Lantern can take responsibility for his own mistakes, Kal. He doesn’t need you falling on your sword for him.” 

It wasn’t a mistake, Clark didn’t say, because he didn’t need to. But Bruce’s anger would translate as it liked to - Clark had known him for long enough to know that.

“Well, what’s a mission without the post-mission pervasive guilt,” Clark replied, an attempt at humour. Because it was Bruce, it didn’t fall flat. That was one thing about the man no one who didn’t know him would guess - humourless he may seem, but he was capable of poking fun at himself. Or maybe it was just because he knew Clark well. 

It was Hal’s bloody victorious smile that had done it, he thought. Or maybe it was Batman’s sudden anger, alien from beneath the cowl which usually presented only the cold judgement of old god. That fierce protective anger usually reserved for Robins, in a situation where there were no Robins to be found. Or that Clark hadn’t known that Green Lantern might be a focus of it, hadn’t known there was anything there to know.

It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense. It’s that he hadn’t considered it, not once. 

“You boys need to get to bed,” Ma said from the door. She was folded warmly into her dressing gown, the one Lois had got her for Christmas a few years back. “Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been up all night.” Her cool hand settled on Clark’s back, like it had from the time he got tall enough she didn’t have to hunch to do it.

“I’m always up all night,” Bruce replied, with a lilt of amusement at himself.

“Well, maybe in those cities that never sleep, that works. Out here, if you don’t sleep with the sun, you won’t get through a day on the farm,” Ma replied. Her other hand pressed to Bruce’s back, there and gone. “You look exhausted.”

“Well, if I need to help milk cows later,” Bruce conceded. It was entirely possible that he had no idea Ma and Pa didn’t keep dairy cows on the property, and hadn’t since their last gentle old house cow had gotten too old to calve. For a man with a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge on many topics, his practical knowledge of farming was limited to desultorily prodding at the inner workings of Pa’s old truck.

“Off you go,” Ma ushered, shooing them into the house like a woman her size shouldn’t have been able to. “I’ll wake you if the world is ending.”

“Not if I hear it first,” Clark said.

*

Bruce retreated to the guest room, feet soundless on the rugs along the hall floor. Martha was right enough, that he needed sleep. As irritating as it was to need it now in particular, he could concede that there was little place safer than Superman’s family home while Superman was in it.

Hal was curled on his side in the guest bed, though he twitched and roused at the sound of the door opening. “Mmff. Hey, baby.”

“Lantern, it’s me,” Bruce replied brusquely.

“Nothing wrong with my eyes,” Hal said. He moved under the duvet, and then hissed out his breath. “Unlike my ribs, fuck.”

“Give me a pillow.”

One incredulous brown eye focussed on him from amidst said pillows. He seemed to have placed them strategically, though Bruce wasn’t sure when.  “Over my suppurating corpse.”

Of course. Bruce picked up his cape from the pile of his gear in the corner and spread it on the floor beside the bed. There was at least a thick rug, some kind of synthetic shag.  

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” Bruce replied. “You ought to do the same. You’ll be coherent enough for a strategic meeting later.”

“That’s a funny way to describe you and Clark arguing in the kitchen while Diana watches and laughs internally,” Hal said, “But it does explain a lot about your personal approach to injury recovery.”

“It’s just a concussion.”

“If you could tell yourself from six hours ago that, I’d appreciate it.”

Bruce wore that like the censure it was meant as. He knelt down on the rug, though it made his spine complain and his hip crack audibly. Another shade of embarrassment. At least this one was in front of the team member most likely to understand human fallibility. 

Hal heaved a gusty sigh. “Just get in.” 

“What?”

The single eye managed to convey challenge as well as the rest of the man tended to. A hand pushed the blankets back.

“It’s a double,” Bruce said. The Kents clearly didn’t have many guests visiting who measured over 5’8”.

“We can snuggle,” Hal replied.

“With those ribs?” Bruce asked, but conceded. The floor had never looked tempting, but it failed to even begin to measure up against a bed with Hal Jordan in it. 

“Unbelievable,” Hal muttered as Bruce slipped in beside him. The mattress was body-warm where he’d sprawled across it, and a touch too soft. It rolled them into the centre together, something Hal seemed eager to take advantage of. Wary of bruises, Bruce allowed himself to be nudged onto his back with Hal’s good side belly-down on him, head cupped into his shoulder.

Once settled, Hal let out a momentous sigh. “Nice.”

“I live to serve.”

“Well, that’s not true, but okay,” Hal said into his shirt. “You scared the fuck out of Clark.”

That’s not at all how Bruce remembered the situation, but it seemed cruel to contradict someone with a head injury. Also, Hal’s good arm seemed to be trying to wriggle between Bruce’s back and the mattress, and it was distracting.

“He thought you were going to produce kryptonite from some orifice and rip his stomach out his nose,” Hal continued. “You told him it wasn’t his fault, right?”

“Of course,” Bruce replied. “I told him it was yours.”

Hal huffed a laugh. “Actually, it’s yours, if anything.”

Bruce looked down at him. After a moment, Hal’s head rolled so their eyes met. There was amusement on his sleepy face. “You really shouldn’t’a started going out to fight gods and aliens in leather and kevlar. Or you shouldn’t have slept with me. One of those two things.”

“Guess which one I think it is.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got regrets. Well, so do the rest of us, you’re not special. And, might I just add-”

“I’m not sure I could stop you.”

- you still ended up in bed with me right now.”

Bruce sighed through his nose, looking to the ceiling. “There’s only one spare bed.”

“You could have shared with Clark. It wouldn’t be the first time, right?” The tone was distinctly lascivious. Hal shouldn’t have had the blood content for that quite yet, but it proved his healing capacity if nothing else. Bruce felt an expression of distaste cross over his face, but doubted Hal could see it from his position.

“This is purely for practical reasons,” he said, like there was anything in his life he’d done out of practicality. And like he didn’t have an arm around Hal’s shoulders, curling him close. 

“Sure, pull the other one,” Hal said, “It’s got an alternate reality where we somehow managed to only ever fuck once on it.”

“The regret gets stronger every time you open your mouth.”

“As if.” To prove his point, Hal gave him a lazy grope. “Did you share those regrets with your-”

“Shh,” Bruce interrupted. He removed Hal’s hand, though not with any particular degree of firmness. 

The truth of the matter was that Bruce was not in the habit of lying to himself - he was firmly of the belief that that particular habit, more than any other, got one killed. And perhaps the best he could expect was dying in a manner of his own choosing, but if he got to pick, being surprised by something he’d willfully ignored was not the way he would go.

He’d known since that night that it was never something that he’d do just the once. Case in point: Hal Jordan wouldn’t let it happen that easily. 

He’d also known that it was a problem. A personal problem. One that didn’t start or end in the bedroom. That had also proven true.

In the quiet, Hal had settled. His breath was warm on the skin over Bruce’s heart.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled. “How do you always feel so good?”

Bruce had been wondering the same thing. He just held back tighter.

[georgescatcafe]

vermillion — 1

rating: t warning/s: period-typical homophobia pairing/s: georgenap genres/tags: cowboy x city boy au, rancher sapnap, rich george, coming of age, slow burn word count: 3,152 summary: When Sapnap gets sent into the city to get quick cash for his family’s struggling ranch, he’s not expecting much from the experience—lights aren't very blinding when held up to the Sun, and he's not exactly there to play around. But then he meets George, a boy built on money, who quickly sweeps in not just paying customers but also Sapnap, leading him into what any ruddy country boy would call the mouth of the Devil: high society. Cue a summer spent by each other’s side while feelings run unbidden, uncaring of deadlines and restraints.

It should be enough for the pair—and for awhile, it is, right up until it isn’t.

+ao3 +masterpost

;;

PART I

1994

Going to the city alone isn’t too different from going with his Pa. The drive there is mild, skies blue, sunny, fields on both sides of his muddied pickup stretching out endless and golden, ready to be cut down. Nick is sixteen now, old enough to head to the market on his own, license shiny and new, brain bright and sharp. He’s been preparing for this, and now it’s time for him to show off what he knows.

He had thought the 80s were bad, his dad cursing some figurative Big Man (Nick’s pretty sure he just meant the government) and constantly pushing hard on the ranch to make ends meet. They aren’t farmers, their neighbors having it way harder than they could, but it was rough, and it’s still rough—everything is so expensive, so now Nick is their last hope, Pa working the ranch, son sent off to the city to try and get some immediate cash. It’s hard to deny freshly cut steaks.

They’ve got horses too, pretty ones, some sold to be racers, but mostly pretty ones. Nick’s been planning to propose they start some summer thing, parents bringing their kids to the ranch to ride the horses, get the wind in their hair from something other than a car with its windows down. Not this year, though. (The highway sign tells him his exit is in two miles. Nick focuses back on the road.) This year, he’s busy.

;;

Pulling into the market’s parking lot, Nick doesn’t feel blinded. Really, opening the truck door finds him with a lungful of stink, and his thoughts are drowned out by the honking of horns and shouting of pedestrians. He thinks he hears a bell tower in the distance—does this city have a college?—but he can’t be sure.

It’s nothing glamorous.

Rounding his truck, he gets the coolers out the back, gets the papers too, lists of cows they’ve got, some horses, sheep, goats. Pa wants to get rid of them, but Ma likes to make sweaters. The sheep can be costly, but sweaters cost others, so Nick guesses it all balances out. They’re not getting rid of any chickens this year, but Nick’s two coolers definitely have some plucked birds. He blinks, remembering the eggs. He’s got some of those to sell too, and they don’t even need to be refrigerated. He’ll get them later.

Finding his shop is easy. The signs pointing out where everything is are all done in a looping, confusing cursive, so Nick forgoes reading them to just follow the sight of flannel and the smell of smoking meat. And there it is. A booth, the sign above it not in cursive (thank God) and declaring the name of their ranch in bold. Once Nick’s got all his things in place, he comes to stand proudly at it. PAPPAS RANCH above, Nick Pappas below.

Things go a lot slower after that. People don’t really flock to him, people don’t even come up to him. If anyone does, it’s at a meandering pace, like the wind might’ve pushed them more than them deciding to look. It’s a little humiliating, but Nick does his best to sell what he can. He’s not really concerned about the meat, and the animals are all still alive and fine on the ranch, but he is concerned about cash, and he knows they need it. Customers are vital. There just… aren’t any.

He leans back on his heels, surveying the marketplace. It’s quaint, kind of cute. Not as rugged and rough as the one in town, more proper-looking. To be expected. He people-watches. The people are people. No one is particularly interesting. Another customer is blown towards him. Nick sells them a couple twelve-ounce filets. He pays a little more attention after that.

Still, that’s the only big purchase he gets, and he tries not to let it sit on his mind too heavily when he heads back to his truck, coolers and folder and cash in hand. The night is warm, and he’s grateful for it when he settles in the bed of his pickup. In hope of saving some money, he’d turned down his parents’ offers of a hotel, the reluctance of giving up cash clear on his dad’s face anyway, so now Nick is left to sleep in his truck bed, surrounded by coolers and tarp and blankets. When he rolls over, he winces. He’d put the cash in a little safe then tucked that little safe under his makeshift bed. It sticks out uncomfortably underneath him. Oh well. He literally made his bed. Now he’s lying in it.

;;

Morning comes before he’s ready for it, and he finds himself glaring at the Sun as it creeps over the horizon, taunting him with cotton candy skies and sweet birdsong. The night wasn’t much better, with the safe in his back, with the city still awake long after the market closed. Despite his exhaustion from the drive, from standing, sleep did not come easily, and Nick feels the effects of that as he sets up shop all over again, goes to the market’s little bathroom installed down the way to change clothes, to splash water on his face. He groans when he remembers his toothbrush, still in his truck. He goes to get it anyway.

So, his start is a little slow, so what? Nick ties his bandana tighter around his head when he reaches his booth, double-checking his inventory before smiling at the woman who runs the booth across from his. She tips her hat at him in return.

There’s more people coming around today, which is good, and it makes sense. It’s a Thursday, which, while it isn’t the weekend, it’s getting there, and Nick eagerly anticipates it.

He makes a deal for one of their cows, sells some filets, some chicken thighs and veal—it’s a better day. He’s hesitant to call it good.

;;

Like the day before, Friday comes bright and early, uncomfortably so. He climbs out of his truck, gets his things—the whole rinse, wash, repeat. And then he’s back at his booth, saying hello to the woman across, again she tips her hat, and he’s drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

Nothing.

Nick takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. Things are fine. He’s fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day; Pappas Ranch doesn’t sell their entire inventory in two. It’s fine.

It’s still early, a whole day ahead, and though Nick braces himself for disappointment, he tries not to let it show, still standing tall beneath the sign above his booth. He just needs to be approachable, smile, be the charming boy his Pa raised him to be.

It works when two women walk by, mother and daughter, probably, arms linked, the two of them chatting only to stop at Nick’s booth, the mother smiling politely at him and daughter waving. “We’re having guests over tonight,” the mother says.

“How many?” Nick asks. And the deal goes through.

And it works with an older man, eating only for himself, but wanting to stock up for the weekend. A full guys’ thing. But it’s just him. Nick tells him he gets it, and he’s a few chickens shorter, a rack of lamb ribs gone.

It’s around lunch that things slow down, leaving Nick mildly surprised, but not entirely annoyed, as he uses his own pocket change to get some fruit from a farmer in another section, and an elderly woman three booths down gives him a little bit of smoked pork free of charge. It’s a meager, but good lunch. He’s leaning up against the wall, apple in hand, surveying the business still going on, when he spies someone who looks his age, hair a dark brown, eyes the same, dressed a bit more upscale for a market, even if this market is in the city. Nick pushes himself off the wall when the boy makes his way over to him. It’s a very deliberate walk, and Nick stands straighter for it, not showing off or anything, more like sizing up the competition—the competition for or on what, only Nick’s subconscious knows.

“Pappas Ranch,” the boy reads, and Nick almost laughs at the accent coloring his words. “Are you Papa?”

And the question is so reasonable yet so absurd, spun wonky with the accent, that it makes Nick laugh and reply with a name not quite right either: “Nah, I’m Sapnap.”

It’s such an… outdated name, given to him as a kid by an enthusiastic pen pal and then latched onto by his parents, fading out of fashion the moment he hit double-digits, when he started working his way up the ranch. The name is dumb too, zero sense without context, still stupid even with it, and he feels every bit of its stupidity when the boy studies him, unamused.

“Sapnap?” The word comes slow off his tongue, and Nick resists the urge to flush a bright red.

“Yeah, what about it?” He plants his feet firmer in the ground, wanting to shift from foot to foot but refusing. Refuses to take back the name too.

“Sounds dumb.”

Nick stutters out some excuse that falls flat before straightening. “What’s your name then, hotshot?”

“George,” and oh, isn’t that hilarious? Talk about outdated.

“My name might be stupid, but at least it isn’t lame as hell!”

George, of course, doesn’t like that, and that fact makes Nick grin, eyes growing wild when George grips the edge of the table between them to lean forward. “Fuck off.” Their noses nearly touch.

“This is my booth,” Nick replies.

“My city,” George shoots back, and Nick stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“It’s a city.” Nick raises a brow when George merely huffs, leaning against the booth. He spies the apple in Nick’s hand, and Nick fights back the urge to hide it, possessive. “What?” It’s his lunch. What about it? Workers eat too. Not that someone like George would know that. Nick gives him a cursory once over that George ignores, still focused on the fruit.

“Where’d you get that?” George asks. “It looks fresh.”   

“It is,” Nick points towards the booth he got it from, “over there. Everything here is fresh, dumbass.”

“What time is it?”

“Noon, I reckon.”

George studies him, still leaning against the booth, head coming closer and closer to Nick’s the longer he stares. “Your lunch?” Both of his hands now press down on the table between them, fingers splayed. His nails are short but nice. Nick’s have dirt under them. He holds his apple tighter.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Come with me,” George says, and Nick frowns as George moves away from the booth to nod his head towards the main road. “You can take a break.”

“Not really,” Nick wants to reply (break? Lunch was his break. He’s got to work!), but then George pivots and starts walking away, and he can’t have that, so he follows. “My stuff—”

“Will be safe, chill out,” George tells him. He glances behind and meets Nick’s eyes. Nick wonders if the other will crash into any of the various obstacles around them, booths, pedestrians, goods, fucking rocks in the walkway or something, but he doesn’t, just keeps walking. Part of Nick hopes he crashes. Wants to see him trip, fall, ruin his pants—they’re fancy, clean with those pressed lines down the middle. In the middle of the market, however upscale, they look stupid as hell. To see the knees covered in dust, caked in dirt, it’d make Nick pretty happy. He smiles at the image, and George, though brows end up quirked in confusion, offers a smile back.

Nick stumbles, a direct opposite to his imagination, but it’s because it’s not the city that’s blinding—it’s George’s smile. He blinks, glances behind himself; does George have a particularly white smile? Artificial, does George reap the benefits of being rich? Does the sun glint off those bleached teeth? But the Sun is still high overhead. And George’s teeth were white, but not white enough to be fake. Nick shakes his head, not wanting to get caught up in the thoughts, merely following after the other still. They’re out past the market now, heading deeper into the city. Delicatessens, bakeries, designer shops, and corner stores line the road, and Nick stares into the windows of them all with rapt attention. Sapnap, that’s what he told George his name was, and maybe here he is: Sapnap, someone else, someone new, someone who could walk by George’s side like it’s where he’s been his whole life, like the city is all he knows.

Looking at the elite walking by, Nick knows it wouldn’t be sustainable, not for him, but just for a bit, he can pretend. He glances over at George, who walks on ahead, easy, unassuming if not for the sun in his hair, spinning it into gold, unassuming if not for the set of his shoulders, the quiet confidence with which he carries himself. Carefully, he attempts to imitate the other.

They walk for another few minutes, and Nick is starting to worry about his things, about whether he’ll make it back in time for the after-school rush, the dinner rush, the weekend—when George finally stops and pushes open the door of a restaurant named something Nick can’t pronounce.

“Is that French?” he asks George.

“Yeah,” George replies, “I can’t pronounce it, though.”

“I thought all rich people knew French,” Nick says.

“Next state over,” George tells him. “Or in the east maybe. I’m taking Spanish.”

“My cousin knows Creole.” George hums before smiling at the host and asking for a table for two. The fancy atmosphere, however much a consequence of location and George’s upbringing, the host’s look over George’s shoulder at Nick, table for two—all of it sends Nick’s skeleton rattling, bones shaking and shivering under layers of skin and muscle, his brain easily equating these things to a date. But George isn’t like that. He’s just fancy. And Nick isn’t like that either. This is just what rich people do in the city. What everyone does in the city. They get lunch.

When they’re seated, Nick tugs at his collar. He’s not hot, but God, has he grown uncomfortable. He’s got dirt behind his knees he’s sure, and when he speaks it’s not that smooth, sweet voice George has got, and the slight beard he’s finally started to get only makes him all the scruffier. He’s a fish out of water, and he’s growing more and more certain it shows.

“Sapnap,” George says, “are you alright?”

And oh. Right. He’s not Nick. To George, he’s Sapnap, and George is taking Sapnap to lunch, which means he thinks Sapnap is able to be seen in a place like this, if not alone then with George, so it’s fine. Nick’s hand falls from his shirt to the table, where it curls around napkin-wrapped cutlery. “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m fine. Uh. Can you read this menu?”

“It’s in English, Sapnap.” George’s tone is dry, but it’s a joke, and his eyes squint with his smile. Nick smiles back.

;;

Despite their smiles, despite sharing a meal, they don’t get along. Nick wants to help provide for lunch, but he also can’t, not really, so they argue over that, and they argued over what to get too, because Nick is a firm believer in trying everything so let’s just split stuff, George, but George is apparently a possessive little bitch, so his idea was continually shot down, but then when a waitress came by, George ordered what Nick had suggested, so they argued over that, and when they left, George argued for a treat and Nick argued that he had to get back to work.

Nick won that one, but George stuck by his side as they traced their steps to the market.

Despite their inability to get along, they become what Nick thinks might just be friends.

“If I lost all my shit ‘cause of you,” Nick starts, but George just rolls his eyes. And when they reach his booth, it’s fine, like George had said it’d be, but Nick does lament the lost customers in the time spent out. He still has an afternoon ahead, but he still took off way more time than he’d have liked.

“It’s fine,” George tells him, hopping up onto the front little ledge of the booth. “I’ll help you sell it, or something.”

“You don’t have anywhere to be?” Nick asks him, checking his inventory one more time, just to make certain nothing’s been stolen.

George shakes his head, kicking his feet slightly, not stopping even when it makes the booth begin to sway. Nick steadies it with a careful hand, and George sends him a grateful look, though he still kicks his feet. “It’s summer.” He watches as Nick pulls out a chunk of meat, chuck, drops it onto the proper counter set up behind the pretty covering the booth makes, and sets about cutting it into pieces. “Nothing to do.”

“For you,” Nick says.

“For me,” George agrees.

Nick fixes up the beef, thinking about the restaurant, the roast he saw somewhere on the menu—that’s what people’ll use this meat for, he’s getting creative—and leans back, fingers curling around the countertop. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

George shrugs. “I can get you good food; I can advertise good food. You can cut what will one day be good food and keep the cash.”

“You’d do this for no pay?” Nick asks.

George tilts his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. Nick watches as sunlight catches his skin; George hadn’t seemed to sweat much, but now Nick sees where it’s damp on his skin, the light making it shimmer. Nick looks away. It didn’t look gross. George finally lowers his head. He doesn’t look gross. “I don’t need it,” George says. “And I’m not stupid. My dad works with some people from the city stockyard. You need the cash, don’t you?”

Nick fights back the urge to make a face. “Yeah. Did you remember that before or after you made me get lunch with you?”

George at least looks a little guilty. Nick takes what he can get. “Look,” George finally says, “I’m not terrible at marketing. And I know what people here want. Can you really say no?”

He can. Nick could say no and tell George to leave. Could say no and thanks, but lunch actually sucked (it didn’t). He could say a number of things that would get rid of George’s company.

He doesn’t.

“Just don’t get in my way, okay?” He and George lock eyes. George nods. Nick tightens his grip on the counter, surveys the steadily crowding market. “So who’re you going to reel in first, hotshot?”

;;

next

[anthonyed]

51 from the angst/fluff prompts list + sambucky?

Thank you for requesting sambucky! I love them. Ik it should be either angst of fluff but I couldn't decide. >< (from this list: you make me feel alive) keep reading for an uplifting ending or not if you like suffering

-//-

Bucky had lost his memory, most of his mind, and all of his sanity. But someone? That's never. 

At least not in the sense where he feels like they were snatched from him too fast too soon. 

His ma and pa and sister; they didn't hurt. Hell, with his brain, he learnt he’d lost them before he even remembered he had them. Stevie is still around rolling Bingo every weekend. 

But Sam. 

Sam Wilson, when he fell; wings aflame, leaving embers in his trail like Lucifer descending from heaven - Bucky thought: No. Not you. 

Then there was nothing until beeps echoed within white walls under layers of antiseptic scent burning through his nose.

There, right then is when he feels his heartbeat return. 

"I can't lose you," he says, gauze getting stuck in the gaps of the metal plates while he tries to be very careful holding Sam's hand in his. But his sanity's slipping in and out of him with every breath he takes. 

Because the truth is, Bucky couldn’t even enter their shared apartment without Sam telling him where he placed his key. Couldn’t take his shoes off without a ball of smelly socks hitting his back because he didn’t arrange them on the shoe rack.

When he sits on the couch without first washing up, who would scold him about germs? Who would make dinner for them tonight or eat the olives off of his takeaway pizzas?

How about after he washes up and looks at the edge of the tub out of habit and he doesn’t see Sam’s forgotten underwear lying there? How about when he goes to bed tonight - the right side of his body feeling unnaturally cold because someone should be there where the space is empty? 

How about when he wakes up from sleep, drenched in sweat or wakes up regardless because it’s eerily silent? Would he miss their screams? Would that be too cruel of a thing?

Because the truth is: Bucky would be lost without Sam. So lost that he couldn’t even feel his own heartbeat and that - That is just unfair. Because he’d only started listening to that organ recently.

So, he holds Sam’s hand and he whispers, "You make me feel alive.” 

Hoping his words would fade out so Sam won't hear but feel them seeping into his veins under his skin, and that maybe somehow they would wake him up. 

They don’t.

They do hours later, and when Sam does wake up Bucky thinks his wish worked. But weeks after, he finds out that it didn't. Well, not all of it at least.

Because Sam slaps an opened beer bottle in front of him post dinner - dishwasher running in the background, TV in front - and he says, "I heard you, you know." With that annoying grin of his.

The gap between his front teeth shows before promptly disappearing behind pursed lips; closing tight around the rim of a bottle as Sam tips it to drink.

Bucky watches him swallow with drowsy eyes and a too-full-to-give-a-fuck stomach.

When Sam's done, he screws his face, makes his voice pitched high in mockery and he recites Bucky's damning spell: "I can't lose you. You make me feel alive." And because he’s an asshole, he dramatically mimics wailing on top of that.

Bucky ears prickle red: mostly from shame, partly fury. But he keeps his cool as he boinks Sam's head with a closed metal fist. Then he empties half the bottle into his gut while Sam yowls in pain and he crosses his ankles on the table to continue watching the game.

"Man, fuck you," Sam shoves - futilely since Bucky can be a brick wall when he wants - and that seems to be it.

Except a few hours later, under the covers of their shared bed, Sam waits until Bucky turns off the night light and settles on his left to say, “Just so you know. The feeling’s mutual.”

[birdscreeches]

The River | Aisha R.

Five days before Miles Santos dies, the sink in his bathroom breaks. 

It started with a trickle of water dripping from the pipes underneath before growing into a spurting torrent that soaks his knees. This is what he gets, he muses, for not switching to water replication plumbing. He goes through his things looking for anything to fix it, but his condo is a crowded mess of wires and screens. Miles manages to find a roll of duct tape tangled within an extension cord. 

With shaking hands, testaments to the sleepless nights of the past week, he wraps the leaking pipe with tape. Outside, his tablet continues playing the video he left it on. The voices drift into the room quietly, bouncing off the porcelain. Soft, pattering sounds of disaster. 

“—the eye of typhoon Tomas was located, based on all available data, at 2,635 kilometers east of Southern Luzon. This is still outside of the Philippine Area of Responsibility. It has maximum sustained winds of 130 kilometers per hour and a gustiness of up to 160 kilometers per hour. It is moving west at 30 kilometers per hour. This typhoon is expected to enter PAR by Saturday—”

Water slips past his fingers and soaks his arms. It splashes against his face, sharp and cold. Miles coils tape around the pipe over and over, choking the water back in the place until finally, the pipes yield.

“—when we say super typhoon, it has to sustain a wind speed greater than 220 kilometers per hour. Typhoon Tomas is not a super typhoon, but it still has a long way to go above water before it reaches landfall and thus has the potential to, ah, acquire more strength.”

“So it’s possible for typhoon Tomas to become a super typhoon.”

“There is a possibility—”

Miles’ hands are soaked. His shirt is damp. His bathroom floor is a glorified puddle and he’s kneeling in it, an attempt for absolution. It’s a flimsy attempt at best, he thinks. He will never be clean again.

He stands up from the mess he’s made, sits down at one of his monitors. Still cold and rapidly becoming colder, he types and creates a monster.

-

Is it done?

yes 

am i good now

No, you still have to install it.

We’ll also need a physical copy on a hard drive.

A team will come by next week to confiscate all your equipment.

It will all be compensated for, so you don’t have to worry.

okay

when will the payment come through

After we have the system and after you install it.

you’re sure

Yes.

I’ll text you again with details for the drop.

Stay updated.

-

Three days before Miles Santos dies, the traffic on slows to an unbearable crawl right on the bridge of Marcos Highway. Trapped from every angle, at mercy to the sheer power of unmoving vehicles, Miles has no choice but to see the river. He could keep his gaze straight, focus on every detail of the truck in front of him, but the river would snake its way into view. From his periphery into his mind, the river is there, demanding attention, until he can’t help but turn to look at it.

Already, the water is higher than usual. The surface ripples with turbulence as it rushes forth, crashing against the concrete bed that slopes down from the riverbanks. There was a time when those banks were nothing but the same earth and silt it had always been, but Miles couldn’t remember it. He was born only after they started constructing the improved channel. He grew up climbing over chain link fence with his friends, a flattened cardboard box in hand. On summer days, the river was docile. Dry. Just a trickle of water in a ditch too large. Miles and his friends would sit on the edge of the concrete slope, cardboard safely under him, and push off the edge, sliding down to the sound of laughter and a barangay tanod yelling at them to get the fuck outta here, stupid goddamn kids. 

The pillars shake Miles out from his memory. On the edge of the concrete slopes, tall, grey magnetic pillars stuck out every few meters. Unactivated, they stood silently. Watchtowers over a vicious beast.

There is a barrage of beeping from behind him. Miles scrambles to step on the gas and drive forward.

The truck in front of him stops. Miles brakes. Alone in his car, he feels he can’t breathe. The river is there. A chill wells up deep in his stomach, branching out to his body. A restless energy.

Miles drums his fingers on the wheel and slowly, as the cars inch forward, rain begins to fall. 

It’s hours before he gets to his mother’s house. The drive seemed like it wanted to drain the entire day away before he could live it. The house, fittingly enough, was gray and drab. The plants in the garden were alive, but slumped in lacking care. The paint of the gate was peeling, showing off the hard metal underneath. His mother’s house looks like as if all the days had drained away years ago.

His mother is much the same.

The mother he grew up with was sharp and nagging. Always scolding him for every mess and mistake, pushing him to be better, yet never showing him anything more than an absent nod for his achievements, too busy with cooking for the small carinderia she ran on her own. Now, too old to work, she sat in a house Miles got for her the moment he had enough money to, out and away from Tumana and into the quieter neighborhoods of Antipolo. Her edge had been weathered down by time into something weaker, but no less biting. Her memory was fuzzy at the edges, always calling Miles by the wrong name, or forgetting the date today, or forgetting that she had forgotten in the first place.

Miles came over every other week to have lunch with her, whether she liked it or not. Today’s lunch had passed in the same old questions followed by the same old silences. 

He helps his mother from the dining table back to the living room. She reclines in her rocking chair, and massages her temple. “Matt---”

“Miles,” he reminds her. 

“Miles, habang nandito ka pa, ayusin mo nga yung TV,” she says. “Ang choppy ng signal ‘tas ang hina pa nga ng volume, wala na akong marinig.”

“Ma, computer science yung alam ko, hindi engineering.” 

She scoffs. “Sana nag-doktor ka na lang.”

Miles doesn’t say anything. He simply stands to fix the TV if only to escape another endless circle of conversation.

He switches the TV on and watches the glitching static distort the face of a variety show host. The host’s grating laughter distorts through the speakers, an awful, terrible sound. As he unplugs and plugs different wires with barely trembling hands, the noise flits in and out. Miles manages to get the volume up higher again, like his mother wants it, and his own voice finds its own sound.

“Ma, medyo busy ako for the next few weeks, ha.” With a hard thwack to the back of the TV, the screen phases into clarity. He looks at it instead of his mother, continuing. “I won’t be able to come by for a while, but, uh, I got a really big bonus at work, and I’ll forward the money to you, okay?”

“Ha?” His mother says, squinting past him to look towards the TV. “Anong sabi mo?” 

“Wala,” Miles shakes his head. “Wala, ma.”

-

11pm

MRMC Station 3, Tumana.

Don’t be late.

-

On the day Miles Santos dies, he goes back to where he used to live. He parks nearby, and walks through the rest. It was a part of the slums that had been demolished to make way for the large, hulking powerline that fed into the electric pillars of the river. Where once there was a cluster fragile houses Miles would once run and duck through, there was now just flat rubble and the metal reinforced wires trailing through, out and away. 

There are a few kids kicking a ball around, scuffing dirt and laughing. One of them kicks the ball too far, rolling towards Miles’ feet, and Miles forces a smile as he bends down to toss it back to them. He tries to forget he ever saw them, but when you see one person, the rest keep coming in. A fruit vendor passes, pushing his rickety cart filled with cool pineapple. Women with streaks in their hair snickering and gossiping. A stray dog following at the heels of a young girl.

Miles used to live here, and the ache of seeing the place again after working so hard to leave it thrums through every inch of his body.

All he wanted was better.

And look where that got him.

He arrives at the drop location hours early. In his car with his silence, he sits and watches the rain engulf him.

To his left, he can see the crowded Tumana slums barely illuminated by the dusk. It was home once, when he was smaller. Houses here were small and grimy and flimsy ribcages people would live in. The streets and pathways would get narrower and narrower the deeper you went ,the ground a perpetual a slog of sticky earth and discarded garbage. The canals that ran through the barangay were as sleek and high tech as the main river, with smaller but no less advanced magnetic pillars, but all the innovation had stopped there. The ribcage houses were finally safe from the river, but weren’t safe from everything else. 

To his right, the river slithers into his periphery, demanding attention. Next to one of the pillars sticking out of the concrete banks, there is a small building, STATION 3 emblazoned on the side in block letters, punctuated by frantic sprays of vandalism. The station was just one of many dotted along the length of the river. Manual control systems for the improved channels. Nobody’s used them in years.

Dusk bleeds into night. One by one, windows of the slums light up. Old school fluorescent lights mixing with the newer EMLED lights. 

Miles hears it before he sees it. The undeniable thrum of energy. Miles swears he feels the earth shift when. It does, in a sense. The magnetic pillars were a revolutionary piece of technology, but it took energy to power. More energy than can be taken without a price. 

The grey pillars light up, a soft, illuminated blue streaking across the center of each one. The top of the pillar beams out an arch of light connecting to another pillar on the opposite bank. Like dominoes, all the pillars buzz to life, creating an endless, unbreachable tunnel of energy. Rain that falls onto the magnetic field slides off, slipping into canals at the side that filter back into the river. Every canal and ditch is encased in a magnetic tunnel, pulsing through the roads, veins and arteries of rainwater filtering into the river. All the rain coming from the mountains, from the city gutters, from the sky mercilessly pounding rain into the earth. 

The Tumana slums tremble into darkness, all the power sucked into the cages keeping the water captive. 

Miles doesn’t do anything but breathe. The restless energy is gone, replaced instead by a deep, stinging chill that constantly scraping at the walls of who he is. He sits there, unmoving, and lets the rain and the night pass him by. 

He watches the magnetic field. Hours pass. The water rises. Rises. Rises past the riverbank, the magnetic field the only thing holding the water back from overflowing and drowning the slums just meters away.

Up ahead on the road, a nondescript red car parks in front of him, the headlights still on, shining directly into Miles’ eyes. The lights blink at him. Get in. He grabs an umbrella from the backseat and exits the safety of his car, brisk walks through the torrential downpour, hurriedly opens the door of the other car, and clambers into the passenger seat.

Four is sitting behind the wheel, phone in hand, idly swiping. He looks just about as pristine as Miles knew his own self was the opposite. Four looks up, eyes scanning over Miles’ soaked frame, bored and amused at the same time

“You really had to bring all the water with you, no?” Four asks, looking at Miles with that unimpressed gaze he always has.

“There’s a super typhoon,” Miles grits his teeth. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Touchy. I’m just joking,” he rolls his eyes then holds a hand out. “Physical copy?”

Miles digs a small plastic ziplock bag from his pocket. Inside, a small USB stick. He hands it over to Four who doesn’t even spare it a glance, stowing it in a side compartment without looking up from his phone. 

“No other copies exist?” 

“None.”

“Alright then, we’re nearly done,” Four says, tapping on his phone. “I’ve queued the payment transfer to go through once news sites start blasting the breaking news headlines. You get back into your car and follow me out and—”

“I’m not going.”

Four’s typing stops. He looks up and meets Miles’ gaze. Miles can’t find any shock in Four’s eyes. If anything, the only thing that’s there is a twinkle of intrigue. 

“You’re not?”

“I’m—” Miles tries to find his words, all feeling awkward and clunky. “I’m staying here. I’ll deploy the program here.”

There’s a beat of silence. The rain outside is coming down so strong, the noise blurs into a static. Everything and nothing. A held breath.

“Hm,” Four looks back to his phone. “That explains the payment thing. I wondered why the account wasn’t yours. Whose is it?”

“None of your business.”

Four actually laughs, and Miles thinks it looks like a snarl. “I guess you’re right. Do me a favor and wait til I’m out of the danger zone before you run the program, will you? The payment expires if any of my programs detect a sign of an untimely death.” Four swipes his finger across his phone and Miles hears his own phone ping. “This car’s details,” Four explains. “Watch over me while I drive.”

“Can I go now?” Miles says. He wants to get out of this car. He wants to never see Four again. He wants to never have met him in the first place.

“Sure,” Four smiles. A sneer trying to look kind. “This is good work you’re doing here. Remember that. Pleasure doing business with you, Santos.”

Miles gets out of the door and slams the door shut. Under his umbrella, he watches Four back the car up, turn, and drive away. 

He pulls out his phone and taps on Four’s car details. Miles watches his GPS show Four’s car drive further and further away. His trip is made short and smooth by clear roads. Too late and too rainy for anybody to drive out. People are in their homes, sleeping soundly. 

When Four passes the threshold into Quezon City, Miles closes his eyes. When he opens them, he can feel every drop of water on his skin like a knife pressing into him. In his hand, his phone feels like a grenade.

He opens his program. The pin is pulled.

Miles had created a lockpick. A universal lockpick. A program that could adapt to any system and open any doors. Untraceable, quick, and efficient. Creating the program was a long and delicate science of knowing where to make it prod and where to make it push. A balance between toeing the line and destroying it. He understands more than anybody the meaning of a breaking point and what happens when that point is pressed. 

It’s child’s play now. He runs his program remotely from his phone into the servers of the Station 3. From there, he watches it frolick along tens of security measures and failsafes. He watches it weave past all of them. He watches it mangle the system to pieces.

Miles can’t watch it finish, his shaking hands dropping his phone into the muddy ground. Even if the water shorted his phone out, it was too late. His body wasn’t cold anymore. His body was an absence of everything. He’d been hollowed out and then deleted. It was over.

Miles doesn’t look up from his phone. He doesn’t have to. Through the reflection on his screen, he sees the lights of Marikina City come alive. The streetlamps, the homes, the stores. Power surges through all the lines, unbidden, rattling appliances awake, blowing out too-old lightbulbs, taking every home hostage. The night glimmers out of the darkness in chunks until the city is thrumming with electricity.

Behind him, the magnetic field flickers. Once, twice—

[nightfuryobsessed]

What happened?

Summary: Set before Heist, you are in charge of putting criminals away. After going over an older case, you find a few discrepancies. Being one for justice, you find yourself at Happy Trails Penitentiary.

Warnings: Angst and mentions of murder, mild

Tags: @shannons-fucked-life @bribrifeefee @scarletender @rats-this-username-is-taken @friendlyphantom @bumble-bitch-sanders @ghosting30s @lildevyl @sketch1205 @of-chaos-and-flame @jadehowlettthewolf @2b4gotn 

“Mr...Yancy was it?”

“Yeah, whos’ you, why’d them gua’ds pull me from lunch, we was havin’ a good time ya know?”

Traditional response. Kind of.

Yancy Imeda Plier.

Tried at the age of seventeen, homicide and possession of drugs. He’s spent nearly fifteen years in jail, just missing parole many times. He shows corrected behavior but when parole comes around, he suddenly snaps. As does the rest of the prison. It’s odd.

“I’m sorry, if things go well you’ll be back with your prison-mates soon. Please be aware, everything we’re saying is being recorded. My name is (y/n), I’m a detective in charge of homicide cases, I’d like to ask you a few questions about September 15th if that’s alright with you.”

He went still. He remembers. His files said he didn’t. Something’s wrong.

“Why that particular day?”

Dodging the question. Fear. Unease...maybe regret.

“Do you remember that day Mr. Yancy?”

He’s looking around. His hands are under the table, moving. He’s uncomfortable, he’s got to be. Anyone in their right mind would be.

“The fifteenth. ‘Twas m’ recital, just got the pa’t of Danny ya know. Proudest moment of m’ life,” he says. He seems proud, but something about his voice. I don’t know how to explain it, the closest I could get would be fear.

“Okay, after you got the part, where did you go? What did you do? Please, answer as honestly as you can.”

He’s fidgeting. He brings a hand up to his hair, gently moving it out of his face. He’s scared. Not from me, or the questions. He seems scared of himself.

“I uh...don’t ‘member. Long-time ago, ya know?”

Right, ten years is a long time.

“Let me rephrase the question,” I start, watching as he sat up a bit straighter. Pretending to be strong perhaps.

“Why are you in prison?”

He flinched. He gulps. He looks around before looking down at the ground.

“I’s done lots of bad thin’s.”

“What kind of things.”

No response.

“Yancy, what did you do? Why are you in prison? I want to help you, your file makes no sense, I want to make sure that you’re not sent here because someone didn’t fact check.”

He’s quiet. He doesn’t move. I sigh before grabbing a file from my bag, pulling it out and gently placed it on the table. It’s of the murder scene.

He looks up, freezes then looks down.

“Yancy.”

No response.

“Yancy, do you remember this night?”

He nods.

“The night I...lost my ma and pa. Killed.”

“By you?”

“Y...no. Not by me. Someone else. Nobody believes me, why bothe’.”

“I’m here now,” I say softly, making him lookup. “Please Yancy, tell me what happened that night. Who killed your parents? Why did no one help you?”

“Fine...just, don’t make me leave ‘ere, I know nothin’ else,” he mutters, putting his hands on the table and sat in a more depressed manner. His back was slouched, his head down, eyes closed, and his hands grasped together.

“I was seventeen. Just got out o’ practice. Got the pau’t, lead role if yous’ believe it. I ran home, wantin’ ta tell my ma and pa. We didn’t have much, if I had got the lead, we might get mo’ money. Every kid wants that yo’ knows. I got home and...there was so much blood. I saw ma layin’ on her stomach, she was face down in blood.

“I-I didn’t know what to do, I ran to her and shook ‘er, beggin’ ‘ma, ya gotta get up ma. I got the lead. Ya gotta see the show’. I was just a kid, I didn’t know what to do.”

He was shaking. I stand up and grab a tissue before giving it to him.

“It’s okay Yancy, take your time. I know it’s a lot. If you want you can take a break.”

He wiped his eyes before shaking his head.

“No, no ’m okay. I got cut, the person was still there, but left before the cops showed up. Given how I looked at the time, the blood and show getup, they assumed I done it. I didn’t speak fo’ ‘bout five months. By that time, I was put in jail. It ain’t that bad doe, got food, got a family. ‘Ell I got exercise ‘n visitation every third Sunday. It ain’t too bad ‘ere.”

I frowned before nodding.

“Thank you Yancy, your cooperation is greatly appreciated. I swear, I’ll do everything I can to bring your family peace. I’ll return regularly to give you updates. Thank you for your time,” I say softly before pausing the recording and called the guard back to take the inmate back to lunch.

I saw him relax and gain confidence before leaving with the guards, the large sturdy door closing with a soft thunk. I sighed before gathering my things, only to go still when I heard the door open once again. I hummed softly before putting my hand on my taser. I learned a long time ago that I have to keep one on hand.

Sometimes the dangerous inmates prove that they need to stay in prison. This was one of those times.

[lustresky]

hochelaga [peter parker]

summary: Peter never really had a ton of positive male influences in his life, and at this point he had given up his hopes of ever having one— that is, until he meets Happy. 

wc: 4200ish.

themes: angst, peter’s a misunderstood and troubled teen, some happy stuff in the end (cuz i physically can’t write shit that doesn’t end in a happy ending ok), trust issues, happy cares about peter, some family fluff because i just want peter to be happy ok:’’(

warnings: cursing (da usual), underage smoking & mentions of nicotine addiction, me trying to be deep haha yikes!

a/n: title is a song by alexandre poulin. (it’s a really good song, i highly recommend listening to it in the background while reading/listening to it after! i translated the lyrics in english but it isn’t an exact translation, i changed a bit of the words to fit in more with the story!!) i recently listened to it again and it inspired me to write this. a lot of fics have tony as a parental figure in peter’s life, and he was my first choice for this fic too, but in the end happy just... made more sense. but honestly?? idek if this fic makes any sense. hopefully it does lmao

if you have any questions about this fic, feel free to send me an ask!

please note that the plots of CIVIL WAR, INFINITY WAR & ENDGAME are excused in this fic. 

available on ao3.

T’es pas mon père, tu t’prends pour qui? (You’re not my dad, who do you think you are?) Tu sais rien de moi pis de mes amis. (You know nothing about me or my friends.)

Peter scoffs to himself as he hears May laugh in the living room; he hisses at the contact of alcohol on his skin, groaning at the large gash on his forearm. He quickly bandages it up, making sure to wear a long sleeve shirt in order to hide the large white cotton wrapping around his injured limb. 

As soon as he hears footsteps, he swiftly hides the first-aid kit under his bed.

May opens his bedroom door, still wearing her work clothes and a huge smile on her face. “Peter!” She grins, walking towards him and grabbing his arm— the one that had been sliced open just an hour ago. He inwardly winces, but keeps on his indifferent face. 

He has a front to maintain. 

“Come on! I have someone for you to meet.”

Ma mère ’n’a ramené des ben plus tough, (My mom has brought home tougher guys,) Moi, les gars comme toi j’les mets dans ma poche. (Guys like you are nothing to me.)

 Peter trudges to the living room, mentally preparing himself to see another man that he knows he would hate in a few days’ time. 

To his surprise, however, he’s greeted by a man who’s the exact opposite of the image that he had been used to. Where the black leather jacket had been, there’s a formal black suit— complete with a tie and all. Where the gelled up hair and five o’clock shadow had been, there’s curly, salt and pepper hair with a white beard to match. 

Where a smirk that seemed to size him up had been, there’s a genuine smile.

“This is Harold,” May introduces the man in front of him with such a wide grin that her eyes crinkle. “Harold “Happy” Hogan.”

What kind of fucking name is Happy?

Harold clears his throat and offers his right hand to Peter; a first for all the men that May had brought back home.

“I’m Peter.” Peter says, taking his hand. The man gently grips it, hands warm yet firm at the same time as he shook it with one of them on top of Peter’s own. “Nice to meet you, Harold.” He adds, forcing out the manners May had ingrained in him even if he doesn’t like it.

“Nice to meet you too, Peter,” Harold smiles. “And Harold’s too formal—”

“Just call me Happy.”

Pis tu vas ben faire comme tous les autres, (You’d be just like the others,) Tu vas claquer la porte en mettant ton coat. (You’d slam the door closed whilst wearing your coat.)

Harold— no, Happy, stays over for dinner. Peter left the conversation to May and him as he focuses on the news being displayed on the TV while he chews on the food that she had prepared.

“Rising vigilante, Spider-Man, spotted!” The female TV reporter announces, hair swishing left and right as she animates her words with hand gestures. “Six thieves have been found, bound with the ever familiar web and with the oh-so-famous venom puncture holes in their necks!”

“As much as his work is appreciated by many,” The announcer continues. “Is his way of justice acceptable, when these men—” The TV flickers to show the mug-shots of the six men, now incapacitated due to the poison. Peter recognizes the one who had cut his arm immediately. “Have not yet faced trial? Tonight, we will be discussing this with J. Jonah Jameson, editor in chief of The Daily—”

The TV screen suddenly goes black. Peter groans at May as he looks over at her; her arm outstretched with the remote in her hand aimed at the now blank display.

“No watching TV while we’re eating dinner.”

 C’est moi du haut de mes 14 ans, (It’s my 14 year old self,) Qui veille sur le bonheur de ma maman.  (Who grows old because of my mom’s happiness.)

 Peter had quickly retreated in his bedroom after dinner, telling May that he still had homework to do.

The truth is that he just can’t stomach seeing Happy and his legal guardian sending love eyes to one another for another fucking hour.

Especially when he had already told himself numerous times in the past few years to never attach himself to any of the men that she brought home— no matter how happy they make her, because he knows better.

He tries to disregard their laughter outside of his bedroom. He tries to ignore the creaks of the floorboard as May sent Happy home. He tries to be oblivious to the peck that they both shared as a goodbye.

Tries; because his enhanced senses completely made sure that he notices every single one of them.

Much to his dismay.

 T’es pas mon père, m’as-tu compris? (You’re not my dad, don’t you understand?) J’les connais les grands secrets d’la vie. (I already know life’s greatest secrets.)

 Peter still remembers his first smoke.

He had been twelve.

It had been an experience— and when his senses got even more enhanced after he got bit, it didn’t take long for him to get addicted.

May doesn’t know about it. Just like she doesn’t know about him being a vigilante.

As soon as he hears a scream from an alley not too far from where he’s perched, Peter drops his smoke onto the cement— squishing and therefore extinguishing it with his foot.

He shoots a web onto the light pole to his right, hoping that whoever it is that he’ll save, that they’ll give him money for his services; just like what most people would do.

Peter lets out a breath, missing the nicotine in his lungs.

He’ll need it for another hit.

 Garde tes histoires pis tes conseils, (Keep your stories and advices to yourself,) Check, fais tes affaires, j’vas faire pareil. (Look, mind your business and I’ll do the same.)  

Happy comes over again for dinner.

As May cooks, they both sit on the sofa, watching the news.

“Spider-Man strikes again!” The same female reporter from a few days ago announces. “This time it seems that he has saved over a dozen people in a department store by binding the attacker in his webs and incapacitating him with his ‘venom’!”

Happy groans beside him and Peter looks up at him, annoyed. What’s his deal?

As if he can read minds, Happy looks back at him, a stern look on his face.

“Listen,” He starts, head downcast to stare at him in the eye. “If something like that ever happens to you, you go and run the other way— alright?”

Peter scoffs at his words and breaks eye contact. As if.

Happy doesn’t seem to be content with his answer. So stubbornly, he asks, “Peter? Do you understand?”

Peter subtly rolls his eyes. Who does he think he is? 

“Yeah,” He just replies back, not wanting to strike another conversation with another person who thinks that they have more power than him. 

He has had enough of those.

 Mais si jamais tu mets l’pied dans ma chambre, (If you even enter a foot in my room,) J’te jure que j’te paye des vacances. (I’ll make sure that you’ll regret it.)

 “Peter!” 

Peter quickly fumbles out of his suit, pulling the red and blue cloth off rapidly as he opens his closet door to stuff it in. At full speed, he grabs his venom and web shooters and locks them inside his desk drawer.

The footsteps don’t cease, and Peter only manages to get a shirt over his head and a pair of boxers over his legs before his door opens to reveal Happy; an eyebrow raised at him.

It doesn’t take long before the man’s eyes widen upon casting sight onto his bleeding legs.

“Jesus Christ, Peter, what happened to you?” He asks, opening the door even more to let himself in. “Are you okay?”

Peter doesn’t even try to keep the bubbling rage inside him as Happy carelessly welcomes himself into his bedroom; the only space that he has to himself. The only place that understands him.

“Yes!” Peter cries out, anger coursing through his veins. Fucking hell, he doesn’t have time for this. “Now please— get out!”

Happy, surprised at his outburst, moves backwards until his feet were a mere inches away from Peter’s bedroom door frame. “Okay, okay— I’m glad that you’re okay,” He raises his hands up in retaliation, sighing. “But still, what in the hell happened to you, kid?”

Peter doesn’t answer, instead he ignores the burning pain across his legs while walking towards the door with the goal of closing it. He grits his teeth in the process.

“That’s none of your business.”

 Ma mère pense ’t’es l’homme de sa vie, (My mom thinks that you’re the love of her life,) Moi, j’te donne pas trois semaines pis t’es parti. (Me? I’ll bet that you’ll leave after three weeks.)

 Peter had been genuinely surprised when he had come back home to find May and Happy in the kitchen, flour and eggs scattered everywhere.

Their smiles are bright.

Peter clears his throat, effectively gaining their attention as he crosses his arms across his chest. “What are you guys doing?” He asks, throwing a pointed look at May who just laughs at his question.

“What does it seem like we’re doing, Pete?” She replies, a huge smile still displayed on her face. “We’re trying to bake a cake!”

That still isn’t enough of an answer. “What for?” He adds; from what he remembers— which was almost everything, nobody has their birthdays today.

May just sticks her tongue out at Peter.

“It’s Happy and I’s first month anniversary, babe!”

 S’rais-tu mon père jusqu’à midi? (Will you be my dad till’ noon?) J’me suis mis dans l’trouble pis comme t’es ici. (I got myself in trouble, and now you’re here.)

 Peter curses at himself as he holds his head down in between his arms. 

The principal doesn’t say anything to him as the air remains tense.

“I’m sorry—” Peter’s head pops up at the unexpected voice. That isn’t May. “I had a meeting— I came here as fast as I can.”

Looking to his right, Peter sees Happy taking the chair beside him; his own face stoic.

“That’s alright, Mr. Hogan,” The principal gives him a tight lipped smile. “Now, shall we discuss why I called you here?”

Happy looks at Peter, an eyebrow raised. Peter doesn't— no, he can’t bring himself to say nor explain anything.

Everything is clear.

He had fucked up.

 Ç’a l’air qu’à l’école y auraient trouvé, (It seems that the school has found,) 10 grammes de shit dans mon casier. (The ten grams in my locker.)

 Peter had known that he should’ve been more cautious; he knew that his school had a strict rule against cigarettes. He had known.

However, did that knowledge still stop him from lighting one up?

No.

Is it a surprise that he was caught?

No.

Peter bites his tongue as he tries to even out his breathing.

The next thought passes by his mind and he can’t help but wholeheartedly agree.

I’m a disappointment.

 Faudrait pas l’dire à ma mère, (Please, don’t tell my mom,) Elle s’rait ben capable de trop s’en faire. (She wouldn’t be able to handle it.)

 Happy took him home.

The whole car ride had been silent; neither party focusing more on the road than one another.

Peter forces himself to speak up once Happy has parked his car in front of the brick building.

“Please..” He croaks out, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes. “Don’t tell May.”

God, he hated being like this.

A pause follows, and Peter worries for a second that Happy will spill everything.

However, the man beside him lets out a sigh as he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

He squeezes, and for the first time, Peter doesn’t flinch at the touch of a man.

“Don’t worry kid,” Happy says.

“I won’t.’

 Toi, tu sais comme moi qu���on passe par là,  (You know just as well as me that we all go through this,) Quand on devient un homme dans Hochelaga. (That this is how we grow up in Hochelaga.)

 May gives them both a bright smile as they enter the apartment.

“Dinner will be ready in a sec!” She tells them both; giving Peter a warm hug and Happy a peck on the cheek before sprinting back to the kitchen.

Peter just looks up at the man beside him who grew red at his guardian’s antic.

He doesn’t even try to stop the genuine laugh coming out of his throat as Happy looks back at him, trying his best to mask his fondness for May with annoyance. “What?” He scrunches his nose up at Peter, trying to act tough but failing as his flushed face goes against him.

Peter just continues snickering. “Nothing.”

The sudden happiness in his stomach’s overwhelming. 

 S’rais-tu mon père jusqu’à cette nuit? (Will you be my dad until tonight?) J’me souviens même plus quand l’mien est parti. (I don’t even remember when mine left.)

 After dinner, Peter had mustered up the courage to ask both May and Happy if they wanted to watch a movie. They both had said yes— but Peter knew that May never really had a thing for sci-fi movies, and so it isn’t a surprise for him when she had blacked out thirty minutes into ‘The Empire Strikes Back.’

Happy, however, still has his eye focused on the film. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it way more than Peter— which was a complete yet welcomed surprise.

He doesn’t ever remember having witnessed something so nice like this after his passing: May curling up against someone, a smile on her face as she slept; completely serene as the man who she loved cradles her back. It was a sight that pulled at Peter’s heartstrings, yet also tied them into pretty bows at the same time.

As the sounds of the movie fills the air, Peter realizes something which made him smile.

He can get used to this.

 Y avait pas grand temps pour dire « Je t’aime ». (There wasn’t really a lot of time to say “I love you.”) Entre la DPJ pis le HLM. (Between the CSS and the DSS.)  

After that night, May and Happy had started saying “I love you”‘s to one another more often.

He and Happy got closer— and slowly…

Peter let his walls down bit by bit.

 On pourrait p’t’être r’garder la T.V., (Maybe we can watch some TV,) Quand maman rentrera d’son shift au PFK. (When mom does her shift at KFC.)

 “What‘cha doing there, kid?” Happy asks him as he knocks on Peter’s door, slowly pulling it ajar.

Peter looks up from his papers, rubbing at his eyes as he lets out a yawn. He gives Happy a nod to let him know that it’s okay to come in.

The man then walks up beside him, a hand on his hip as he looks over at Peter’s calculations. He makes a face. “Yeah no, if you’re gonna ask help for this stuff, you better ask Tony and not me.”

Peter makes a face at him, not sure if he’s joking or being serious. What is it with him bringing up this Tony dude? He doesn’t even know who he is. 

 “Ask who?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Tony Stark?” He jokes.

“Uh, yeah? Who else?” Happy looks at him like he doesn’t know if Peter’s joking or not. “Tony Stark, billionaire, inventor, Iron-man? AKA the guy that I work for?”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute—- this whole time you’ve been talking about Tony Stark and not your like— eccentric best friend?” He lets his jaw touch the floor in shock.

Happy just laughs at him. “Yeah?”

Peter blinks his eyes and shakes his head, and now it suddenly made so much more sense as to why Happy seems to always be in a full suit.

“Anyway,” Happy interrupts Peter’s thoughts, hands going in his pockets. “I was just thinking that you may want to take a break, kid— maybe watch a movie or something before you burn yourself out. Netflix just added Aliens, and May isn’t here.” He raises an eyebrow as his lip quirks up.

Peter’s ears perk up upon hearing the movie title. He’s been dying to watch the movie ever since Happy had suggested it, but most of the time he never got to as May had forbidden him to watch— as she so eloquently put it— “Those disgusting and disturbing movies.”

“Fine, fine—“ He waves off Happy, turning his front back to his desk, trying not to sound too giddy. “Lemme just clean this up.”

“It’s gonna be fun, kid, trust me.”

Peter just shakes his head, a hint of a smile on his face.

Happy turned out to be right.

 Ce serait drôle un jour d’aller jouer aux quilles, (It would be fun to go bowling, one day.) Ç’a l’air qui font ça dans les vraies familles. (It seems like real families do that.)

 May had suggested that they all go bowling one Sunday night.

Happy taught Peter and May how to strike.

Peter doesn’t know if, in the end, it had been a good idea as Happy ended up losing.

Still, Peter appreciates him going out of his way to teach him something that he doesn’t know. 

It had been such a long time since he hasn’t taught himself something.

It was a nice change.

 S’rais-tu mon père pour toute la vie? (Will you be my dad for the rest of time?) L’temps passe, pourtant t’es pas parti. (Time has passed, but you still haven’t left.)

 “Happy anniversary!” May laughs as she hands something to Happy.

It’s been two years since they’ve been together. Peter still can’t believe that time can fly by so fast.

Happy kisses her on the cheek as he pulls out something from his pocket; a small, velvet box.

Peter tries his best not to shake the camera in his hands. He already knew that this was going to happen— hell, he had planned it with Happy himself, but the happiness and excitement bubbles in his stomach and rushes through every limb in his body as Happy gets down on one knee.

If it isn’t for the fact that his eyes are getting teary, he would’ve laughed at May’s shriek.

“Will you, May—“

Happy didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

“Yes!”

 Moi, j’suis fatigué de jouer au tough. (I’m tired of acting tough.) J’ai dans l’ventre une carrière de roches. (My stomach is full of rocks.)

 Peter stumbles into his bedroom through his window, chest-heaving as he takes off his homemade mask. He grits his teeth as he continues applying pressure onto the wound, closing his window with one of his legs.

He hears a stack of papers drop.

Peter quickly whips his head around.

Happy’s face, morphing into shock— then disbelief, then concern, then rage, greets him back.

“Is this what you’ve been doing, sneaking out all these years?” He asks Peter, gaze hard and almost deadly. 

Happy rarely gets angry.

“Yes,” Peter wheezes as he stands upright; his lungs screaming for more oxygen. He winces as he continues putting pressure on the wound on his left shoulder. “I know, I know— I’m sorry but I’m—“

Happy quickly notices his discomfort. He drops his disapproving parental act for a moment and goes on full mother hen mode. “What— what is it, kid? What happened?” He moves towards Peter’s side in less than a second and Peter let’s his tired and aching body fall onto him.

“Bullet grazed me,” were the only words that he had managed to spew out through the pain.

Happy inhales a breath. “Do you have a first aid kit in here somewhere?”

“Under— under my bed.” Peter groans as Happy slowly let’s him sit on the ground; pain pulsating in his arm.

Within seconds, Happy has a needle in his hand and Peter’s trying his best not to wince nor flinch every time the sharp metal goes through his skin.

There was a pause— and then;

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

Peter looks up at Happy, making eye contact. 

The man’s eyes are glassy.

“Who?”

Another pause. Happy lets out a sigh.

“Tony.”

Peter shakes his head. “Why?”

Happy breaks eye contact as he sets the medical instrument back down in the box.

“Because you need to know that you aren’t alone, kid.”

 Pis comme c’est ma fête le mois prochain, (And since it’s my birthday next month,) M’emmènerais-tu voir une game des Canadiens? (Will you take me to a game and lunch?)

 Meeting Tony Stark had been an experience, to say the least.

An experience that had ended with a brand new suit.

 As Happy drives back home, Peter’s body shakes with excitement.

 Once they’re both parked, Peter almost bursts open the car door— but Happy has locked it before he can even try.

“Happy?” Peter asks, an eyebrow raised. “Can you open the door?”

Happy’s hands fell from the steering wheel and onto his own lap.

“Listen, kid,” He starts, clearing his throat. “When I told Tony about you— I didn’t think that he would, you know—“ He waves his hand towards the metallic suitcase on Peter’s lap.

Peter, not a clue as to where the conversation is going, doesn’t respond.

“I just—“ Happy sighs. “You’re a smart kid. I have absolute faith in you and what you do.”

“I trust you, Peter…” Happy looks back at him, making eye contact. His voice wavers.

Peter swallows the lump in his throat. He ignores the familiar feeling of tears welling up in his eyes as Happy says one last thing;

“Just… be safe. Please.”

 Pis si personne entend pis que c’est juste une fois… (And if no one else hears, and it’s just once...)

 The wedding had been extravagant.

May had been wearing the white dress that his grandmother had worn; a family tradition, she had said.

Happy had worn his best suit.

Families and friends had attended. Joyful music had played.

A few of the Avengers had even showed up, wishing them both happiness.

As Peter clicks through the pictures that had been taken, a warm feeling blossoms in his chest upon seeing a specific one.

It’s a picture of him, May and Happy. The two adults were showing off their rings to the camera as both of their arms were wrapped around Peter’s shoulders, squeezing him into a one armed hug in between them both. All three of them had their lips curled up into the brightest smiles that they had ever had.

It’s his favourite.

 Voudrais-tu que j’t’appelle papa? (Would you want me to call you dad?)

Peter looks at the black packet in his hand.

He shakes his head and promptly throws it to the garbage can.

Peter then swings himself home, going through his window as always to get inside. Today had been an uneventful day.

As he takes off his suit, someone knocks on his door. “Hey kid, you free for a bit? We wanna show you something.” Happy calls out.

“Just a sec!” Peter replies, putting on a hoodie and pajama pants.

As soon as he’s done he walks to the living room, seeing May and Happy on the sofa with a pile of papers on the coffee table.

Peter quirks an eyebrow. “What? Is this some sort of test?”

“No, Pete,” May chuckles at him, shaking her head. She intertwines her arm with Happy’s. “Just… sit down, will you?”

Peter does as he’s told, sitting down onto the armchair adjacent to the sofa that Happy and May are both sitting in. “Well?” He asks as soon he plops down.

Happy clears his throat. “Well—“ He starts, placing a hand on top of May’s hand. “Your Aunt— that is, if you want to call her your aunt and not… I don’t know, your mo—“

Before Happy can even finish his sentence, Peter stands up. His eyes landing and focusing themselves on the papers.

There, written in big, bold letters are the words: ADOPTION FORM.

May, upon his sudden reaction, untangles her arm from Happy’s and instead places a hand on top of Peter’s. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Pete—“

Peter looks up at May, and this time, he lets the tears fall free.

Instantly, May’s arms are around him— and it didn’t take long before Happy’s own are around him too.

“Peter? Are you okay?” May fumbles with her words, unsure on how to address his sudden outburst. “We don’t have to—“

“No,” Peter replies as he lifts his head up from their arms. “I— I want to.”

Happy, still unsure, pipes up. “Are… are you sure, kid? I mean, I understand that maybe it’s a bit too fast—“

Peter just shakes his head. He’s sobbing, but his whole body is filled with joy and excitement and glee and he’s so sure that he wants this. 

“I am,” He says, as May and Happy wipe the tears off of his face.

“A hundred percent.” He smiles.

and as always, requests are open! pls don’t forget to like and reblog, thank you! :]

[thelastspeecher]

Well, both @mythomagically-delicious and @neptunesmirror told me to post some of the Olympian Falls nonsense I’ve written today, so here it is.  Stan and Ford showing a new half-blood around the camp.

              “So, here’s the cabins or whatever,” Stan said, waving a hand idly. The girl he and Ford had been tasked with showing around nodded silently.  “You’re a quiet kid, huh.”

              “I’m a bit out of my depth,” the girl said softly.  “I’d never left Arkansas before this week.”

              “Really?”

              “Mm-hmm.”

              “Huh.  Weird.”

              “You’ll be staying in our cabin,” Ford explained.  “Hermes.”

              “Why?  Is that who my father is?”

              “Nah,” Stan said after a moment, looking the girl over.  “You don’t look like one of us Hermes kids.  But we host kids who haven’t been claimed yet.”

              “Oh.”  The girl rubbed the back of her neck.  “When- when will that happen?”

              “Fuck if I know.  I got claimed right away.  Ford took a little bit longer.”  The girl nodded.  “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

              “Angie.  Angie McGucket.”  Angie whispered her name, like she was afraid to say it.

              “What does your mom do?”

              “Why do you want to know?” Angie asked.

              “It might help us figure out who your dad is.  It’s your dad that’s your godly parent, right?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie sighed quietly.  “Ma had a job as a lawyer fer a while.  But she’s been a farmer’s wife fer as long as I can remember.”

              “Huh.  Any hobbies?”

              “She likes to sing and dance.  She has the prettiest voice.  And she’s a sharpshooter, like me ‘n Pa.”

              “Sharpshooter?”

              “Yeah.  Like with a rifle?  Anyways, I’m a sharpshooter, too.  Not as good as Pa, but I will be some day.”  Angie grinned, the first time Stan and Ford had seen her smile.  “I’m better ‘n everyone else in the fam’ly so far.”

              “Are you good with music, like she is?” Ford asked.  Angie nodded.

              “Yup.  I can play three instruments.  ‘N my folks named me after the banjo.  So it’d be a shame if I didn’t know my way around a few chords here ‘n there.”

              “Apollo?” Ford said quietly to Stan.  Stan nodded.

              “Seems like.  We should put a bow and arrow in her hands.  Betcha she’d get claimed right away.”  Stan smiled at Angie. “Hey, uh, you wanna go check out the archery range?”

              “I- I’ve never done archery.”

              “Yeah, but if you’ve got good aim with a gun, you might have good aim with a bow, too.”

              “Where is the archery range?”

              “Not too far from here.  Just past the stables,” Ford said.  Angie stopped walking.  “What?”

              “There’s stables here?” Angie squeaked.  Stan and Ford exchanged a look.

              “Yeah.  Uh, are you afraid of horses or something?” Stan asked.  Angie shook her head.  “Oh. Well, I was gonna tell you that they aren’t all horses in the stable, anyways.  There’s also pegasi.”  Angie’s jaw dropped.  “You all right there, kid?”

              “P-pegasi?”

              “Yeah.  Flying horses.”

              “Where is this?” Angie asked.  Stan nodded in the direction of the stables.

              “That way.  But I think we should check out the archery range-”  Angie took off at full speed in the direction Stan had indicated.  “And she’s gone.”  Stan sighed.  “Guess we better go grab her before she gets kicked in the face by a pegasus or something.”

              By the time Ford and Stan arrived at the stables, Angie was gushing over a chestnut pegasus mare.

              “Angie, you shouldn’t just approach the pegasi without training,” Ford protested.  Angie waved a hand.

              “I grew up on a farm.  I know how to handle horses.”  She looked back at the pegasus.  “The sign on yer stall says yer name’s Glowworm?  What a lovely name!  I bet it’s ‘cause yer wings ‘re so bright they practic’ly shine in the dark.” Angie stroked Glowworm’s muzzle. “I have a horse back home.  Her name’s Daisy.  I raised her from a foal m’self.”  Angie sighed sadly.  “I wanted to bring her with, but the satyr what brought me here said I couldn’t take her.” Glowworm nickered at her.  “Aw, thanks.  I just hope my brothers ‘ll take good care of her.”  Glowworm abruptly tossed her head, staring at Angie with wide eyes.  The pegasus in the next stall over neighed loudly.  Angie looked over.  “Yeah, I can understand ya.  And I don’t think ya need to use such strong language, sir.”  Glowworm neighed at her.  “Ever since I was a child.  Back home, Ma ‘n Pa put me in charge of all the horses, since I could talk to ‘em and understand what they said back to me.”

              “What the fuck?” Stan breathed.  Angie ignored him, instead focusing on Glowworm, who was making noise again.

              “Whattaya mean?  It- it ain’t a common demigod trait?  But- but-” Angie took a step back from the stall. “I- I thought there’d be people here like me.  That’s- that’s what I was told.”  Angie sniffed.

              “Shit, she’s gonna cry,” Stan muttered, moving over to her.  Angie sobbed.

              “All the flyin’ horses in the world can’t replace Daisy or- or- or my fam’ly.”

              “Hey, hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Stan said.  He put an arm around her shoulders.  “You’ve got family here, remember?  I bet once you get claimed, you’ll have even more half-siblings than you’ve got back home.”

              “I have five older siblin’s,” Angie said, her voice thick with tears. “And- and I miss all of ‘em.”  She looked at Stan with watery eyes.  “Is- is what the pegasi said true?  Demigods can’t normally talk to ‘em?”

              “Yeah,” Stan said reluctantly.  “I’ve never heard of that before.”

              “But once you get claimed, I’m sure it’ll all make sense,” Ford put in, joining Stan and Angie.  Angie sobbed again.  Glowworm nickered at Angie.  Angie smiled through her tears.

              “That’s- that’s awful sweet of ya, Glowworm.”

              “What did she say?” Ford asked.

              “That until I get claimed, she’ll be my fam’ly.”

              “Oh.  Yeah, that is nice,” Ford said.  He cleared his throat.  “Maybe we should make our way to the archery range now.”

              “No, Sixer,” Stan hissed.  He jerked his head at Angie, who was still crying.  “I think maybe we should go for a walk on the beach or somethin’.  Cool off a bit before we give the nine-year-old a weapon.”

              “I’m eleven,” Angie said quietly.  “Just small fer my age.”  She wiped her face and stared down at the ground determinedly.  “Did- did ya say the beach?”

              “Yeah.”

              “I’ve- I’ve never seen the ocean.”

              “Come on, then.  You’ve gotta.”  Stan led Angie out of the stables.  He and Ford tried to make idle conversation with Angie as they headed towards the beach, but she was still too upset to give more than one-word answers. Finally, the soil changed to sand.

              “Here we are,” Ford said.  Angie looked up.  She gasped. “The Atlantic Ocean.”

              “It’s- it’s beautiful,” Angie breathed.  She shook Stan’s arm off her shoulders and walked into the surf.  The waves broke against her sandal-clad feet. Her body relaxed from the tense posture she had held.  “I- I feel so calm.”

              “The ocean can do that,” Ford said.  “Stan and I grew up on the Jersey Shore.  It’s nice to stare out at sea and be reminded of home.”

              “This doesn’t remind me of the farm at all,” Angie said softly.  “But it feels like home.”

              “That’s ‘cause you’re at Camp Half-Blood now,” Stan said.  He joined Angie at the water’s edge.  “You’re home.”

              “Maybe,” Angie whispered.  Stan looked at her.  She seemed at peace, the water at her feet the same color as her eyes.  After few minutes, she sighed and stepped back. “I- I think ya wanted me to try my hand at archery.”

              “Oh!  Yeah, we did,” Stan said.  He grinned. “I bet you’ll be a natural.  Come on.  It’s this way.”

              The three left the beach, Ford and Stan’s shoes making wet footprints, but Angie’s completely dry sandals leaving none.

[maraskolnikova]

A less-than-One-Act Play

Do enjoy @cumberblue2 @is-it-a-video and anyone else with a sense of humour...

“The Speech”

CHARACTERS

Timmy – FKA Timmy Tim, Timmy T, Lil’ Timmy Tim

Armie Hammer – AKA Pop-pop, Gramps, Pa,

Elizabeth Chambers Hammer – Bird Bakery owner, actress, journalist, AKA: Mom, ma, mama

Heckler - unidentified man who looks for all the world like Luca wearing a cowboy hat and Groucho Marx glasses

Scene: Texas Film Awards

Timmy: Ahh, it’s so nice to be here paying homage to a legend, my mentor, my father-figure and adult homie, my platonic friend whom I love dearly in such an awesome platonic way cos I love women and girls, Armie Hammer!

(Applause)

Timmy: That’s right, give it up for my bro!

Armie: *smiling sheepishly, waves half-heartedly*

Timmy: It’s so inspiring to be here, honouring a man that’s been in the game for as long as Armie has. What a long and storied career. I mean, I still remember seeing him in “The Social Network”. Man, that takes me back. I remember thinking, “Who’s that guy that looks like a Disney prince come to life?! He’s so handsome it’s like, ridiculous! And his voice, WTF is that?! Like, who TALKS like that!?” I thought he was doing it for the role. Oh man…

Elizabeth: raises an eyebrow, looks at Armie

Armie: raises both eyebrows, looks confused and amused

Timmy: Anyway, I was really impressed by his work as the Winklevoss Twins. I remember when I met him for the first time I thought to myself “Holy shit! This guy’s huge! And he looks exactly the same in real life as he does in the movies! WTF?! That’s crazy!” Hahahahahha! Seriously, who looks like Armie Hammer, amirite?

Armie: *puts elbow on table, puts hands over his eyes, sinks lower into his chair*

Timmy: Okay, okay I’m deviating from my speech here. Sorry. I’m like the King of Digression. I’m like Holden from “Catcher in the Rye”! So, yeah, what can I say about Oliver that hasn’t been said…I remember sitting around his apartment late at night, drinking an Italian soda, eating sourpatch kids and ripple chips and saying “Arms, tell me what Hollywood was like back in those days, the ‘Social Network’ days! How did you guys film back then?” and he’d say “Dude, you’re 20 and you’ve been in this industry as long as I have. WTF are you talking about?!” Hahahahaha!

Armie: (yelling) That’s a real thing that happened!

Timmy: It is, it is! Yeah, he was having none of it. I guess he didn’t think it was that long ago! But it was such a great adventure getting to do “Call Me By Your Name” with a man like Armie. He made me feel so at ease. Like I’d say, “I’m going to kiss you and lick your neck now, AS ELIO” and he totally understood and was like, “I know, it’s acting. We’re actors. You don’t have to constantly tell me you’re doing things as Elio before every take,” which I wasn’t sure that I didn’t have to do that, you know! He taught me!

Heckler: (yelling, with an Italian accent) When you got your erections was that as Elio too??!!?

Timmy: (narrowing his eyes, peering into the crowd discomfited, trying to make out who yelled) Rowdy crowd tonight hey? I like it, that’s great. Be free, be honest! Anyway, I spent a lot of time with Armie in Italy, going on walks, having dinner, watching movies and documentaries, going for long bike rides and through it all I was concerned about how his health would hold up, at such an advanced age. I was like, “Armie, should we stop? Give you a chance to rest” and he’d say, “WTF are you talking about, you’re the one who blacked out after we biked up that hill yesterday!!” Hahahah, it was true. I was dehydrated. But really, it was a pretty physical shoot and I was just amazed at how strong and fit and sculpted his body was. I didn’t know that a 29 year old could look like that! It was really inspiring…

Armie: (sliding lower in his seat, visibly embarassed)

Timmy: I would say to him, “Armie I want to be just like you when I grow up! Getting interesting work, doing things that push me physically, that demand stamina…how do you do it?!” And he would just look at me and laugh, such a funny, laidback guy...

Heckler: (yelling) That’s ‘cos you were 20 when you said that and the way you talk is ridiculous!

Timmy: (visibly annoyed) Umm, security, want to do something about that guy?

Armie: (yelling) Nah, he’s good!

Timmy: That’s so weird…Anyway, he always looked after me on set. He’d ask if I had taken my Flintstone vitamins everyday, if I got sleepy he’d carry me to bed and bring me water, sometimes he’d make me hot chocolate…

Armie: (whispering to Elizabeth) I didn’t do any of those things, for real. I think he’s high…Why would I make anyone hot chocolate in the middle of summer?!

Elizabeth: I have no idea what the fuck is going on here but it’s weird and hard to watch and listen to.

Timmy: Whenever I’d climb or straddle him, I was afraid I’d throw out his back or something! It was so weird having to act romantically interested in someone so much older than me, who I looked up to as a father figure and almost a grandfather figure! But I guess we somehow managed to pull it off, even if it isn’t super convincing to everyone…

Heckler: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME ! You fool NO ONE Timmy! I HAD TO PULL YOU OFF HIM SEVERAL TIMES! You’d forget your lines! What grotesque sort of charade is this?!

Timmy: (shocked, realization dawning on his face) Wait a minute, Luca!?!?

                                                            THE END

[drawingsanddrabbles]

Too Bad Santa’s Dead

Prompt: “Too Bad Santa’s Dead” (Bones s3e9)

I know, I know... A Jew writing a Christmas fic... I am confused about it myself. Anywho, here's a fic that was prompted from a line in a Bones episode from a rewatch and... and basically I wrote this in May. I wrote a Christmas fic in May and I'm a Jew so like... yeah. Join the confusion.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and by the by Tim and Kon are aged-up to at least 18 because yeah.

ao3

“Dude, this sucks.” Kon said as he floated over the dead Santa.

“You know I’m an atheist, right?” Tim poked at the body and finished his oral report on the body and crime scene.

“Hey, I’m only part-Christian but that doesn’t mean this doesn’t suck.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Santa isn’t real, Kon.”

“How do you know? I’m a clone of an alien and an evil corporate super-villain overlord. Santa could be real.”

“He’s not.” Tim snapped.

Kon recoiled. “Okay, it was just a joke.” Tim didn’t respond. Something had clearly upset Tim. Kon frowned, had Tim and Kon never had a conversation about Santa before? They’d known each other for years, not to mention that they’d been dating for around a year. Though, this would be their first Christmas together.

Did Tim hate Christmas?

Why did Tim hate Santa?

“Are you okay?” Kon asked as he floated.

Tim exhaled annoyedly (Kon knew that reaction well) and he stood. “I’m fine. Sorry for being snappy.”

“Are you sure?” Kon asked.

Tim pulled his mouth into a smile. “Yeah.” He was lying.

Which obviously meant that Tim wouldn’t tell Kon why and if Kon wanted to understand him better there seemed to be only one way to figure out why Tim hated the concept of Santa: ask the family. “I’ve gotten everything I’m going to get from the scene and I collected samples. Do you mind if we go back to the Cave so I can run tests?”

For once, Kon didn’t. “I’d love to go back. Want me to keep you company?”

Tim smiled, this time a real smile. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

Dick’s first reaction was: “Someone killed Santa?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Santa isn’t real, Dick. Someone killed someone dressed as Santa.”

“Uh huh.” Dick said. He leaned over to Kon and whispered, “Tim doesn’t like Santa.”

“Yeah, what’s that about?” Kon whispered back. Tim worked without sign of hearing them, they continued to whisper for Tim’s sake.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Not that I can remember.”

Dick zipped his lips. “Not my secret to tell.”

“At least a hint?” Kon asked. “Help a boyfriend out.”

Dick looked at Tim, hesitated, then back at Kon: “It’s not just Santa, it’s also Christmas.”

“Wha-Really?” But Dick zipped his lips again. He walked over to Tim and rubbed his hair.

“See ya, kiddo.”

“Bye, Dick.” Tim raised an eyebrow. “What’re you doing all the way over there?” Tim asked Kon, just realizing how far away from Tim he was.

“Nothing, just thinking.”

“Sit next to me?” Tim asked.

Kon smiled and pulled up a chair next to Tim’s at the Batcomputer. He kissed his boyfriend on the cheek. “Sure babe.”

“EW!” Someone cried, seeing Kon kiss Tim. Tim rolled his eyes.

“I don’t ‘ew’ you when you kiss Cass.” He called to Steph who bounced over to Tim, resting her arms and head on Tim’s.

“That’s ‘cuz we’re gorgeous and there’s nothing to ‘ew.’ You on the other hand...”

“Hey!” Kon cried.

Steph grinned at him. “Not you of course, Kon. You’re just as gorgeous as us.” She winked at him.

“Stop hitting on my boyfriend.” Tim said, eyes never leaving the Batcomputer screens.

“Tim is gorgeous too!” Kon cried outraged.

“You only say that ‘cuz you’re his boyfriend, I’m his ex so I can say that he isn’t.”

“Thanks, Steph.” Tim said.

“You’re welcome.”

Tim switched to his crime scene pictures of the victim and frowned.

“Aw! Someone killed Santa?” Steph cried.

“Santa-”

“I know, I know, Santa isn’t real.”

“Who is not real?” Damian asked, Kon jumped out of his skin. He knew the gremlin was a ninja and all but like? Seriously? Damian hadn’t been there five seconds ago. He pushed Kon and Tim out of the way so he could see the case.

“No one you care about.” Tim said, pushing Damian so he could go back to his past position in front of the computer.

“Dami, see the red suit and the white beard? In our society that is a marker of a man named Santa Claus.” Steph explained.

“Santa Claus is imaginary.” Damian said.

“I can’t believe we agree on something.” Tim muttered.

Wait, Steph had dated Tim before… “Hey, Steph? Can we talk for a moment? Y’know, alone.”

Steph looked surprised. “Yeah, sure thing Hot Stuff. Step into my office.”

Kon stood and they began walking away from Tim when Damian said loudly: “If you are discussing sexual encounters with Drake, please walk farther from my earshot.”

“We’re far enough away that you can’t hear us, Kid!” Steph shouted at him. She turned to Kon, “what’s up?”

“Why does Tim hate Christmas?” He asked softly.  Steph glanced at Tim. “Please, Steph? Help a boyfriend out?”

“You used that exact line on Dick, didn’t you? And he didn’t tell you?”

Kon chewed on his lip. “Possibly…?”

“If Dick didn’t tell you, no way I’m telling you.” Steph said.

“Aw, please Steph?”

“The key to a healthy relationship is communication, Sunshine.” Steph said, patting him on the shoulder.

Kon sighed. “Whatever, thanks anyway.” He went back to Tim but Damian was sitting in his seat, conducting tests. “Dude, move.”

“Find another seat.” Damian snapped.

I can’t believe I’m arguing with an angry munchkin. Kon thought. Tim glared at Damian. He turned to Kon and stood, kissing him on the cheek. As if sensing his anger towards the little man, Tim suggested, “you know what, I’ll see you at home Kon, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Kon asked. He glowered at Damian but the youth ignored him. Tim nodded and Kon kissed Tim again and Damian rolled his eyes.

“Please take your possessive sexual activities somewhere else.” Damian said.

Kon was about to bite something back but Tim hit Damian on the back of the head and Damian growled something at him. Tim went back to the case and seemed to forget that Kon was in the room which was understandable, he always got that way when on a case. Kon guessed he’d go home then. He glanced back at the dead Santa on the screen and got an idea.

“No.” Tim said. Kon frowned, he hadn’t expected Tim to react so strongly. Tim stumbled backward, eyes staring. He tumbled into the wall, his gaze breaking. He turned and walked out.

“Tim?” Kon grabbed a robe, following him out into the cold Gotham night, “Tim, come back! If it bothers you that much I- Tim!” But Tim was nowhere to be seen.

Kon had fucked up. Kon had really, super duper, absolutely, indubitably, and terribly fucked up. Kon was about to jump into the air when a strong wind blew into Kon’s robe. Someone above him snorted. “Wow, trouble in paradise?”

Jason. Great. “Why are you here?”

“To stare at your wonderfully beautiful ass. Or maybe just to annoy Tim’s. I like to keep you heroes guessing.” Jason said. Kon was sure he was kidding.

Kon glared at him. He sat on top of Tim’s apartment building, mask on, leg hanging lazily over the edge of the roof. He looked Kon up and down, physically moving his mask to make sure Kon knew what he was doing. Kon looked down and closed his robe tighter (which probably wasn’t helping Kon’s modesty). “Are you here for a reason? Because if not, I have to go find my boyfriend and make sure he doesn’t want to kill me.” Kon grumbled.

“You really fucked up, didn’t you?” Jason shook his head. “Didn’t you know he has a thing about Christmas?”

“How did you know? You’ve tried to kill him.”

“Oh please, Krypto-Boy, we all have a thing about Christmas. For the demon-spawn and the mute it’s a detachment; they aren’t Christian, they never had a reason to love or want to love Christmas. Christmas was one of the only days Princess Eggplant’s dad was allowed to contact her, which didn’t always give her warm and fuzzy feelings. Not to mention a cheap Christmas and no presents, nothing that you want from Santa. And Dickiebird and Brucie? Well, being an orphan isn’t too fun on a family-centric holiday.”

He hadn’t known. Kon didn’t know what it was like, sure he was lonely and alone. Sure he didn’t know of a family before Tim and Bart and Cassie and Dubbilex and Jim and… but he had Ma and Pa, he had Kara and Clark and he had Lois. He had Christmas. They didn’t.

“And you? Tim?”

“Me? I was a street kid. Christmas meant cold, it meant pity charity from people too rich to care about me except for one fucking day of the year. Then? It meant Bruce and Dick and Alfred and family. And then? Then it meant nothing. But this is about Tim, and Tim? Tim wasn’t like us. Tim’s family wasn’t like any of ours. You’re never going to make Tim like Christmas. Tolerate it? Maybe. But like and love? Never. Just give up on that dream, don’t force him.”

“So? What do I do now?”

“So, you wanted to find out why? Ask him yourself clone. You want to accept that he just doesn’t like Christmas and he never will? Do that. It’s up to you now, Luthor-spawn, make the right choice.”

“Why are you here, Jason?”

Jason stood and brushed off his legs. “I heard Kris Kringle bit it, I thought I might have heard something, I was going to tip off the replacement, but clearly this isn’t the time. Go after him, Wannabe. He needs you.”

Kon nodded. He was about to take off again when Jason added, “and put on some pants. Maybe things are different in Metropolis, but in Gotham ripped dudes flying around wrapped as a Christmas present isn’t appropriate.”

Kon ran into the apartment he and Tim shared and changed, then he closed his eyes and followed the sound of his love’s heartbeat.

“Here, huh?” Kon asked, landing on the top of the Wayne Enterprises Tower.

Tim shrugged, his legs swinging off the edge of the roof. “I like being up high. How’d you find me?”

“It’s not hard, I know you. I know your heartbeat. And I know when I’ve clearly upset you.”

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-”

“No. It’s my fault. I knew you were upset about Christmas and Santa and I pushed it too far. I thought... I thought I could make it right. Give you some good memories. Clearly I was wrong.”

“Clearly.”

“Tim, please tell me: what I can do to make it right?” Kon asked. He sat down next to Tim. Tim stared out at the illuminated street below him.

“When, when I was three I learned about Santa for the first time.” Tim began slowly. “I was at pre-school and my teacher asked if anyone knew who Santa was. I was the only person in class who didn’t know. That night, that afternoon really, Mrs. Mac picked me up from school—Mom and Dad were in Africa for Christmas. I told Mrs. Mac about what I’d learned that day, about Santa, and she, and I’ll never forget this, she turned around in her seat with the most pitying look on her face and she said: ‘oh, Tim dear Santa isn’t real.’” Tim stared at his hands and inhaled shakily. “Just like that. To a three year old. I mean, I’d figure it out eventually, but really?” He paused before continuing. “I didn’t really believe her, not entirely. What my teachers and classmates said… it had to be real, I mean Batman was real so why not Santa, right? Well I waited up for him that night, after Mrs. Mac had gone to her family for the holiday, I stayed up. I stayed up and I made milk and cookies and I hid with my camera, a birthday present by the way, under the couch and I waited for Santa to come. And by morning Santa didn’t come, and there were no presents under my tree. And until Mom died that was my Christmas, alone in the house. When I turned five I started buying my own presents, Mom and Dad gave me the money of course, but I bought them. I wrapped them. I hid them under the tree. Christmas didn’t really seem so magical, and soon I just… stopped, all together. After all I could buy whatever I wanted with my parents credit cards whenever I wanted, what was the point of celebrating Christmas?” He finally stopped to breathe. The breaths were thick and his shoulders shook, his voice trembled. “So when you… I don’t want Christmas. I-I know you were trying to be helpful, but I just-I don’t want Christmas!”

“Okay.” Kon said. “No Christmas, promise.” Tears fell from Tim’s eyes and Kon wrapped him in a hug. “No Christmas. Promise.” He repeated.

Tim walked into the apartment on December 24th not expecting what he saw. But it didn’t make him walk out. “You-you cleaned the apartment.” He stated.

Kon grinned. He wore Tim’s favorite sweater for him (it was an S-Shield pattern that Ma had made for him one year) and the apartment was flawless. The mouth-watering aroma of Chinese food filled the air. A blanket lay across the couch and Tim’s laptop was plugged in, laying on top of it. The TV was on and ready to be watched. “What-what is this?” He asked, slightly overwhelmed by the sparkiliness of the moment.

“I figured, since you don’t like Christmas, how about we don’t do Christmas. How about we never do Christmas. Instead we do an ‘us’ night. We stay in, eat our favorite foods, pizza is on it’s way by the way, we marathon Wendy. We cuddle on the couch. Then, tomorrow we can go out on patrol or whatever you want to do.”

“An ‘us’ night?”

Kon nodded enthusiastically. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to. ‘Cuz then we don’t have to. I just thought… since I’ll never be able to give you good Christmas memories, what if we never had to worry about Christmas at all? Y’know do kind of a new holiday, just for us.”

“Just for us.” Tim repeated.

Kon nodded, trying to gauge Tim’s reaction. When Tim said nothing, Kon’s face fell. “Actually,” he said bashfully, “it’s stupid, we can just do nothing, I’ll just-”

“No!” Tim said, freezing Kon in his tracks. “No.” Tim said. “It’s perfect.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And very sweet.” He walked over to Kon and hugged and kissed him lightly.

“Um, excuse me?” A voice said from behind them.

The pizza guy had arrived. Kon paid him and took the pizza from him. He closed the door and Tim and Kon settled onto the couch. Wendy the Werewolf Stalker played and they began stuffing themselves with food. The night wore on until they were out of food and halfway through Wendy’s first season. Kon lay drowsily on Tim’s shoulder while Tim curled the blanket around his feet.

“Tim?”

“Hmm?” Tim asked.

“Where do you want to patrol tomorrow?” Kon asked, yawning.

“What if we... didn’t patrol?”

Kon frowned and sat up, looking at him. “But you love to patrol.”

“And you don’t, and I also love you. This is an ‘us’ day, right? So let’s do something we both like. Maybe head down to the arcade.”

Kon smiled and kissed Tim gently. “I love you so much.”

Tim smiled and laid his head down in Kon’s lap, stretching out on the couch, his legs hanging over the end. “I love you too.”

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

Meet and Greet- Lucio Correia dos Santos

Pairing: Lucio Correia dos Santos x Reader

Characters: Lucio Correia

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 1613

Author: Aaron

“Beep Beep Beep Beep”

“Beep Beep Beep Beep”

  You roll over just to stare at your alarm clock, trying to force your eyes open. The clock reads 4:30 in big red lettering. You know that you should have gotten an early night instead of playing hearthstone until the early hours of the morning. The late night grind for top 500 didn’t really outweigh the three hours of sleep you had.

  You try to roll back towards the wall after turning your alarm clock off, the bleeping still going on inside your head. Why were you getting up this early anyway? It isn’t like you have a job or have to go to university anymore.

  As you roll something catches the corner of your eye in the shadowy depths of your apartment, a stack of CDs. Now you remember, today was finally the day you got to meet Lucio!

  You sit up, dangling your legs off the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You reach for the familiar cord that hangs from the ceiling near your bed. You find the cord in the darkness, tugging it only creates an intense, blinding light. It takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust before you can see clearly again.

  Your apartment wasn’t exactly… huge to put it nicely. Just enough space for your single bed, a small wardrobe, a desk which had your laptop resting on top of it and a small surface that acted as a makeshift kitchen. It was just big enough to house a microwave and a hotplate with a small pantry and fridge underneath. You couldn’t exactly call it living in luxury but it was yours and it beat being homeless. At least the Wi-Fi was good and the neighbours were… interesting.

  Next to your desk stood a tower of masterpieces, the complete works of Lucio Correia dos Santos. More commonly known as Lucio. You plucked a lucky few from the tower, being careful as to not knock it over and threw them in the front zip of your backpack.

  Every wall of your apartment was covered from top to bottom in posters and stickers all about Lucio. You removed the crusty Blu-tac from your most prized ones, rolled them up and tied them in string. They joined the CDs in the backpack. You hope Lucio doesn’t mind singing all of this merchandise for you! You probably should have something to eat before heading for a wash, you open the small pantry to reveal a shelf full of Lucio-oh’s. You had brought out the store trying to collect all of the limited edition badges, you were still two short but you had nowhere else to store food, so for now, you were living off of these. At least they had a picture of Lucio on the front.

  You grabbed a towel from the rack and ran to the communal showers on the floor beneath yours. Numbani wasn’t the easiest place to live, but it made a nice change from the same-old of the American Midwest. Luckily the showers were empty.

  “Well, it makes sense” you thought to yourself, after all, no sane person would be up at this god-forsaken hour. It only took about 15 minutes to dry yourself and throw some jeans on along with your favourite Lucio shirt and hoodie.

 Today was going to be the best day ever!

 You grabbed some shoes, your keys, your phone and your wallet and your backpack. You slung the backpack over your shoulder, locked the door behind you and walked to the bus stop. It took about five minutes to talk to the nearest bus stop.

“Oh…”

You thought to yourself, because it turns out, the buses don’t start for another hour. By that time the queue would be far too long. You had to be their early, you had to meet him.

“Oh well”

Thankfully ma and pa were still sending you money over for university which you may or may not have dropped out of a few months ago but they…. didn’t need to know that for now. So, luckily it shouldn’t be too much of an issue to just call up a taxi. You call up the taxi and they say they’ll send a car out within the next 15 minutes.

“Not too bad” You reply.

Half an hour later a car arrives for you. You throw your bag in the empty seat, buckle up your seat belt and type the address of the record store into the cars control panel. About 10 minutes later you arrive outside the record shop. There is another five or so hours before the meet and greet is set to start, so there shouldn't be too many people. You should easily get to see him.

“Plenty of time.”

You opened the door to reveal a swarm of people. The line stretched from the record store, past the supermarket, past the bank and through the park, you couldn’t even see the end of the line. There was no way you were giving up this shot though, so you picked up your backpack and trudged what felt like miles to the end of the line.

There were groups of people singing, dancing, playing soccer, whatever you could think of. Mostly people just slept though. In sleeping bags, in camping chairs, in tents… most people just slept on the floor though.

Once you had completed your pilgrimage to the end of the queue you just… sat there. Far too nervous to speak to anybody or do anything. You pull your phone out of your pocket to play some hearthstone and listen to music. Of course, tonight was the one night you forgot to charge your phone. 15% wasn’t going to last you a long time, so there went that idea. All you could do was… wait.

The seconds turned to minutes, the minutes turned to hours. Long, long hours.

At some point you must have fell asleep resting against a guard rail. You found yourself being awoken by screams. It must have been tens of thousands of people each letting out a bloodcurdling scream in unison

 The doors had opened.

 One by one people of all shapes, age, religion, culture, height and colour shuffled in to meet Lucio. You managed to take roughly one step every… five minutes or so. It was going to take a very, very long time but it was going to be worth it to meet him. You shuffled forward step by step for what seemed like an eternity. It felt like seasons flew by. Maybe you missed Christmas? At this point you had lost track of time.

You look ahead at the snake of people, you can finally see him! In person! There was still about 50 people and a two hours wait ahead of you but now it started to feel real. You had been in this queue for about ten hours. Your feet hurt to high heaven and you think you might have sunstroke, but at least the weather was nice.

Only two people stood between you and Lucio. You were so close. You could hear the conversation they were having. It was about D.va or something, you weren't paying much attention. Lucio was laughing and joking away as he always does, he’s such a pure soul.

He turned to look at you and smiled at you, it wasn’t much, it only lasted for a second but you felt like screaming and passing out. Fortunately for you neither happened. Five more minutes passed, you are next in line. The person that was in front of you is now exiting the record store, its now finally your chance. You walk forward towards the big glass doors.

You are stopped by an outstretched arm, it is one of Lucio’s bodyguards. He stood about six foot tall He is dressed surprisingly casually. A blonde ponytail sat between the shaved sides of his blonde hair. He had dark grey jeans on and a light grey sweatshirt, damn, he was so lucky. That’s the new line of Lucio merch, maybe they’re selling it inside!

“I'm sorry sir” He calls out. His voice bellowing into your very soul. “Mr. Lucio isn’t seeing anybody else today, he’s done.” You look through the glass doors to see Lucio starting to pack up his things, you figured he would have someone else do that job for him.

“No” You call out. Trying to push your way past the guard but there was no way you would be able to. There was no way that you and Lucio would meet like this but you had to. You just had to.

Your head spun into a web of thoughts and plans.

“Maybe I can go to his next city?”

“Maybe I can write him a letter?”

“Maybe I can... damn it I need to meet him now” You think to yourself.

A plan starts to form in your head. The goody two-shoes always came to help when somebody was in danger. His face was always on the news or in the paper for saving cats from trees or helping other animals. You even saw articles about him chasing down criminals and helping the police catch the bad guy. The guy was a hero.

Tears streamed down your face as you pulled your hood up. You walked to the large, ancient building, up what felt like a million steps and opened the humongous glass doors.

“EVERYBODY DOWN” You yell at the top of your lungs.

“THIS IS A FUCKING ROBBERY, ANYBODY MOVE AND ILL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF”

You would meet him. You had to.

[masked-fox-creations]

When The Strangers Blew In, Ch. 11

Fidds really gets to shine in this part. Don't worry, Rick has his own moments in the next. I just had to break up the carnival into two chapters because it was getting long and it flows better this way. Lots of things are gonna happen after this.

Summary: Stanford and Stanley Pines dream of a different life. One where they’re not just tidying their pa’s shop or helping ma take care of the baby. Where they can live freely as the men they know they are, instead of pa hounding them to marry before they become spinsters. They get a taste of that possibility when two strangers blow into town, but with them comes a heap of trouble.

Pairings: Rick/Stan (stanchez); Fiddleford/Stanford (fiddauthor)

Warnings for this chapter: Mild suggestive comments from Rick, the usual mild time period racism and snobbery from Bud and Preston.

ao3 link

Chapter 11— I Know I’ll Hear You Singing

Stanley was hurriedly fixing Stanford’s hair as Stanford adjusted the belt around Stanley’s waist. They refused to admit how long they had been running around their room trying to find the perfect look. Discarded dresses littered the floor and bed, and their sanity was a mess of jewelry and accessories.

Just as they stepped back from each other for a final appraisal there was a knock at the front door. Stanley grabbed his brother’s arm and shot out of their room and down the stairs, passing Ma who was heading towards the door herself. She stepped back with a knowing grin, letting the twins answer it.

“Howdy!” they panted in unison.

Rick and Fiddleford looked even classier than they had the previous night. Stanley made a not to compliment Carla later.

“Ready to go?” Rick asked.

“Anywhere with you,” Stanley said without thinking. He quickly grabbed Rick’s wrist and pulled him inside. “Ma! Guess who’s here?”

“Two fine gentlemen?”

“Nope.”

“Not even close, ma. Your psychic powers must be off today.”

“Must be all the rain we’ve gotten.”

“Hello, ma’am,” Fiddleford greeted as Rick nodded. At her pointed look he quickly corrected, “I mean, Martha.”

Shermie wiggled in her arms. He reached out towards the men saying, “Fih, Fih!”

“Aw, hello, little guy.”

Fiddleford tickled the babe who giggled happily. Ma rolled her eyes and handed Shermie over.

“Here, I need ta finish getting ready, anyway. And apparently ta light a fire under your father.”

“Why don’t we go on ahead, Ma?” Stanley suggested hopefully. “Hm. Well, if you two promise not to take advantage of these precious flowers.”

“Of course, ma’am, we would never,” Fiddleford assured.

“I was talking to the twins. Behave yourselves, girls.”

“I promise we’ll behave like ourselves. Thanks, Ma!”

The twins hurriedly kissed her goodbye and dragged the men back outside.

“Yer ma’s quite the woman,” Fiddleford commented, shifting Shermie in his arms.

“Yeah, it’s easy to see who you two take after.”

“I’ll assume those are both compliments. Now let’s go.”

Rick offered his arm. “May I, little lady?”

“You may fuck off,” Stanley returned, walking past him. Rick just grinned and followed.

“So wh-what, what is this fair like? Don’t tell me it’s all puritan dancing and coleslaw.”

Stanford furrowed his brow.

“You make no sense on most occasions Rick, have i ever told you that?”

“Don’t worry, there are plenty of games. Ring toss, tests of strength, all the good ones.”

“I’m great at games,” Rick said. “Want me to win you a doll, Lee?”

Stanley snorted.

“I’d make you eat it, Rick.”

“I’d rather eat—” “And this conversation’s over!” Stanford declared as Fiddleford covered Shermie’s ears. Rick gave an innocent smile.

“I was just going to say ice cream.”

“Ish crem!”

“See? The kid gets me.”

Festivities were already underway when they reached the fair. Stalls with various games and confections were set up all over, and a band was playing a cheerful tune beside a dancing stage that had been erected. It was bustling with happy families and couples, and little children ran merrily about from one attraction to the other.

“Ain’t this lovely,” Fiddleford commented.

“Quaint,” Rick returned, not quite sounding impressed.

Stanley ignored him, scanning the crowd. There on the stage was Susan. She was dancing with a couple of younger kids. Shandra he recognized right away, and Boyish Dan Corduroy; he couldn’t remember the name of the last girl, something with a ’t’. He caught Susan’s eye and waved. In a flash she hopped down and over, dragging her dance partners along.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed happily, throwing her arms around Stanley. When she pulled away she gave Rick and Fiddleford a once over. “Don’t you two look nice. Carla really pulled out all her magic this time.”

“Th-the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Wink,” Susan giggled, turning back to the twins. “I told her that shirt would look good on Fidds, and was I right or what?”

Shandra scoffed, looking Rick and Fiddleford over for herself. She didn’t seem impressed.

“Problem, kid?” Rick snapped. She shrugged.

“Well, I suppose I can understand the low standards, considering the few available—and even fewer decent men around here.”

“Yeesh, Shandra, pleasant as always,” Stanley said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, she’s right in part, and we’ve said as much before,” Stanford pointed out, and his twin nodded in agreement. Then Stanford side-eyed Rick. “Besides, she’s not completely wrong.”

Rick narrowed his eyes petulantly but went ignored.

“Uh, does that include me?” Dan asked worriedly.

The third kid put her arm on Dan’s with a giggle. “I’m sure Shandra didn’t mean you.”

The other girl scoffed, causing Dan to frown.

“Shandra, entertain the boys a minute, we’ll be right back,” Susan said, taking either twin by the arm and leading them away. The other girl followed them.

She stopped when they were a good distance away from the others, while also not near any other listening ears. Susan let go of them to pull the girl up beside her, her wide smile an odd juxtaposition with the younger kid’s suddenly nervous expression.

“What’s going on here?” Stanley finally asked.

“Stanley, Stanford—”

“Whoa!” Stanley interjected, his twin stiffening beside him. “I, uh, got no idea who you’re talking about there. Never heard those names in our life, right Sixer?”

Susan held up a calming hand and assured, “It’s okay, Tressa knows.”

“Um, I was actually thinking I’d prefer the name Tyler, if you don’t mind.”

“Aww, that’s a cute name for you! Boys, Tyler here was walking around late one night around the saloon and saw you two apparently jumping out of a window and found out your secret. He came to me and we got to talking and, well, Tyler, these are Stanford and Stanley Pines. I know they don’t look like much, but they’re boys like you.”

“Wait, so you…?”

Tyler nodded adamantly confident smile on his face now.

“I started talking to Susan one day and she said I wasn’t the only one. I could hardly believe it! All this time I thought I was alone, like, like—”

“Like a freak,” Stanley supplied.

“An anomaly,” Stanford added, not quite looking at anyone.

Tyler nodded.

“But I’m not—we’re not. Oh, this is so exciting!”

Suddenly Tyler’s arms were around both twins, squeezing as tight as he could. Then Susan was joining in and they were trapped.

“Oh boy, another hugger. Great.”

“This is going on far too long,” Stanford said, catching Stanley’s eyes and silently pleading for him to end it.

“Alright, enough of this touchy feely stuff. We’re here to have fun, right? And be extremely petty.”

Finally the pair let go. Both were beaming.

“Right! Oh, I’m going to dance with Dan the whole night through! I’m so glad I found you two.”

“Ah, well, we know how, uh, how weird and hard this is,” Stanley said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “So if ya ever got questions or anything—”

“We’re here,” Stanford finished with a small smile of his own.

“Thank you so much!”

Tyler threw his arms around them again for one last hug before racing back to the others.

“Isn’t it just wild finding someone else like you?” Susan wondered. “Makes you wonder how many other folk like you are out there.”

They shared a secret look as Susan followed after Tyler. Then they glanced over at the waiting group. It was hard to tell if Rick and Shandra were getting along or butting heads; Stanley secretly feared what they could accomplish together.

“The world just keeps expanding,” Stanford mused, adjusting his glasses.

Stanley clamped him on the shoulder.

“Yup. Let’s go see how far it goes.”

They rejoined the others, Stanley snaking an arm around Rick’s waist while Stanford went to Fiddleford’s side. He didn’t miss the other man entwine their fingers together.

“Alright, I for one am ready to have some fun,” Stanley said, interrupting whatever conversation they had been having.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Stanley smacked Rick’s hat over his eyes.
 “Well, I’m certainly eager to check out the games,” Fiddleford said. “I’ll have you know carnival games are my specialty.”

“I expect you to win Sixer something good then.”

“I reckon I’ll have to win the biggest prize they have.”

A blush creeping up his neck Stanford said, “That’s unnecessary, you don’t have to. Really.”

“Oh no, no, I’ve been challenged and I don’t intend ta back down. Prepare to get the biggest prize we can find.”

With that confident declaration Fiddleford excused himself and pulled Stanford along towards the game stalls. He weakly protested but didn’t try to wrest free. Stanley and Rick readily followed.

“Is he actually any good?” Stanley wondered, speaking low so Fiddleford wouldn’t overhear.

“Oh yeah. I-it’s pretty impressive.”

“Swell.” Stanley paused a moment before adding, “You better win me something, too.”

“What? The hell do I look like?”

“Like a guy who’s supposed to be courting me.”

“You know, I offered earlier but you just insulted me.”

“You weren’t being serious then and we both know it.” Stanley shrugged. “But I get it. Too tall an order.” Rick quirked his eyebrow as Stanley patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry if you’re not man enough, I’m sure Fiddlesticks can win me something, too.”

Over his shoulder Fiddleford called out, “Can do, darlin’!”

Shermie squirmed around to peer at Rick, gurgling out something that sounded vaguely like, “Darlin’!”

Rick scowled but followed Fiddleford around the booths as the latter scanned their options. He was attempting to get Stanford to pick out what prize he wanted. Cheeks red, Stanford kept insisting Fiddleford didn’t need to win him anything. Which of course Fiddleford ignored.

Stanley, who had been scanning the place for Carla, interrupted them as his eyes landed on the woman. She was just across the fairgrounds sitting on a tree stump, stetson hat on her head and banjo in her hands. The woman was strumming away and her mouth was moving, though they were too far way to hear what she was singing.

“I-is she wearing my scarf?” Rick asked in disbelief. FIddleford looked up and his eyes widened.

“My banjo!”

Carla’s eyes landed on the four and she waved exuberantly at them. Fiddleford and Rick instantly marched over, the twins hot on their heels.

“Careful with my baby!” Fiddleford cried, reaching for the instrument. Carla snatched it away before he could grab it, wagging a finger.

“Careful now. You wouldn’t want to jostle that baby.”

“I’ll jostle you if you don’t take my scarf off,” Rick threatened. All it did was make her giggle.

“Hello, Carla,” the twins chimed.

“It didn’t take you long at all to steal their things,” Stanford commented.

“Don't worry, it means she likes ya.”

“Borrowed, thank you very much. And all it means is I have an eye for pretty things. Hence why I borrowed this hat.”

“Used to be my favorite, too,” Stanley sighed.

Carla stuck out her tongue and he pushed the brim down over her eyes.

“No manners at all.”

With a sigh Fiddleford said, “Please just don’t damage my Delilah.”

“What kinda girl do you take me for?”

“I shouldn’t say those words in front of a child.”

Carla let out a dramatic gasp.

“You’re all uncouth. Perfect for each other.”

“Ain’t that sweet,” Fiddleford replied, smiling now. Carla grinned back.

“Alright, weren’t we promised prizes?” Stanley spoke up.

“Ah-already told you that’s not happening now, Lee.”

“In a rare turn of events, I agree with Rick. You really don’t have to win us anything.”

“Nonsense! I thought I saw a stall with squashes that looked like they had faces. Wouldja like one of ‘em?”

Stanford’s face scrunched up, unsure if he was joking or not. Fiddleford seemed sincere, however, and Stanford didn’t know what to think—let alone how to respond. He didn’t get the chance to figure it out.

“Ah, Leah, Leanne!”

“Don’t you girls look downright charming.”

“And suddenly there was a sour taste on the wind,” Carla muttered, just loud enough for the four to hear.

Stanley turned to the unwelcome pair, pulling Rick around with him. Flashing them a smirk he nestled against Rick’s side.

“Oh, didn’t you guys bring a date?”

They instantly bristled. It was going to be a good day.

“Hmph. I see you’re here with these—” Preston waved his hand, searching for the appropriate word.

“Cowboys,” Bud supplied, the word coming out like something vile.

Rick burped, loud and long. Preston and Bud stared at him in a mixture of shock and disgust.

“Sorry to cut this short, fellas,” Fiddleford spoke up, “but we promised our dates here a prize, and it would be awfully ungentlemen-like to keep ‘em waiting.”

“Yup, see you pendejos later.”

The four started to turn towards the game stalls, but Preston made a dismissive sound that drew Stanley and Rick’s attention back to them.

“Of course,” Stanford muttered, not that anyone would have listened had he been any louder.

“Got something to say, Northwest?”

“Girls, if you desire some cheep booth prize, allow us to win it for you. These vagabonds look like they couldn’t catch more than some disease.”

“Please let’s just—” Stanford tried.

“Ah-are you really challenging us?” Rick interrupted, eyes narrowing at the pair.

“Oh no. Merely making an observation.”

“And these girls do deserve men who can prove their worth,” Bud added.

Stanford tugged on Fiddleford’s sleeve, pleading, “Drag Rick away and let’s go back to enjoying—”

“Now hold on a cotton-picking moment!” Fiddleford exclaimed, eliciting a sigh from Stanford. “Now I agree the twins deserve the best, and we intend ta provide that. And I don’t much care for yer tone, implying we can’t.”

Springing up Carla declared, “There’s only one way to settle this. I do believe you boys need to face off in some carnival games. Biggest prize is naturally the winner.”

Stanford rubbed his temples as the others readily agreed, even Shermie throwing up his chubby arms excitedly. There was no way to stop this now, though, and he could only go along.

They headed to the nearest game booth, where ten milk bottles were stacked in a pyramid. Stanford and Stanley stood to the side as the other four men stepped up to the counter, Fiddleford passing the babe to them. Carla, all eager grins, draped herself over the twins.

“Oh, this should be good.”

“No way can they lose to those two jokers,” Stanley snickered. Stanford sighed.

“I just wanted a calm, simple evening.”

His laments fell on uninterested ears. Stanford sighed again.

“A round of your finest balls for me and my companions, carny.”

“Of course, Mr. Northwest.”

As a ball was paced before each of them Bud turned to Fiddleford then Rick saying, “It would be rude of us to go first. Please, after you. That way this man won’t have to restack as much.”

Fiddleford hmphed and took aim. With a steady hand he tossed the ball, striking the pyramid on the bottom row and making them all come crashing down. There was a brief second of stunned silence all around. Then Rick burst into laughter as the booth manager announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a grand prize winner! Which would you like, lucky sir?”

“Which would you prefer, dear?” Fiddleford asked.

“Oh, um, the owl?”

The operator took down a large cloth owl. He handed it to Stanford who admired the toy—and Fiddleford’s skill.

“That was quite impressive.”

“Twasn’t nothin’, darling.”

Bud snorted.

“I suppose everyone has a bout of good luck at least once. Just you wait, Leanne, I’ll win you a better one.”

With that Bud tossed his ball at the newly erected pyramid. The top three bottles clanged to the ground.

Rick, Stan, and Carla all burst into laughter. Bud’s ears went red.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Preston said, nudging Rick aside. “Leah, decide now which prize you want.”

He knocked down the topmost bottle.

“Pretty sure that ain’t gonna win anything,” Stanley commented.

“Besides some wounded pride,” Carla added with a giggle.

Rick shoved Preston out of the way and snatched up the last ball. With a cocky grin and burp he leveled it at the pyramid. He missed it completely by several inches.

“Wasn’t he bragging just a moment ago?” Stanford asked, leaning towards his twin. Stanley slapped a hand to his face.

“Looks like the only one with a prize is Sixer,” Carla announced. “And I’m not just talking ‘bout the owl.”

“Now hold up, this was just a warm up round. This Fiddlehorn—”

“Fiddleford.”

“Just managed to get in a lucky shot.”

Fiddleford stepped aside and let the three try again. This time they knocked down four pins between them.

“Alright now this is getting embarrassing,” Stanley said.

As they made their third attempts Susan came over, just in time to see Bud knock down the top bottle. She whistled.

“They sure ain’t too good at this game. That’s a pretty owl, though.”

“Oh, thank you. Fiddleford won it.”

“Aww. Yay, Fiddlesticks! Mind winning me a cat?”

As he nodded in affirmation Preston snorted.

“An empty promise! I doubt this cowboy could recreate his lucky strike.”

“Well that sure does sound like a challenge. One more for me, sir.”

Fiddleford took just a moment’s aim with the new ball before chucking it forward. Once again bottles flew everywhere.

“Another winner! Which cat would you like, little lady?”

At this point Preston, Bud, and even Rick were fuming. Carla couldn’t stop laughing. Stanley looked miffed.

“Is it too late to trade ya, Sixer?”

“By far.”

“N-not another word, Lee!” Rick called out. “I’ll win you a-ah stupid stuffed animal.”

Stanley gave him a disbelieving look which only seemed to fuel Rick’s determination. He snatched the ball from Preston’s had and chucked it with all his might at the pyramid. In an amazing feat, he took out three bottles from the middle, leaving the rest perfectly undisturbed.

“Holy moses,” Stanley muttered.

“This is the most hilarious moment of my life,” Carla whispered, staring wide eyed at the mostly-intact pyramid. “Thank you.”

“Well that was just appalling. Another ball,” Preston ordered, holding out his hand. Rick snatched this one up too and tossed again, ignoring the other man’s protests.

He hit it towards the bottom, and while the bottles teetered a bit none actually fell.

Preston hummed beside him and Rick cast him a dark look.

“Don’t act like you’re doing any better, pendejo.”

Stanley saw two approaching figures and groaned. As they came over ma waved.

“Already playing games? Oh, Leanne, did your beau win you that?” Stanford nodded. “So sweet. Rick, are you about to win my Leah a matching prize?”

Rick grumbled something and demanded another ball. This one flew right over the pyramid like a bird above the treetops.

“Allow me,” Preston said, once again pushing Rick out of the way.

He managed two bottles, at least. Carla was laughing so hard she was out of breath, hanging onto the twins to stay upright. Ma held a hand up to hide her smile.

“I see Fiddleford’s the only one any good at this game.”

“Yup.” To the others Stanley suggested, “Why don’t we try another booth? I’m getting tired of seeing you all lose.”

Pride thoroughly offended, the three ignored him and ordered another round of balls. Together they managed five pins.

“This is thoroughly embarrassing,” Stanford said.

Pa humphed gruffly, drawing the twins’ attention. He did not look impressed.

“Yeesh, we need to end this while Rick’s got any shred of dignity left.”

“No worries, he never had any to begin with.”

As Stanley narrowed his eyes, which his twin went unaffected by, Carla leaned forward and offered, “Anyone who wins me a stuffed frog gets a free beer at the saloon.”

“No need for bribery, dear. One frog coming right up.”

Fiddleford plucked the ball right out of Bud’s hand just as he was about to throw it. He took aim, and once again the whole pyramid came down.

Carla squealed when the booth operator handed her the stuffed frog, squeezing it tight and rubbing her face against it.

“This is so soft. Now only you need one, Lee.”

The words had hardly left her mouth when there was another crash and they all turned back to the stall. Fiddleford had knocked the bottles down again.

“Well it just wouldn’t be right for you not to have one, too, Lee.”

He beamed as Stanley took his prize: a stuffed dog.

“Not bad. Guess Fidds wins all around.”

“Congratulations Fiddleford!” Stanford beamed.

“Wh-what the hell doe that mean? We’re not done yet.”

“Far from it!” Preston agreed. “A man does not simply give up. Especially when victory is right in his gra—“

Another clang and a roar of cheers. Fiddleford had knocked the pyramid down once again, and this time he pointed to a raccoon, which he brought over to Martha. Shy smile on his face he handed it out to her. “Just because it’s your children being courted doesn’t mean you can’t get a prize too, ma’am—Martha.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart.” She patted his cheek and glanced over at Stanford. “If we rush things together you can be married by the end of the month.”

“Ma!”

“Ah, ma’am—Martha, I mean, that’s a bit soon. Not that I would say no! Or, well, maybe I’d be the one asking, so…but still! The month is nearly over!”

Stanley grabbed Fiddleford by the shoulder and pulled him away to stand next to his gobsmacked, and very red, twin.

“Yer gonna break ‘em both, ma.”

“My motherly duty. You’ll understand one day, sweetie.”

“Yeah, I really don’t think so.”

“I-I’m done with this rigged game,” Rick grumbled.

“There are plenty of others here,” Bud agreed as Preston paid the ball manager. His face scrunched up.

“Wait, did I pay for your balls?”

“Y-you couldn’t afford them, buddy.”

Preston cast him an offended look as Rick walked off from the stall.

“I think pa and me are gonna walk around a bit. You kids have fun,” ma informed, taking Shermie. “You boys try not to embarrass yourselves too much.”

“Fiddleford is fine in that regard,” Stanford quipped. Rick shot him a glare; Stanley rolled his eyes.

After ma and pa were gone Carla asked, “So are you three conceding to Fiddsy-fie?”

“Please don’t call me that,” Fiddleford said while the others began to protest.

It seemed the competition wasn’t done, even though Stanley really wished it were. But Rick, Preston, and Bud refused to give up so they all made their way to the darts booth. Rick fared much better, actually managing to win Stanley one of the bigger prizes—Fidds still beat everyone.

It was the same way at ring toss. With ease Fiddleford won more prizes for the twins, Carla, and Susan. Rick and Bud managed to get matching finger puppets. Preston only managed to hit the booth manager in the face.

When they passed the strength test Stanley grabbed the mallet while the four argued over who’d go first. In one try Stanley sent the iron flying into the bell.

No one else had the nerve to try.

Preston and Bud were getting extremely irritated. Which Stanley did enjoy; it was even enough to keep him from teasing Rick. For now.

“Alright I”m done with these games,” he said. “FIdds and Rick are the winners.”

“Mostly Fidds,” Carla added, earning her a dry look from Rick. She winked at him.

“I did say how I was good at carnival games. Though I agree, there’s a-plenty else ta do.”

“Sounds like it’s dancing time!” Carla happily declared, linking an arm with either twin.

There was a chorus of agreements from Susan and Stanley, while Stanford gave a small nod. Rick’s face was blank but he didn’t protest so Stanley took that as acceptance.

“I’m up for a good jig, if ya don’t mind my two left feet, darling. I admit I’m better at making the music than dancing to it,” Fiddleford said.

As Stanford started to reassure him it made no difference, Preston scoffed.

“I can hardly imagine what a vagabond considers music.”

This seemed to offend both Fiddleford and Rick. The latter glared the rich boy down saying, “Th-that sounds like a challenge, pendejo. Thought you’d have enough of those by now.”

“What, plan on giving us a show?” Bud taunted, eliciting a smirk from the other man.

Rick glanced over at his partner. FIddleford grinned in return, wordlessly nodding. He turned to Carla.

“Be a dear and let me have my Delilah.”

Carla gleefully complied. Unslinging the banjo from around her back she asked Rick, “What about you, tall, blue, and lanky?”

Rick strode right past them all up to the men playing their instruments by the side of the dancing platform. Everyone else quickly followed.

“Take five, chumps. Time for some real music.”

All three paused, the middle one standing. “That is very insulting, but I also do not care.”

“I kinda do,” said another musician. He went ignored as the first one handed Rick his guitar.

“Thanks, Chiu,” Stanley said. “You guys can play again after these two have their little performance.”

“I would rather not continue playing boring hay music.”

With that Chiu walked off, his companions following.

“See, him I like. Why can’t Gravity Falls have more guys like him?”

“Because then we wouldn’t mind being here as much,” Stanley replied. “Well, get to impressing us.”

Rick winked and positioned the guitar, Fiddleford coming up beside him and readying his banjo. The others moved back a bit and watched the pair expectantly.

“What should we play, Rick?”

“‘In the Pines’.”

He tossed Stanley another wink, and somehow this one was full of coquetry that made a blush creep up his neck. He pressed the stuffed dog against his face in an attempt to hide it as best he could.

Rick started strumming away on the guitar, Fiddleford soon joining in. As the melody formed the twin could clearly sense the ease between them; they must have played together a lot. Curiously both wondered how long the partners had been riding, and working on the portal gun, together.

Rick’s voice rung out first, then Fiddleford’s joined, the song a conversation.

“My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me. Tell me where did you sleep last night?”

“In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine. I shivered the whole night through.”

“My girl, my girl, where will you go?”

“I’m going where the cold wind blows. In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine, I’ll shiver the whole night through.”

They were admittedly good. They had their own distinct voice, Fiddleford a little higher and a bit more rustic to counter Rick’s lower, smooth Spanish voice. A trace of accent could be heard, and Stanley wondered if Rick was purposefully making it come out to taunt Preston and Bud. Regardless, it was beautiful.

“They ain’t half bad,” Stanley whispered to his twin. Stanford made a small sound of agreement.

“Color me surprised,” Carla commented.

Susan motioned off to the side where Preston and Bud watched the singing pair with contempt.

“They don’t look too pleased.”

“Even better.”

“My husband once was a railroad man, killed a mile and a half from here.”

“His head was found in a driver’s wheel, but his body ain’t never been found.”

“My girl, my girl, where will you go?”

“I’m going where the cold wind blows.”

Together they sung the last verse.

“You called me to weep and you called me to moan. You called me to leave my home.”

As their song faded out the twins started clapping, Carla and Susan joining in. Stanley even put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Sharing a grin, Rick and Fiddleford took a sweeping bow.

Preston huffed, pretending to examine his fingernails. Undaunted, Rick came over and slung an arm around Stanley. Not breaking eye contact with Preston he pressed a kiss to the side of Stanley’s head.

“Did you really enjoy it, sugar?” Fiddleford asked, coming over to Stanford.

“I’m no expert on music, but it was certainly, um…” Stanford stared at his hand that Fiddleford had taken in his, leaving him quite flustered. “C-certainly,” he swallowed hard, “lovely.”

Ma’s voice called out, and they all turned to see her and pa approaching. In addition to the raccoon Fidds had won her was a stuffed baby duck she proudly showed off.

“Look what Filbrick won me.”

“Shot some ducks, pa?”

“Every last one of them,” he answered ominously.

With pride instead of threat ma added, “He didn’t miss a single shot!”

Rick tensed up and Fiddleford noticeably gulped. Even Preston and Bud seemed intimidated, which the twins took some satisfaction in.

“Girls, why don’t you come with me for a minute and take a stroll.”

It wasn’t a request so much as a nicely worded order so the twins passed their stuffed animals off to Rick and Fiddleford. Ma went a ways off towards the end of the fairgrounds where there weren’t many others milling about.

“What’s on your mind, ma?”

“Is something the matter?”

A grave look fell over her face. She took either one of there hands and squeezed.

“I need to know how today’s been so far.”

“I think it’s going great, ma, no worries.”

“Oh, sweetie, I have to worry. I had a vision.”

Ma shut her eyes and the twins shared a frown.

“What do you mean? What kind of vision?”

“It was a terrible vision.” Her eyes shot open. They were glistening. “Listen to me closely, both of you. Tonight is very important. A lot of things are gonna happen—I’m not sure what exactly, but I can tell you there will be a huge decision to make. More than one, and you won’t be the only deciders. You both need to think on what you want and go for it. Tonight’s gonna set in motion one path or another that you’ll have to see through to the end.”

It took a second for her words to sink in. After a pause of mulling the warning over Stanley gave a reassuring smile, thought it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, ma, don’t look so glum. Have faith in your kids. We know what we want and we’re gonna fight for it, no matter what. Right Sixer?”

“Of course!”

“Just be safe, sweethearts. It’s not going to be easy.”

Stanley’s smile fell as his twin commented, “It never has been.”

Ma hugged them close. With a deep breath she pulled back and linked her arms through theirs, starting back for the others.

“Well, no reason to keep our men waiting.”

There was joy on her face again, a stark contrast to the fear just moments before. The twins tried to match her sudden joviality; their grins were just a bit shaky, however, but it would do for now.

[pen-whipped]

The Rabbit Hole

(for my friend that asked to remain nameless)

Just west of Colorado Springs, Colorado is a town tucked so neatly on the side of a mountain that the entire place rests on a slope. Buildings look half as tall on one side as they do the other. Ma’ & Pa’ shops and taverns line the main street, while houses hang off cliff sides. Usually, walking the streets is a nearly perfect 50/50 mix of locals and outsiders, and it’s obvious who's whom. It's like one part hemp jewelry and sun skirts and the other part Fossil watches and Polo t-shirts. Not today though; it’s raining. No one’s out. So this visiting burlesque performer—whom I’ll refer to as "Ms. International" (because she’s a professional performer who trots the globe)—she and I stay in the car and watch the slanted town just as one would a movie at a drive-in theatre: through the windshield.

After Colorado, Ms. International tells me, she and a handful of other burlesque stars are going to Australia for a two-week tour. Burlesquers in the "land down under" makes me think about the rabbits Westerners took there and offset the ecosystem. I imagine burlesque with no known predators in Australia, resting at the top of the food chain and disrupting the order. I hope your guide there is better than I am here, I say to her, referring to the limited information I provide of the town as it plays on the windshield screen. Then I’m off the rabbits and on to bigger thoughts, thinking about how burlesque is conquering the planet these days like colonialism, imperialism, and capitalism. All “–isms” of Western affairs—Burlesque-ism, brought in for sport and game only to multiply exponentially and cause chaos among the natives.

Through the rainy windshield the buildings bleed together and become one, washing into a collage until it all looks like the same mess. I mention the rumors about the little town having more Pagans than any other city in the nation — another really bad tour guide informational bit. Not like devil-worship Pagans, I clarify, more like earthy hippies. And Ms. International’s quick to say she understands. There’s only a moment’s pause before she slides her eyes toward me beneath her droopy Jessica-Rabbit-like eyelids, sort of the way a crook in a cartoon would when looking around to make sure no one was suspicious of the crime about to be committed. Then she says out of the side of her mouth, I practice Santeria, ya know.

I don’t know.  All I know is the moment she says she practices Santeria that Sublime song jingles inside my head. I don’t let her know this song reverbs in my skull and gets stuck on repeat of the only four lines I know from it, even as our conversation continues. But the guy in the song says he does not, in fact, practice Santeria anyway, and he also ain’t got no crystal ball. But Ms. International immediately has my curiosity in the palm of her hands like a crystal ball, clouded and hazy and swirling about, ready to discover some fortune.

I remember another line in the song, something about poppin’ a cap in Sancho and slappin’ a chick down, and I ask Ms. International exactly what Santeria is. For some reason Voodoo comes to mind, I tell her. The song loses its lyrics, limited as they are, and becomes a hum in my head. Background music. Score for the film melting on the glass movie screen before us.

And so she gives me a history lesson — more informative than, but about as brief as, my tour guiding of the rain soaked town - which, by the way, we are no longer giving much attention to since this Santeria bit is far more intriguing and has an internal soundtrack, same four vocal lines mixed with bad humming as it may be. While both were heavily influenced by Africans via the slave trade, Voodoo grew from the mixture of cultures in Haiti. Santeria, she explains, grew from almost the same mixture, only in Cuba, so a dash more Spanish - which inevitably means a dash more Catholic. It’s what the slightest difference in any recipe will do, I’m thinking, wondering about an offset of the slanted mountain town’s perfect mixture of Pagans and Yuppies, thinking neither is like the rabbits in Australia since they seem to have created a perfect ecology of economic trade; perhaps this is a capitalistic version of Santeria.

Sancho better run and hide if he knows what’s good for him, because daddy’s got a new .45!

She tells me how the slaves would pray to the Catholic idols. Little bobble-head figurines of The Virgin and other saints, I’m imagining, thinking that at the bottom level of a ship at sea, bobble-heads would really sway and look alive. They we’re actually praying to their own gods, she says (only Ms. International doesn’t say, gods, she says, Orishas). They used the Catholic saint figurines as disguises, she continues. So long as the Spanish crew thought they were praying to their completely non-fictional santos and not some make-believe Pagan gods, then they would permit the slaves their prayer.

This, to me, I say, is all religions. Rain soaked and bleeding together. A chimera bobble-head with the hair of its main swaying over its goat-like body and serpent tail. They all borrow images and ideas from one another. The town through the windshield. Silver screens and drive-ins. Christians in Australia — they took more than rabbits for game to hunt; they took the fucking Easter Bunny too. An entire ecosystem ruined.

Of course my ignorance of Voodoo makes me think about pinpricked dolls and headless chickens. And so now I have an image of Pinhead from Hell Raiser as a bobble-head dancing on my dashboard. Its head swings to Caribbean grooves that come from some white guy singing about sticking the barrel of his .45 straight down Sancho’s throat, like a needle in a cursed doll.

My silly thoughts do not hide my true interest though. I’m rather intrigued by this new knowledge, this history and philosophy and religion all meshed together: a syncretism — a new “–ism” in the confinement of my car. I want to keep Ms. International talking. Teaching me. Her knowledge is like wild hares escaping to Aboriginal planes.

I respectfully ask Ms. International if she believes in or practices any kind of sacrificial killings. A question logically in sync with my ignorance. I do in fact make offerings to certain Orishas, Ms. International says (only, I now know Orisha means god). Each Orisha requires specific offerings for specific blessings. An offering means you give something up and is very much a sacrifice in this way, but, she says, killing animals is done only by high ranking spiritual leaders — Santeros, Babalawo, and others in the hierarchy — those atop the food chai. And it’s only done in very rare occasions.

When you give something up, something is given in return, Ms. International says. And when you take away from others, something is taken from you. So taking the life of any creature carries great risk.

Now I’m thinking about American Indians saying thank-you prayers to a dying buffalo as they rip its heart out, then making use of every square inch of its body. This is Eucharist type-a-shit. To be at one with the Earth in this way. The universe. Buddhism comes to mind. Hippies. Yuppies. Hindus. Karma. Christ on the cross. It’s all watered down and drenched, bleeding together as one. And even though I don't admit it, I think about that Cosby girl, Lisa Bonet, in that movie Angel Heart, dancing around a camp fire in some Voodoo trance while strangling a headless chicken. And still, that fucking song, jingling away about Sancho stealing his girl. But now, this deep in the hole with Ms. International, I see that just as Sancho has taken, so shall he soon lose something - lost via the barrel of a .45 straight down his punk ass throat.

It all comes together in a way that makes sense. And I tell Ms. International one of my favorite quotes from Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Man recedes as fast on one side as he gains on another." Technology, I say, is a perfect example (though this comes from no place of wisdom on my part since Emerson uses the Geneva watch as an example in the essay this quote is from: "Self-Reliance"). Look at all the world around us and how it developed new and fascinating amenities; we can travel by car, plane, and boat, but we’ve lost the ability to walk great distances; we can send emails, text, and Twitter but we no longer speak verbally to one another. Man has a fine Geneva watch, Emerson says, but he can no longer tell time by the sun itself. And I’m thinking about the slanted town’s people, one half with hemp bracelets and the other half with Fossil watches. Neither can tell time by the sun. And with this and so many other similarities and offset relationships, both sides bleed together and become the same mess. I recognize truth in Emerson’s claim; I always have. I explain to Ms. International that I also believe the opposite to be true. Emerson says that through any gain, a loss naturally occurs; and so contrarily, I believe that through a loss, so too would a gain occur. A sacrifice. Whether given or taken. One and the same.

I realize that I myself do believe in sacrifices, Karma, Jesus on a stick, Pagan witches burning on a stake, bobble-head shish-kabobs. It’s all the same, I say to Ms. International. Hypnotized by the water on the windshield. Every inch of Christ's body was used like a buffalo, salvation for those still living, feeding off his remains. Flesh of my flesh. Here and now. Give and ye shall receive. Eye for an eye and all that shit. We are all Pagan Christian Santeriaist Voodoo Children of the Corncob Buddhists. All of us—floppy-eared mutant beasts offsetting ecologies because we have no known predators. Even Ms. International, as she sits in my car, changes me with new knowledge like wild hares on my plane head. It's what we hope education will do. Experience and awareness passed between us to bring us all together and make us one and the same. A mess. A collage. Watered down. And in this way, we are all soaked the same with Truth. All of us are like rabbits in Australia, something in a foreign land burrowing holes and multiplying, wreaking havoc where order resides, and destroying the natural habitat of ignorance.