#slow clap for self righteous

[kkglinka]

It's a shame that it would look bad for biden to take advantage of his newfound legal immunity to arrest and imprison his political rivals on charges of bribery and corruption. Really ram home the dangers of allowing an elected civil servant to behave like a tyrant.

[autumnsnuggling]

"I Have a Room Here"

Thanks to @stargazing-enby for the screaming, @rei382 for the alpha, and @annanother-thing for the beta!

2.5k words. TW: Minor panic attacks. Draco has anxiety.

“I have a room here,” he blurts out. 

He’s in the hallway, making his way out of the building when he sees him entering. Sees his eyes widen in recognition. Sees his carefully constructed world set to crumble around him. 

 “I— I mean I live here. Now. I’m not here illegally, or doing anything dodgy. While I'm—” His leg jigs. “I— I have a room here and I like it and I can't move, please don't make me.”

He frowns, and it's almost convincing, almost makes him believe he's not just a lion lying in the grass, waiting to pounce.

“I'm not here to make you leave. I have a room here too. I moved in last week. Ask the landlord.” He regards Draco for a moment. “I couldn’t make you move if I wanted to, Draco.” He pauses, as though for effect. Draco’s skin crawls. “And I would never want to do that.”

He knows it's a lie, that it’s just a matter of time, but he nods and scarpers anyway, door slamming too loudly behind him.

*

“Oh.” Draco claps a hand to his mouth, heart pounding when emerald eyes land on him. 

“No, wait—” he calls, and Draco curses the way his entire body freezes. 

“You don’t have to leave. Just— come and do your laundry. I’m almost done anyway.”

He can’t keep from chewing his cheek whilst loading the machine. And then his change won’t fit in the slot. And then the air, too humid and sweet and dizzying, starts to close in around him.

“Er, Malfoy—”

“Shut up.”

He can feel him staring, can imagine the self-righteous look, can hear the taunt in his voice. 

“I just—”

“No.”

His eyes sting, his fists clench, and the stupid coin keeps hitting the steel slot.

“Please, can I—?”

“Just leave.”

He’s wailing and he knows it, but a moment later there’s a sigh and slow footsteps recede, and he finally takes a shaky breath. 

On the next try, the coin clunks into the machine. 

“You weren’t in so I signed for your parcel,” he says.

Scowling isn’t polite in these situations, but it’s all he can do right now. 

“Th—thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he shrugs slightly. Draco fiddles with a bit of brown tape. “You can look at me, you know. I’m not going to burn your retinas with my ugliness.”

The forced lightness in his voice fails to hide a deeper ring of something, and it’s unmooring. He never used to play games like this, and it makes Draco’s hair stand on end.

“If that’s all…”

There's a beat, but then he sighs heavily. “Yeah, that’s all.”

*

“Hey, Malfoy, you’re okay.” 

He’s not okay, how can he be okay? He can’t find his keys and he dropped his change and his coat is too old so rain’s dripping down his back and there were all these kids and where the fuck are his keys—

“Draco.” 

He blinks, bright eyes suddenly there while warmth holds his elbows. Which appear to be shaking.

“I’ve got you, breathe with me, okay?”

He can barely swallow, let alone breathe, but he chases that voice regardless, the praise so kind his knees tremble and ungodly noises crawl up his throat. 

“Better?” 

Too much time has passed when he asks, and now too much tiredness weighs down each slower, steadier breath. Bronze hands still hold him gently, and he squirms at the wetness on his face. 

“I— I have to go.”

*

His smile is tentative yet blinding, and his ‘Hey,’ is low and private, like they’re sharing a secret instead of passing on the stairs. 

“I got your note.” He stops, so Draco has to stop too, right on the stain on the carpet. It looks like a hippo from this angle.

“You’re welcome, Draco.”

It sends shivers down his spine, hearing his name like that, and he sounds so real, so genuine, he can’t stop his eyes from flicking back to his. They’re just as dazzling as ever, and happier than should be humanly possible. He feels his cheeks heat.

“I want you to know, I’ll always help you if I can. So, if you need something, just—” he shrugs, “knock on my door.” Then, when Draco’s brow pinches, as it always does, “I mean it, Draco. I’m not going to make you move. You can trust me.”

And when his voice is so gentle, he really wants to believe him.

*

“Fuck, sorry.”

Footsteps run towards him as he bends to pick up the apple.

“Apparently one of my shopping bags broke, and, well, decided to attack my neighbours with fruit.”

“Maybe they’re trying to escape your horrendous hair.”

His bark of laughter covers Draco's choke at his reckless words, and Draco's stomach does a weird flippy thing at the sound. 

“Maybe.” His grin could light up an entire city. “It’s either that or it’s trying to escape the crumble it’s destined for.”

Crumble. His mouth waters, and from the quirk of his lips, it’s far too obvious.

“You could come over for some, if you wanted?”

“Uh— I— I don’t— Um—”

He chuckles softly, and it shouldn’t sound fond. 

“Just think about it,” he says, and there’s that soft, too-beautiful-to-be-real smile making his head spin again. “I’ll save you a bit.”

*

He swallows hard. “I'm returning your bowl.”

“I can see that,” he grins too easily, lounging against his door frame. “Did you enjoy it?”

Too much. “It was pleasantly surprising.”

The answering laugh curls his toes and flips his stomach. “I'm honoured to receive such high praise.”

“Don't get used to it.”

“Oh, no,” he smirks. “Of course not.”

Draco bites his lip as the silence extends, hands too empty, cheeks growing hot.

“I could make some tea, if you'd like?”

It's quieter than the other requests—more gentle. Devoid of all pressure but cushioned by tentative hope, and Draco begins to want. 

“Not yet,” he murmurs, tongue too traitorous for his heart. But he gives a light huff, and through his lashes, Draco glimpses that sugar-sweet smile.

“Okay, not yet.” And it's a promise Draco knows he'll have to keep. 

*

The bass drums through the walls, into his skull, and his fingers clench.

'Get some space. Take a break,' his head whispers. But outside is too dark, and his chest tightens.

'It's just a bad night. Just one party.’ He tells himself, trying to stay calm. Then fails when his thoughts run away from him.

His feet landing in his hall tell him he's moved, as do his shoes, now on his feet, and his jacket in his hand, but he can't tell how they got there. Someone knocks on the door before he reaches it.

“Sorry, I didn't want to startle you,” he says, hair wild enough for birds to nest in and just as cozy. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with— this.”

He doesn't mean to whimper, or sway on the spot, but another shriek of laughter lances through him and it's so loud it hurts. 

“Obvolvere,” he murmurs, and then it's barely there, just a distant thud beneath his feet, and his eyes flutter closed.

“Thank you.”

He says it before he can think through the lingering buzz, but he can't summon the energy to care. 

“It's nothing.” His molten emeralds shine only with concern, and for the first time in months, he feels cared for. “Get some sleep, Draco.” 

“Wait—” He blinks, panic hissing at the threat of him leaving. “Um, would— would you like— t—tea?”

A slow smile warms him from the inside out.

“I'd love some.”

—

“You should sleep.”

He knows this. Knows from the way his eyes are heavy and itchy and weeping. Knows the disappointment at the idea of letting him leave, the fear of the noise—the gap between them—returning.

“You're one to talk.”

Potter snickers, and it's unfairly pretty. “I'm not the one falling asleep on his sofa.”

“Hmm.” It's all he can say, eyes drifting closed once again. 

“C'mon,” he murmurs, and then there's a hand, solid but gentle, at his elbow. “Bed.”

He stumbles willingly into Potter's solid warmth and sighs. Safe.

“I won't come in,” Potter murmurs, chivalrous to the core. “Just wanted you to get some decent rest.”

“Will you—? Um, I mean, when will—? Can we—?” His brow hurts from wrinkling.

“Can I come see how you slept, tomorrow?”

He shivers at the care in his voice.

“Yes.”

*

He's always kept his word. Draco knows this—scorned him mercilessly for it in a previous life. Yet still his heart leaps, relieved, when Potter smiles at him as he opens his door.

“Hey,” Potter breathes, and butterflies, beautiful and wild, explode everywhere in Draco's chest. 

“Hi.“

*

“A movie I wanted to watch just came out on video,” Potter says. “Want to watch it together?” 

Draco barely knows what movies are. He nods immediately. 

Potter’s too-bright smile is impossible not to return, Draco’s stomach jumping like the kernels of corn Potter shoves in the microwave. They smell almost as good as him. 

“Okay,” Potter soon sits beside him, remote in one hand, bowl of popcorn in another. He flashes Draco another smile, a hint of nerves hiding in the dimples of his cheeks. “I hope you like it.”

He nods, knowing he won’t be able to focus on anything but the warmth coming from just centimeters away.

The buttery smell emanating from the bowl is too alluring, and after Potter’s crunched on a few mouthfuls, it seems socially appropriate to reach for some popcorn too. His fingers brush Potter’s. Electricity crackles on his skin. 

“After you,” Potter murmurs, his smile as sweet as the kernels. Draco thinks kissing him would be even sweeter.

*

His mouth waters at the scent wafting from the oven, and he bites his nails. 

The last three haven’t been right—too burned; too flat; too bland. But this one smells dangerously promising. 

He still jumps when the timer dings, despite watching the final seconds tick down, and the heat of the oven takes his breath away. But these lemon cupcakes are golden, springy, and perfectly risen. 

He flits from the sofa to read, to the radio, to the bathroom to clean whilst waiting for them to cool, then painstakingly slathers on the lemony icing. Once they’re arranged just so on a plate, he sucks in a deep breath, hesitantly walking up the corridor.

“I made cupcakes,” he blurts as soon as the door starts to open, Potter’s face not yet fully in view. Potter’s kind chuckle threatens his already shaky grip on the plate.

“I can see that. They look amazing.” Potter leans forward, inhaling deeply. Draco curses the heat rushing to his cheeks. “I could make some tea for us both, if you want?”

Heart rabbiting in his chest, he nods once. “Y-yes, please.”

Potter’s beam warms him down to his toes. 

*

Cooler air teases at his cheeks, the first hues of autumn painting the leaves. He burrows further into his thick scarf, letting his eyes fall closed.

“You look so cozy,” Potter audibly smiles as scuffed his trainers crunch on the gravel path.

“Not everyone can be a walking radiator,” he snips, knowing the scarf doesn’t hide his smile at Potter’s chuckle.

“Well excuse me for having good circulation and a bit of meat on my bones.” A shoulder knocks into Draco’s, then stays much closer than before. He has to remind himself to breathe.

“You’re not excused.”

Potter’s laugh seems to dance on the breeze, loud, and carefree, and infectious, and Draco wants to bottle the sound; to clutch it close and bask in it. Then the shoulder knocks into him again, and this time long, sure fingers hook around his gloved ones, halting the earth in its path. 

“Hmm, what if we get a hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun?” Potter asks, low and private. “Would I be excused then?”

Tentatively intertwining his fingers with Potter’s, Draco forces his voice to stay steady.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we.”

*

“I should probably get going,” Harry frowns. “Apparently, I have to be up in the morning.”

“However will you cope?” Draco rolls his eyes, his heart sinking slightly all the same. 

“Your kind words support me endlessly, did you know?” 

Draco pokes his tongue out. Still, the warmth of Harry’s leg pressed against his disappears, and he rushes to stand too. To delay the inevitable. Harry just smiles, slots their fingers together. Squeezes tight. 

“I’ll come round tomorrow? After 3?” he asks, standing in front of the open door but facing Draco, emerald eyes sparkling and kind and reassuring. 

“After 3,” Draco nods. “And we’ll make pasta?”

“We will,” Harry promises. “I’ve already got the garlic bread.”

“Good.”

The seconds stretch into more, but his grasp on Harry’s hands never wavers, and neither does Harry’s smile. Then those emerald eyes flicker lower, to Draco’s lips, and Draco’s breath stutters.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco,” Harry murmurs again, lower this time, closer too. Draco’s vision clouds as Potter creeps into his space. Just close enough for soft, plush lips to brush against his.

Draco just stands, still as a statue, barely breathing. 

He manages to gulp as Harry leans back, wanting to melt back against Harry’s lips. 

“T-tomorrow.”

*

“Cuppa?” Harry asks over his book. His hair is mussed from lying down on the sofa. Draco wants to run his hands through it.

“Cuppa,” he says, stretching. “I’ll help.”

A hand finds his, warm and soft, guiding him up from his seat and safely into the kitchen. His grasp feels empty when Harry lets go and moves towards the kettle, but he turns to dig out some mugs anyway. Harry always came back.

There are teabags already plucked from the barrel and waiting when he turns around again, and a hand on the centre of his back tells him Harry’s reaching for a teaspoon, while he gets the milk. 

“We make a good team,” Harry murmurs close to his ear, an arm snaking around his waist. 

“Hmm. Maybe you’ve just been stalking me,” he whispers back, leaning into him. 

“Always,” Harry grins, pressing his lips to his temple.

*

Warmth. Endless warmth is all he knows as he slowly floats into consciousness. 

“Morning, gorgeous,” Harry’s sleep-husky voice rumbles in his ear. 

“Mm,” he moans into Harry’s chest, purring when fingers stroke through his hair. “Too early.”

He grumbles when Harry snickers, jostling him unfairly, but then the arms holding him in place tighten around him, and maybe he can forgive the indiscretion. 

“So I guess I’m not allowed to go to the toilet yet, either?” Harry asks. Draco wraps his legs more firmly around him.

“Message received,” Harry chuckles again, lips close enough to graze his forehead. Draco sighs approvingly when they stay there; a prolonged kiss. 

Long seconds, minutes, or hours later, his hand finds Harry’s jaw, thumbing gently over the stubble that’s grown in, then leans up to capture Harry’s lips with his. 

“I really like our room,” he murmurs. 

Harry smiles against his lips, giving him another sweet kiss back.

“Me too.”

[tessa-liam]

Turning the Page

Make You Mine - Chapter 14 

Choices, The Royal Romance, The Royal Heir AU 

Series Premise: As Riley Brooks journeys through life as a single parent in New York City, an epiphany strikes as she contemplates the future for herself and her two-year-old son. 

Turning the Page Series Masterlist, My Complete Masterlist 

Main pairing: Liam Rys x F!OC Riley Brooks 

All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except William Brooks (Rys) and Matteo Magro, who both belong to this series. 

Category: On-going series, contains angst/fluff/depression. Cross-over fic with Choices, Perfect Match. 

Rating: M 🔞 - Warnings – Series will have crude language, weapons, NSFW material – not Beta’d - please excuse all errors. 

Words: 4816 

Make You Mine - Chapter 14 

Chapter Summary: Daniel & Matteo get married in Greece 

Music Inspiration:

Unchained Melody, Righteous Brothers 

A/N1: In this alternate universe, after King Constantine orchestrates two individual scandals to humiliate and entrap Riley Brooks and Olivia Nevrakis in shame, Madeleine Amaranth secures her position as the Queen of Cordonia. Riley, as the King’s mistress and Olivia, in self-imposed exile. Tariq is never found.  

A/N2: Damien Nazario has been assigned as William’s personal bodyguard. (Series cross-over with ‘Perfect Match’) 

A/N3: My submission for @choicesaugustchallenge , prompt "Summer Wedding"

"What an amazing wedding venue!" Riley gushed as she and Liam leisurely strolled, hand-in hand along the pristine beach with William. "This white sand ... the turquoise water ... it's absolutely breathtaking!"  

Liam smiled tenderly as he admired her elation and innocent amazement of the seaside in front of the hotel. Arriving on the island of Santorini, the weeklong pre wedding festivities began as wedding guests arrived to join the celebration. 

“It truly is," Liam agreed as he also took in the beauty of the scenery." I can definitely see why Daniel and Matteo chose this location. However, I must say that Cordonian bea --" 

Interrupting his father, William tugged his hand and pulled, "Daddy, I wanna play in the water. Pleeaaase?!" 

“Is that so?”

William squealed when Liam at once picked him up and twirled him around, giggling and clapping his hands in delight.

"He's getting so big!" Riley cooed, reaching out to tickle William's belly. "You're such a big boy now, aren't you?" 

William grinned and nodded. "I'm three now, mama!" Grinning and patting his chest proudly. 

"That's right, Will," Liam chuckled, giving him a high-five. "You're growing up so fast!" 

They continued their walk along the beach, taking in the sights and sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the shore. Riley slipped her arm through Liam's and leaned her head against his shoulder. William began to pull away from them to follow a seagull that flew up from the water's edge. 

"William, don't run too far ahead," Riley called after him. 

"I won't mama," William called back, slowing his pace. Damien, who followed close behind, kept an eye on the prince. As they continued their walk along the beach, Riley and Liam enjoyed the feeling of the warm sun on their skin and the gentle breeze blowing through their hair. 

"What a perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon," Liam smiled joyfully. "This is what I have always dreamed of -- you by my side, with children underfoot ...enjoying life with my family." 

"I couldn't imagine being anywhere else," Riley said, returning his smile. 

"Nor I, Riley," Liam said, placing his arm around her waist pulling her closer. 

"I'm so happy for Daniel and Matteo," she sighed. "They're perfect for each other." 

"And so are we." 

"We are," Riley murmured, tilting her head as she leaned up and captured his lips. The kiss was slow and deep; savoring the taste of him.  

Liam's tongue brushed against hers, sending a thrill of desire throughout her body. He pulled her even closer, his hand splayed on the small of her back. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently as she kissed him harder. 

They were so caught up in each other that they did not even notice when Maxwell, Bertrand, Savannah and Bartie strolled alongside. 

"Hey, lovebirds," Savannah called, breaking them out of their passionate embrace quickly. 

"Sorry," Riley giggled, her cheeks flushing. 

"It's okay, you're just young and in love," Savannah smiled, giving her a knowing wink. "But don't forget, there are little eyes around, too." 

"Yes, save some of that for later, you two," Bertrand chimed in, indignantly.  

"You're one to talk, Bertrand," Maxwell guffawed. "I've seen the way you and Savannah can't keep your hands off of each other." 

"I suppose you have a point," Bertrand conceded, looking pleased with himself. Liam acknowledged, "Duke Beaumont, you are correct. It is good to relax and spend time with the people we care about. It's what we all need." 

"Indeed," Bertrand said, his eyes sparkling. 

"We'll try to keep our hands off each other, just for you," Riley laughed, teasing the elder Beaumont. 

"Good, thank you," Bertrand huffed. 

Maxwell chuckled, "Yeah, I'll make sure Bertrand behaves himself in public, too. For Bartie's sake, of course."

"What are you talking about?" Savannah asked, her brows furrowing. 

Bertrand’s eyebrows shot up in annoyance. "Nothing," Maxwell and Bertrand said in unison. 

Bartie, seeing William up ahead, tugs his mother's hand wanting to join his friend. 

"Bartie, don't go too far," Savannah called as he sped off to join William.  

"Please excuse me, your majesty," Bertrand quickly followed the chase. 

Liam and Riley exchanged an amused look and continued their stroll along the beach, hand in hand. “Hey, Max, how did you convince your brother to come to the beach, anyway?" Riley grinned mischievously. 

“Ha,” I had to bribe him,” Maxwell shook his head, chuckling. “I told him if he would come out here that I would look after Bartie during the wedding. He was reluctant at first, but eventually, he caved.” 

"That's sweet of you, Maxwell," Riley said. 

"Yes, Maxwell, that's noble of you. It is good that you are looking after your nephew. You're a great uncle." 

"Thanks, Liam. I appreciate that." 

"Of course," Liam smiled. "What on Earth--"

Up ahead, as Bertrand pursued his son, the chase ended when he tripped and landed face first, with a splash, into the water. 

"Bert!" Savannah called out, "Bartie, what did I tell you?" 

"Sorry, mommy," Bartie said sheepishly. 

"Bertrand, are you okay?" Maxwell asked, rushing to his brother's side. 

Bertrand grunted, pulling himself up and wiping his face. "I think that's enough for today," he said, looking annoyed. 

Savannah giggled, "It's okay, Bertrand. Accidents happen." 

"Right," he nodded, with a look of disgust at his wet clothing. 

"Let's get out of here before something else happens." Maxwell chimed in, trying, but failing not to laugh. 

"I think that's a good idea," Liam said, suppressing his amusement. 

"Yes, I'm fine," Bertrand grunted as he stood up, soaking wet. 

"Let me help you with that, Bert," Savannah offered, handing him a towel. 

"Thank you, Savannah," Bertrand said, taking the towel. 

Maxwell helped his brother dry off while Bartie looked on, a look of concern on his face. "Father, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you fall into the water." 

"It's alright, Bartie. Accidents happen," Bertrand replied, giving the boy a small smile. 

"Come on, let's get you back to the hotel so you can change into some dry clothes," Savannah said, taking Bartie's hand. 

"Yes, good idea. Let's go," Maxwell followed behind, shaking his head with a smirk. 

As they walked, Bertrand turned his head back to Maxwell. "Did you see what happened? I could have sworn that there was a shark fin in the water. It looked like it was heading straight for Bartie!" 

"A shark? Really?" Maxwell burst out laughing uncontrollably. 

Damien, overhearing their conversation, grinned as he turned with William and walked towards Liam and Riley. 

"That was quite the scene, huh?" Damien quietly commented and snickered. 

"It was something," Liam nodded, as he bit the inside of his cheek, successfully holding his laughter. 

"It was quite entertaining," Riley chuckled. "Bertrand needs to come out here more often, especially with Bartie. He is so sweet." 

"Having his son and Savannah with him at House Beaumont has been a positive influence on him." Liam replied. "Bartie is just curious and adventurous. He's a good kid." 

"He's a little rascal," Damien laughed. 

"Maybe, but he's a cute one," Riley added. 

Damien stopped walking as he noticed Olivia and Drake up ahead at the hotel entrance. 

"I'll be right back," Damien said, making his way towards the entrance. 

Riley watched him leave; her brow furrowed in question. "What's going on?" 

"Well, I think Duchess Olivia has an admirer." 

"Is that so?" Riley asked, her interest piqued. 

"It would appear that way," Liam said, his lips curving into a knowing smile. 

As Damien approached closer, he saw Olivia and Drake locked in an intense discussion. He could not make out what they were saying, but he had a feeling that things were getting heated. 

"We should keep walking," Riley said, smiling coyly at Liam. "Yes, let's get out of here." Liam agreed, taking her hand and leading her further down the beach. 

"This is the perfect place for a honeymoon," Riley mused. "Greece is so romantic." 

"Do you see that temple over there, Riley?" Liam asked, motioning to a magnificent structure that rose up from the shore of the main island. 

"That's the Temple of Apollo," he continued. "It's one of the most famous monuments in Greece." 

"Wow, it's gorgeous," Riley breathed, awestruck. "It looks like something out of a movie." 

"The ancient Greeks were known for their exquisite architecture," Liam explained. "They used materials like marble and limestone to create these stunning monuments." 

"It's incredible to think that something so beautiful has lasted for thousands of years," Riley pondered. "I wish I could have seen the world back then, when these temples were still new." 

"Me too," Liam chuckled. "Although I'm not sure how I would have adjusted to a time without modern technology." 

"True," Riley laughed. "I can barely manage going without my phone for a few hours, let alone a lifetime." 

As they continued to walk along the beach, Liam regaled her with stories about the Greek gods and goddesses, and how their myths had inspired the Greeks to create some of the most iconic art and literature in the world. Riley listened with rapt attention, enthralled by the stories of love, betrayal, and heroism. 

"So, which god do you think would be the best fit for you, Liam?" she asked teasingly. 

"Hmm, that's a tough question," he chuckled. "But I think I would have to say, Hermes, the god of travel and trade." 

"A good choice," Riley nodded. "What about me?" 

"Definitely Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty," he replied without hesitation. 

"Wow, high praise indeed," she blushed. 

"It's no less than you deserve, my love," he murmured, kissing her cheek softly. 

The sun was beginning to set over the sea, casting a warm, golden glow over the beach. The breeze ruffled Riley's hair as she leaned against Liam's chest, her heart filled with joy and contentment. 

"Thank you for coming here with me, Liam," she whispered. "This means so much to me." 

"It is my pleasure, Riley," he murmured, holding her close. "I'll never get tired of seeing the world with you." 

He leaned in and moved a lock of hair behind her ear, and kissed her lips, as she melted into his arms. 

Daniel and Matteo’s wedding day... 

The setting was stunning, with the Aegean Sea providing a breathtaking backdrop. The guests were greeted with glasses of champagne, and Riley and Liam mingled with their friends and Matteo's family.  

 As the sun started to set, Riley noticed that Daniel and Matteo had not arrived yet. She began to wonder if there had been any delays, but as she was about to text them, the guests heard a motorboat approaching the shore.  

 Riley gasped as she saw the two grooms arrive on the boat, looking dashing in their tuxedos. The guests cheered as the two men disembarked and made their way towards the ceremony venue. 

The music changed to a slower, more romantic song as Daniel and Matteo walked down the aisle, arm in arm. 

"Welcome, family and friends, to the wedding of Daniel and Matteo," the officiant began. "We are gathered here today to witness the union of these two wonderful people in marriage. 

“Daniel and Matteo have chosen to write their own vows, which they will now recite to each other." 

Matteo nodded and took Daniel’s hand. 

"Daniel, when I first met you, I knew you were someone special. You are intelligent, kind, and incredibly generous. You have brought so much joy into my life, and I am so grateful that I get to spend the rest of my life with you." 

Matteo paused and took a deep breath, his eyes glistening with tears. "Danny, I promise to love and support you, to be by your side through good times and bad, and to share in your dreams and ambitions. I will love you and cherish you for all the days of my life." 

With tears in his eyes, Daniel takes a deep, shuddered breath. 

 "Matteo, When I first met you, I never imagined that we would end up together. But every moment we have shared since that day has made me realize that you are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. You are kind, funny, and so very dear to me. Thank you for making me a better person and for loving me unconditionally. I vow to be your partner in all things, to stand by your side through the ups and downs of life and to love you forever and always.” 

After the exchange of rings, the officiant asks, "Matteo, do you take Daniel to be your lawfully wedded husband?" 

"I do," Matteo replied, his voice thick with emotion. 

“And Daniel, do you take Matteo as your lawfully wedded husband?” 

“Yes, yes, I do.” Daniel smiled through his tears. 

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now kiss the groom!" 

Daniel and Matteo wasted no time embracing and kissing each other passionately. The guests applauded and cheered. 

"Congratulations, Daniel and Matteo!" the officiant announced. 

"I love you, husband," Matteo said, cupping Daniel's face. 

"And I love you, husband," Daniel replied, kissing him again. 

The newlyweds made their way down the aisle, surrounded by their friends and family. As they walked, they could hear the guests chanting "kiss, kiss, kiss!" 

Finally, Daniel and Matteo obliged, stopping to give each other a long, loving kiss. Matteo lifted Daniel's hand in thew air and with the other he lifted a glass. Grinning, he smashed it down and yelled, "Opa!" 

Matteo chuckled. "I can't wait for our honeymoon." 

"Same," Daniel grinned. 

Riley smiled as she watched the two men walk off hand in hand. She turned to Liam, her eyes sparkling with happiness. 

"That was so beautiful," she said, her voice full of emotion. "They are truly in love." 

"They are," Liam agreed, his voice tinged with sadness. 

Riley turned to him; a questioning look in her eyes. "Are you okay, Liam?" 

Liam nodded; his expression somber. "I'm just thinking about the past. How could my life have been different if I had chosen you from the start." 

"But you did choose me," Riley reminded him, her tone gentle. 

"Yes, but at my coronation --," Liam began, his tone regretful. "If I had given you that ring, things would be so different." 

Riley placing her hand on his cheek, “we're together now, and that's all that matters. I'm so glad you came with me here," she said softly. 

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he replied, his voice low and husky. 

He leaned in and captured her lips, and she happily responded. 

Amidst the cheers and applause, the guests were gathering for the traditional Greek wedding dance. Riley and Liam were swept up in the moment, as Maxwell and Savannah linked arms with them as they joined in the dance. 

The music changed to a slower, more romantic song, and the guests formed a circle around the newlyweds. 

"This is called a Syrtos," the band leader explained. "It's a traditional Greek dance that symbolizes the union of two souls. Daniel and Matteo, if you will please take the center of the circle." 

"Now, everyone, join hands and begin the Kalamatianos," the band leader instructed. 

The guests joined hands and began to dance, circling around the newlyweds. 

"Great! Now, the bride and groom will walk around the inside of the circle, holding hands. Opa!!!" 

Daniel and Matteo danced around the inside of the circle, their arms linked. As they passed their friends and family, they shared smiles and hugs. 

"This is a wonderful tradition," Liam whispered in Riley's ear. 

"I know, it's beautiful," she agreed, smiling. 

The dance came to an end, and the guests broke into applause. 

"Thank you all for joining us on this special day," Matteo called out, his smile beaming. "We are so happy that you could share in our celebration. We hope you have a wonderful time and that you will join us for the reception." The reception was a beautiful blend of traditional and modern, with delicious Greek cuisine and a lively dance floor.  

"Congratulations, Daniel and Matteo," Riley said, giving them both hugs. 

"Thank you, Riley," Matteo replied, smiling. 

"We're so happy for you both," Liam added, shaking Daniel's hand. 

"Thanks, Liam," Daniel said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a reception to get to!" 

With that, Daniel and Matteo made their way to the wedding feast, hand in hand. The guests followed, ready to continue the celebration. 

The newlyweds were soon swept away by the joy and excitement of their reception, and the party began in earnest. Loud music played and the guests danced and celebrated well into the night. 

Riley and Liam spent the evening talking and laughing with their friends, and when it was time to cut the cake, the couple fed each other a slice, much to the delight of the guests and then snuck off to take some photos. 

William pointed to the wedding cake displayed on a nearby table. "Look, Mama! Big cake." 

"That's right, sweetie. That’s a wedding cake."  

“Mama, you and daddy married, too?" Riley’s eyes snapped up to meet Liam’s gaze as he smiled tenderly, raising his eyebrows.

"Maybe someday," she said, winking at Liam. 

"Can I have cake now, pleeaase?" 

"Of course," Riley smiled. 

"Come on," William said, getting up from his chair, grabbing Liam's hand. 

"Okay," Liam chuckled, as he started to stand up to follow his son. “Oh Liam, no worries. I can take him.” 

As Riley started to rise from her chair, Liam tenderly put his hand on her shoulder, urging her to still be seated. Liam bent down and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek.  

William led his father over to the wedding cake, where they were greeted by an older woman. 

"Ah, King Liam." The woman bowed her head and dropped down to curtsy. "How can I help you, Your Majesty?" 

Liam graciously bowed his head in respect and placed his hands on William's shoulders. “My son would love to try some of the wedding cake, thank you." 

"Of course, Your Majesty. Would you like a small or large piece?" 

"Wait ... is the cake made of baklava?" Astounded by his favorite dessert in the world made into a wedding cake. He was ecstatic. 

Matteo overheard his question and leaned over, a grin on his face. "It is, actually. It’s my favorite." 

"Wow," Liam breathed. "This is amazing." 

"My yia yia [grandmother] made it herself." Matteo said. 

"So, would you like a slice, Your Majesty? She smiled warmly. 

"Please," Liam nodded, his eyes sparkled happily. 

Matteo 's grandmother first cut a slice for William and then cut a generous slice and placed it on a plate for Liam. 

"Here you go." She smiled proudly.

"Thank you," he said, his tone sincere. 

"You're welcome, Your Majesty." 

Liam took a bite of the cake and sighed contentedly. "αυτό είναι απίστευτο" ["This is incredible"].

"Χαίρομαι που σου αρέσει" ["I'm glad you like it"], Matteo smiled. 

"ο Βασιλιάς είναι ένας σοφός άνθρωπος" ["The King is a wise man!"] Matteo's grandmother exclaimed. 

"μιλάς ελληνικά;" ["You speak Greek?"]

"Έκανα μερικά μαθήματα" ["I took a few lessons," Liam admitted.

"Λοιπόν, τότε είναι διπλή τιμή που σας έχω εδώ! [""Well, then I'm doubly honored to have you here."]

"παρακαλώ η τιμή είναι δική μου!" ["Please, the honor is all mine."]

*** 

After the desserts were served, the band began playing a lively tune. Maxwell grabbed Savannah's hand and dragged her to the dance floor. Bertrand contentedly remained seated with Bartie. 

"Come on, Daddy," William said, pulling at Liam's sleeve. 

The woman's eyes went wide as she realized the little boy was his son.

"Θεέ μου ο Μάτι ο βασιλιάς έχει έναν γιο!" ["Oh, my goodness, Matty ... the king has a son?"]

*** 

Later in the evening, Matteo's grandmother approached Liam, as he enjoyed a drink with Drake and Olivia.

"Your Majesty, please give this to your bride. It's a family heirloom, and I want her to have it," the elderly woman said, pressing a small, ornate necklace into Liam's hands. 

"Yia yia, With respect, I can't accept this. It's too much," Liam protested, but the old woman was adamant. 

"Nonsense," she insisted. "It's a gift from me to your bride, for more healthy babies. 

Liam felt his face flush at her words and the thought of having more children with Riley. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you, Yia yia. But I must ask why." 

The old woman smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Because I see the love between you two, and it reminds me of my late husband and me. You are a lucky man, Your Majesty. I hope you cherish each other always." 

Touched by her words, Liam gave her a hug and thanked her again. 

As Liam sat back down, he could feel the intense gazes of his friends look straight through him.

***

Laughing, and out of breath, Riley and Maxwell sat down from dancing at the table. "This was so much fun. I am so thirsty ..."

"Say no more, Ri. I'll be right back with refreshments," Maxwell stood up and saluted, in jest, and went to the bar.

"It's lovely to see you celebrate Daniel and Matteo's wedding." Liam squeezed her hand.

"They are so happy together." 

"They are," Liam said, a slight wistfulness in his tone. 

Riley caught his gaze and held it for a moment, reading the look in his eyes. 

"We're going to get our happy ending too, you know," she lowered her voice, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. 

"I know," Liam replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

"And even if we have to wait a little longer, it'll be worth it," Riley continued, her tone firm and confident. 

"I couldn't agree more," Liam said, his expression softening, making a mental note to send Olivia a 'thank you so much' gift for helping Riley find her spark again.

"Besides," Riley added, a mischievous glint in her eye, "I can think of a few ways to pass the time until then." 

Liam laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're incorrigible," he said, his tone playful. 

"You know you love it," Riley teased, leaning in closer. 

"I do," Liam said, his gaze fixed intently on hers. 

Their faces were only inches apart, and Riley could feel her heart racing. She knew she could pull away, but she couldn't seem to make herself do it. 

Liam leaned in and kissed her soundly, the taste of scotch lingering on his lips. Riley closed her eyes and kissed him back, savoring the moment. 

When they finally broke apart, their faces were flushed, and their breathing was ragged. 

"Come on," Riley said, her voice low and husky. "Let's go back to our room." 

"Gladly," Liam replied, his voice matching hers. 

They slipped out of the reception, their hands intertwined. As they walked back to the hotel, they knew that, no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would always have each other. 

***

Later that night, Liam and Riley were getting ready for bed in their hotel room. Riley had just finished washing her face and was brushing her teeth when she noticed Liam staring at her from across the bedroom. 

"What?" she asked, toothbrush still in her mouth. 

"Nothing," he chuckled. "You're just so beautiful." 

She grinned, her cheeks turning pink. "Charmer," she mumbled. 

Liam walked over to her and gently took the toothbrush from her. "Matteo's grandmother gave me something for you," he said, pulling the necklace from his pocket. 

Riley's eyes widened as she saw the beautiful piece of jewelry. "Liam, it's gorgeous," she breathed. 

"Here, let me put it on you," he said, his voice soft and husky. 

He reached around her neck and fastened the clasp, his fingers brushing against her skin. Riley shivered at his touch, her body responding to his closeness once again.

"Thank you," she whispered, her heart fluttering. "But I don't understand why--" 

"She told me it was for more healthy babies," he interrupted, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Oh," Riley said, her blush deepening. 

"Well, we should probably get started then," Liam said, his eyes darkening with desire. 

He pulled her close and kissed her, his tongue brushing against hers. Riley melted into his arms, her body pressed against his. 

"Yes, Your Majesty," she murmured, her lips curving into a smile. "We should definitely get started." 

Thank you for reading, tags are in the comments. Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed.

@choicesficwriterscreations @thosehallowedhalls

[cascader]

i love the tipsy kiss you just posted! would like to request number 12 for jily if you have any inspiration?

aw thank you so much! here you go <3 rated T for (surprise!) kissing lmao

“Evans — just, Evans, come on, Mer — slow down,” James calls, breaking into a jog. 

She speeds up, if anything, waves of red hair whipping behind her in the wind. She’s so far ahead of him — heading through the castle doors, now — that he can’t make out anything else. 

James skids to a stop at the castle doors a long minute later and sees her hair flash around the corner of a first-floor staircase. 

He swears again and follows her. She makes it up two flights and halfway down the Charms corridor before he catches up to her. 

“Evans — come on,” and his outstretched fingers are inches away from her shoulder when she skids to a stop and whirls around. 

James takes an instinctive half-step back and has to fight to keep his expression neutral as he takes in her face — tear-streaked, reddened, puffy (and so beautiful). 

“What?” Lily demands.

“I…” “What could you possibly have left to say? Come after me to call me a Mudblood too, hm?”

“No — Merlin, no, Evans, like I said — I’d… I’d never…”

“You’d never what? Hurt me?”

James pauses, then frowns. “Look, Evans. I'm sorry about Sniv — about Snape. I really am. But I didn’t make him—”

“You absolutely did. You always do! You always… poke and prod and pick at him until he can’t—”

James runs an angry hand through his hair and paces to the wall and back. “Merlin, he’s his own person, Evans! He makes his own choices! Bloody terrible ones, sure, but that’s not—”

“And you’re just always insufferable, aren’t you? You can’t ever leave anything alone!” 

“I’m insufferable? Says the most self-righteous person I’ve ever met. You just—”

“—everything’s a joke to you—”

“—not my fault you can’t ever take a joke—”

“—maybe if they were actually funny—”

“—don’t act like you don’t think I’m funny, Evans, I’ve seen you—mmph!”

James finds himself pressed flat against the cool stone wall and Lily Evans’s lips pressed against his.

He freezes, and then she does, and he feels her pull away for a heart-stopping second before he jerks into action. His arms snake around her waist and then hers dive into his hair. It’s heady, and James can hear his blood rush in his ears, smell strawberries in her hair, feel her fingernails scrape against his scalp, which sends some kind of shiver down his spine…

Her lips are frantic against his, urgent, unthinking, and James is hit with a sudden fear that this is all about to end.

He pushes off from the wall until he’s upright again; he feels Lily tilt her head up further to meet him. 

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing — he definitely has not snogged Lily bloody Evans before — but his hands seem to, as they skim up her waist, then flee to her back, up her shoulders, until James cups her face in his hands. 

He feels her hands drop to his hips. James slows the kiss down, slanting his lips over hers once, twice, thrice. He feels her push back against him, feels her try to speed it up again, but he just skims his thumb against her cheek and tentatively presses his tongue into her open mouth. Lily lets out the faintest — whimper?

“Fuck,” gasps Lily, as she jerks suddenly back from him. 

Her eyes are wide, her hand clapped over her mouth, her skin still reddened.

She takes a full step back from him, as if to emphasize her point. Her blush deepens. Her gaze darts frantically between him and the wall behind him. James can’t catch his breath. 

“Fuck,” she repeats. “I’m so sorry.”  

[diamond-coral]

A Game

Summary: Tony suggests a game that you, the unfortunate intern, get dragged right into the center of: who can make a woman cum the fastest?

Pairings: all dark!: Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader, Thor x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader, Tony x Reader, implied natasha x reader

Warnings: DUB-CON/NON-CON (oral: f-receiving, fingering, tiny smidge of analplay) VOYEURISM/EXHIBITIONISM, BLACKMAILING, OVERSTIMULATION. The characters in this story are NOT good people. After reading the warnings, your media consumption is your own responsibility!

As Stark’s party mellowed down and all the guests left, you, the unfortunate intern, were called over to the small group of five Avengers seated in a section of couches.

“Y/n, come!” Thor’s voice boomed.

“Y/n, come!” Sam mimicked, deepening his voice to make fun of Thor’s.

You approached them as the men snickered at Sam’s joke. 

“What can I do for you?” you ask, a fake smile plastered on your face.

Stark cleared his throat and raised a brow at you; a silent command. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” 

“A round of drinks please, and add this to Sir Barnes, Sir Rogers, and I’s drinks.” Thor handed you the flask of his Asgardian liquor and you accepted it, hiding the slight nervous tremble of your hands.

“Of course, sir.”

“Someone’s been learning their manners,” Steve taunted, and it took all your restraint to not snarl at him.

“Easy there, Rogers,” Stark interjected, noticing how your fingers clenched Thor’s flask tighter. “Pretty sure Barnes fucked the brat outta her couple days ago when he came back from that shitshow of mission in Bosnia. Got a lot of pent up rage there, Buck?”

“Mission just put me in a bad mood,” Bucky shrugged. “Either way, I don’t think I fucked all the brat outta her. Got anything left for me, doll?”

“I have nothing for you, you self-righteous, ignorant prick,” you spat venomously.

“There she is. I always love a challenge.” Bucky smirked at how your knuckles were turning white around the flask. “Now didn’t Thor ask you to go fetch us some drinks?”

You huffed, opting to bite your tongue rather than lashing out, and spun on your heel toward the minibar.

Three-months ago, you would never have imagined your internship interview at S.H.I.E.L.D to bring you here. Your interview had been conducted by Captain America himself, and just as things began to look promising, it was interrupted by a sharp knock from Tony Stark. Tony had brought Steve into the hall, leaving the door to the conference room open, and you could only sneak glances through the window of the room, hearing Steve whisper about how it was “a question of morality” while they both kept looking back at you.

You got the position, and the next day, Tony sat you down and gave you an offer.

The Avengers needed to be ‘taken care of’, as he put it, and you being a ‘stress-reliever’ would boost morale around the team. Most of the them never had time for the outside world (apparently saving the world was a big commitment?) and were rarely ever able to make lasting relationships. You could accept the position, be compensated monthy, and get to live in the compound, or you could decline, and walk away with your mouth sealed by the confidentiality contract you signed before the interview.  Something about S.H.I.E.L.D. work being linked to a lot of top secret information, meaning you weren’t allowed to speak any details of the job to outside parties unless you wanted to get sued for every penny you were worth.

You had been on the cusp of taking the second option before Tony mentioned your sister’s job as S.H.I.E.L.D. as an agent. She was half the reason you’d interviewed for an internship. A couple words from Tony about her possibly falling into a fatal accident on a mission, and you took the position offer in a heartbeat.

You almost overfilled the glass while getting lost in your train of thought. Setting down the bottle of expensive whiskey, you placed the last glass next to the others on the silver tray, and picked it up, gracefully yet begrudgingly making your way back to the small gathering.

“Y/n, finally. We were just talking about who here can make a woman cum the fastest.”

The complete utter bluntness of Tony’s words caught you entirely off guard, and you tripped over your own feet, stumbling in your high heels to keep the tray of drinks from falling before Sam reached an arm out to catch the tray and another arm to hold your hip and steady you.

You ripped yourself from Sam’s touch without acknowledging or thanking him, to disturbed by Tony’s previous words to do so. You began passing out the glasses of dark liquid. “And you’re telling me this why?” Your voice was flat in hopes of showing Tony you were completely disinterested in any plans he might have.

“Why, we need your aid, Lady Y/n,” Thor answered a little too cheerfully for your taste.

“I won’t be partaking in your little immature competition of toxic masculinity.” You crossed your arms and continued. “It makes it seem that women are nothing but prizes. Games to be played by boys as they fight over the highscore. Toys.”

“Aren’t they?” Steve cocked his head, eyes glimmering with amusement while a smirk painted his face. The rest of the men chuckled at his reply.

“I think HR would be shocked to hear that Captain America is being a sexist dick to a woman in the workplace,” you bit back, but your threat was weak and they all knew it.

“I think HR would be to busy writing a condolence letter to your sisters family if, let’s say, on her mission with Sam tomorrow in Russia, a stray bullet hit her,” Steve replied. A quick reminder at the stakes. 

Sam clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock sympathy. “Those darn Russians and their careless aim.”  

He abruptly pushed himself off the couch and clapped his hands together. “I wanna go first,” he declared.

“Just remember, you can’t use your dick,” Tony added. “Some of us don’t have super soldier serum enhanced fuckwands.”

“Please never, ever say fuckwand again,” Bucky said, scrunching up his nose. “Besides, the hydra serum didn’t do anything down there.” He waggled his eyebrows while elbowing his enhanced counterpart. “Don’t think I could say the same for this punk here though.”

Steve muttered a ‘shut up’ while the group snickered.

All while they compared sizes like a bunch of teenagers, Sam manhandled you onto the coffee table in the center of the couches. You let out a grunt as you were shoved onto your front, stomach pressed into the tabletop while your pelvis was slammed into the edge.

Sam kneeled behind you and brought up two fingers to your mouth.

“Get ‘em nice and wet for me, baby.”

The men around you went quiet, entranced as you reluctantly took Sam’s fingers into your mouth, sucking on them and swirling your tongue around them.

When Sam finally pulled them out, he looked back at Tony.

“You ready?” Sam asked.

Sam hiked the flowy skirt of your dress up your legs causing you to squirm and pathetically thrash; a desperate attempt at putting an abrupt stop to this stupid game.

“You’re on the clock.”

At Tony’s words, Sam immediately stopped your desperate attempt at worming away from him by catching you by the back of your neck and slamming you back down hard on the coffee table. Much to your disdain, the rough treatment made you wet, and that was the last thing you wanted them to see.

But when Sam pulled your lacy panties down, you could tell it was the first thing he noticed.

“Fuck babygirl, I didn’t need you lubing up my fingers, you’re already drenched,” he noted.

You let out a soft moan as Sam worked two calloused fingers into your pussy. Although they’re thick and long, they were nowhere near the size of his dick and you silently thanked whatever was out there that he wasn’t splitting you in half with it at the moment. Sam released the grip on your neck, moving to settle the hand on your ass before giving it a light squeeze and a slap that elicited another moan from you. While Sam slowly began moving his fingers- twisting, curling, and pumping them- he leaned over you, caging your body under his broad chest, to speak dirty words into your ear.

“Baby, you’re so wet right now, I think you like having them watch you.” Your cheeks burned in shame while he picked up the pace. “You want them to see how well-behaved you are for me? Want them to see how you come on my hand like a good little slut?” he cooed.

Slow pumps now turned to quick thrusts from his skilled fingers and Sam groaned as you fluttered around him.

“That’s it. You’re taking me perfectly.”

Twisting his wrist so his thumb could also strum your clit, Sam was moving so fast you’d easily mistake him for a superhuman.

“Yes, Sam, please,” you cried out, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Uh-uh, babygirl. Wrong word,” he scolded, although his pace never slowed as his fingers brutally fucked into you.

“Daddy!” you screamed. “I’m cumming!”

You chanted those words, cunt clamping down on his merciless fingers. He gave you no reprieve, mercilessly thrusting into you, until you squirted, your release coating his hand and dripping down his forearm. Only when you were almost crying, did he finally remove his hand from your abused cunt.

“Now that-,” Sam stated, grinning while he stood. “-is how you make a girl come.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever Birdbrain.” You don’t have any strength to look at Tony as he speaks. “Give her a couple minutes before whoever’s next.”

Whatever the conversation was between them (you couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in your brain), it was much too short to your liking. The few minutes Tony gave you only felt like a few seconds before Bucky was getting up.

“Guess I’ll take a crack at it,” he announced, rolling his head from side to side.

“No one says “take a crack at it” anymore, old man.”

“Keep talking when your in last place, Sam,” Bucky quipped, however, his tone was still light.

You felt a metal hand on your hip before you were rolled over onto your back, now facing Bucky while your eyes pleaded with him.

“Please dont,” you croaked.

Bucky just scoffed, kneeling down between your legs and wrapping both arms around your thighs as he pulled you closer.

“Tony?” His hot breath fanned your pussy as he spoke and you inhaled sharply at the feeling.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Stark said.

Bucky wasted no time the moment the words left Tony’s mouth. He started by licking up from your hole to clit over and over, the lazy stripes already driving you wild. Letting go of one of your thighs to bring his flesh hand to your pussy, he pulled the hood of your clit back, pausing his licking to blow on your engorged bud.

“Such a pretty pussy, doll,” he murmured before turning his head around and speaking louder. “You guys seeing this?” 

He moved his head out of the way to showcase your glistening folds. A couple groans from the men on the couches had you trying to close your legs, but Bucky’s grip was like steel (especially considering his hand was metal).

“Wasting time Buck,” Steve commented and Bucky just rolled his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure I can still beat Sam and have time left over,” he scoffed.

Bucky directed his attention back to your folds, this time, diving in right away. He still had the hood of your clit pulled back as he encased the bud with his lips causing you to writhe at the intense sensation. And yet, you were held down with practically no effort as he methodically played with you. Each time he groaned against you, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, and by the time he started sucking on your clit, you were wrecked. Your hand found home in his brown locks of hair while he quickly moved his tongue back and forward on your sensitive nub that was trapped in the vacuum of his mouth. The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, and suddenly, while Bucky began shaking his head from side to side, it snapped. Your clit pulsed rapidly while encased in his hot mouth, and you screamed, legs locking around his head while your hand held his head in place. He worked you while you rode out your orgasm on his face until you could barely move.

Bucky got up from his knees, grinning down at you, so weak, you couldn’t muster it in you to glare back.

“Now I think I really fucked the brat out of you,” he said. “What was that?” He cupped his ear. “Did I hear a thank you sir?”

“Thank you, sir,” you whimpered weakly.

You were so fucked out, all the next events were but a blur.

Thor had feasted between your thighs the same as Bucky but was more sloppy, although, your body seemed to love ‘sloppy’. His tongue was constantly lashing and worming around your clit, the wet muscle accompanied by lewd slurping sounds, and in record time, Thor’s suckling and licking had you tensing and building up so much that your orgasm felt like a waterfall crashing over your body.

Steve was just as methodical and precise as Bucky, also pumping his fingers slowly in and out of your pussy. He was sweetly slow, dragging out your pleasure to the point where you were begging him to come. His warm tongue dragged across your sensitive cunt, while another hand reached up to grab a breast and pinch a nipple. You felt like your body was on fire. It wasn’t until Steve had inserted a thumb into your ass that he finally allowed your body sweet sweet release.

Your head span as finally collapsing on Tony’s floor, listening to the muffled voices above you.

You didn’t even register Stark’s words as he announced Thor had won and Steve had come in last. You barely even heard Steve’s defense that he was just enjoying himself too much in the moment.

Although ten-minutes later you had a somewhat sense of clarity, after hearing their conversation, you wished you were just unconscious. Even better, dead.

“I’m tellin’ you man, I made her squirt. She definitely came the hardest with me.” Sam’s voice rang.

“Dude- she was literally grinding against my face and holding me in a headlock with her legs,” Bucky argued.

“I literally made the brat beg to cum,” Steve inserted.

“I’d say that by bringing her to release the fastest, it was most intense with me,” Thor declared, victoriously.

You were on the brink of tears as they talked about you. Until another voice cut into the room. A female voice.

“What do you boys think you’re doing?”

It was Natasha. Your head jolted up as you felt a glimmer of hope surge through you.

That glimmer of hope was quickly extinguished at her next words.

“Not inviting me to the boy’s party?” she scolded. “You think a girl might beat you by a landslide?”

Nat squatted down next to you, running a soft hand on your cheek.

“Well you’re right. I’ll beat Thor’s record and cut it in half.”

She began unbuttoning her pants.

“And I’ll do it while riding her face.”

[rubbishben]

My thoughts on Getou’s ideology

Spoiler alert

So I just finished rereading jjk and thought it would be cool to share my thoughts on the motives behind Getou’s actions which really intrigued me because it gave so much more insight into his actions—like in the cursed child arc when he called Maki a monkey, mentioned he wanted to kill all non-shamans etc. and it showed his history with Gojou, plus how that subsequently affected the Gojou we know in the present. 

Ok. Can I begin with where it all (in my opinion) began to really go wrong? Not really a surprise here, but I would say it’s the mission from Tengen-sama with Amanai. Before this shitshow, we see Gojou being his usual self, bantering with his soon-to-be-genocidal BFF—and we also are introduced to what Getou’s motivations are for becoming a Jujutsu Sorcerer/shaman. To protect the weak. He has the power to do so, and therefore a responsibility to do it. An obligation, so to speak. This is all before the Amanai mission, mind you; that’s why I say the real problem sprouted after that, and although arguably the problems were already present in the first place, Getou only really became aware of them afterwards—and therein lies the issue.

So this is Getou’s ideology while he was, to put it a bit harshly, still ‘ignorant’—aware of the nastiness in the world, but not really experiencing them first-hand... yet. His original ideology, one that ended up with Gojou calling him out for being ‘righteous’. Society should protect the weak, and keep the strong in check. That’s his set of values, principles, what he thinks should be done. But the next mission? The next mission challenges that.

We see Getou watch Amanai die right in front of him. Amanai, who if you remember, he and Gojou were willing to go against Tengen-sama and hence the other Jujutsu Sorcerers in order to protect the life of—or at least before she dieded from Papa Fushigoro’s attack lmao *cries*.

Getou is kind. He cares. He cares, and that’s why it’s just so much worse.

And the real underlying cause for her death, the religious cult group. Who, might I add, are pretty much brainwashed, unreasonable, irratiONAL-

They freakin clapped and cheered and everything, guys. Like, ‘yay she’s dead we did it’. In front of the very two people that she was important (somewhat important for Gojou, maybe) to, mocking them for their failures. It disgusted and annoyed me to an extent, their blindness, and if it did for me (maybe you, too?) you can only imagine the impact it must’ve had on the strongest duo. The impact it had on Getou, seeing the non-shamans he was protecting do such a despicable (in his eyes) thing.

Yet, at that point of time, he tells Gojou there’s no meaning in killing them. An important distinction that, over time and after a slow build-up, erodes away into nothing thanks to a certain someone *hissssss*.

And so time passes. Gojou becomes stronger as he grows; naturally, the two begin to drift. Getou is left alone more and more—alone with his thoughts, his musings, his ever-growing unsureness. This unsureness stems from, as he mentions later on, the worth of the non-shamans that has become shaky to him. The sacrifices he makes, the effort he puts in��of exorcising and ingesting relentlessly, something so repulsive that he clearly doesn’t enjoy doing but does so for the sake of these non-shamans—and the sacrifices of the shamans that he sees as his friends, comrades, family. Who does he do it for? Who do they do it for? Do they do it for the same group of people that were overjoyed to see someone he cared about dead, who were the cause for that death?

These panels gave me chills. It’s so well done; you can really feel all the gradual hopelessness, loneliness, desperation, introspection, doubt... Also, a point I brought up near the beginning, Getou says he already knew about that ugliness—but perhaps this is the first time it’s really been so personal to him, and that’s why it hit all that harder, as though everything he knew was coming into question. And he told himself, don’t falter. But as you can see from the next page...

He was definitely, to put it lightly, already ‘faltering’.

“F*cking Monkeys...” Ha, what an iconic quote. Maybe I’ll use that the next time someone cuts in front of me in the queue. Jokingly, of course.

So there he was teetering between the two edges. If Gojou, Shouko, his sensei or whoever, really, had been aware, maybe he could have helped him back to the ‘right’ track. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOO here comes this (unfairly attractive) shady ass woman instead to give him that nudge. Wait, no, not nudge. She gave a freakin shove.

Thus it begins. The base for Getou’s new ideology. The words, her reasoning, the fact that she supported Getou’s half-throwaway comment about killing all non-shamans. God, she’s so manipulative. GETOU DON’T FALL FOR IT, I was screaming mentally the whole time. More specifically, a certain phrase was playing on repeat in my brain.

Begone, thot.

But I guess, in the end, it’s not about whether he fell for it or not. Once she put it out there, it could never have gone back.

She plants that idea in his head and it wiggles its way into his consciousness. It blooms into a black flower with every passing day, every passing mission, Haibara’s death, every other shaman’s death, every single thought and question about the worth of non-shamans—which, BTW, according to Tsukumo, would be all solved if he just killed them. Thing is, she’s not exactly wrong, and Getou knows that.

So remember how I talked about how Getou shut down Gojou’s question of whether to kill on the basis of there being no meaning in killing the religious group/non-shamans earlier on? Yeah. This bish has just given him one on a damn silver platter. She has given him a meaning.

And if I can add one thing, it would be that I think that Getou feels things very deeply; his experiences and thoughts affect him like ripples in the sea, slowly slowly slowly building up into a tsunami. 

He acts based on a moral compass, and that moral compass is almost absolute to him. For example, his earlier ideology of the strong protecting the weak—he was willing to go through so much because of that ideology, was willing to fight and ingest something that tasted like ‘cloth used to wipe vomit’ and even risk his life without hesitation because of that set of values. And later on when that comes into question, he begins to question his ‘true’ feelings, and thinks things through very deeply. Because it’s important to him. It defines his actions. And once his ideology shifts?

He kills non-shamans without, as far as I know, even an ounce of remorse. Because, like Gojou said, Getou is ‘righteous’.

And at this point, it may seem like he’s still on the fence, but effectively what Tsukumo has done is tell Getou more about his other option and even encouraged him. Tsk. Keep in mind he has been more or less alone up till now, left without any guidance on this topic whatsoever from the people he’s close to; the only guidance has been this shady ass, special-grade Jujutsu Sorcerer, and THIS IS WHAT SHE TELLS HIM. ARGH.

AAAAAANNNNNDDDDD BOOM. We have reached the final, breaking point, where all the tiny cracks and fractures expand to explode in an epically bloody massacre.

Ngl, this whole thing made me pissed to the point where the empty soda can in my hand got crushed to a pulp. I must admit, it was really satisfying when he killed them.

But then I realised he killed the whole village, and his parents, which further cements the idea that his new moral compass—is genocide. No joke. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNN.

Anyway, when Getou saw the two poor kids, scared and bloody and might I add shamans, so called ‘one of his kind’, locked up in a cage because of the non-shamans’ illogical, stubborn, and unreasonable assumptions? He made his decision at last.

...this whole chapter, these last few chapters even, were so well-done I reread it like a dozen times.

Alright, now that that’s over and done with, can I discuss his ideology itself? From what I’ve seen/heard/read from around, people generally call out two glaring issues—unrealistic-ness (is that a word? sorry lmao) and the generalisation of the non-shamans. Much to my surprise (and happiness, even) they addressed the former, and it seems like Getou has given it some thought. Yay.

Again, these panels are pure gold. 

“That’s pretty arrogant.”

“What?”

“It’s possible for you, right? Satoru.

If it’s possible for you... can you really go around telling people that ‘it’s impossible’?”

Chills, literal chills *insert B99 meme here*. Because I was like—oh snap. I didn’t even consider that. Didn’t consider... what if it were Gojou Satoru? Because DAMN the whole thing just became a whole lot more realistic, especially after you consider Gojou and his skills later on in the future. And then from that line of logic, you remember Getou Suguru is strong as hell himself. He is the other half of the strongest duo. He is a special-grade Jujutsu Sorcerer. Someone Gojou acknowledges as powerful. He is Getou Suguru, and he makes a freakin good point.

It’s like Neil Armstrong telling someone it’s impossible for them to go to the moon or something. Maybe not the best analogy, but you get what I mean lol.

‘kays, on to the other point—he generalisation of the non-shamans/non-Jujutsu Sorcerers. This is the part where I—and probably many others?—find kinda iffy. After all, not all non-shamans are like those Getou have met. I mean, I for one do not see myself joining a rich cult any time soon, nor do I see myself locking injured kids in cages without any evidence of wrongdoing; but but but you see, Getou doesn’t really know that. Okay, maybe logically (since it's basically an hasty generalisation fallacy) he has to realise somewhere that there’s a flaw, but since these are people and people aren’t always logical (unfortunately), I try to think about it this way. Why would he understand that his logic is flawed as well as we do, when he has only really seen the ugly side of non-shamans?

Okay, I’ll try to explain what I mean. The religious group is pretty self-explanatory, but the situation with the shaman girls he saved can be expanded on. Getou went on missions to exorcises curses. He was practically bound to meet people like the villagers, who unjustly accused the kids in place of the curses and tossed them into a cage and maybe even beat them until they were bleeding, wherever he turned—in fact, it was probably enough to feed his growing cynicism. After all, it makes sense that the majority of the side of humanity who dealt with this stuff (again, with exceptions of course) was likely to have been forced into some pretty messed up states, or shown other, darker sides of themselves, that kind of thing. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I hope you get what I mean. In any case what I’m tryna say is that for Getou, he has already drawn an imaginary line between the shamans and non-shamans from the beginning. To him, they are wholly different things (’monkeys’, as he eventually put it, learning from Toji. lol)—and for those different things, he has only really experienced/seen/witnessed the underbelly or society or that unpleasant side of them. His mindset is already unlike ours; for example, it’s like if one sees a mosquito, people automatically treat it as a pest because from what we know it sucks our blood and is an annoyance. 

But what if not all mosquitoes sucked blood? Yes, we know (or we think we do lololol) that yes, they all do. It’s their nature. But what if we were just in contact with all the mosquitoes that sucked blood and we didn’t really know about the mosquitoes that didn’t? And now we just exterminated them on sight because of our preconceived notions? 

Maybe that’s how Getou sees the non-shamans too...?¿ 

On the other hand, it could also be that Getou is fully aware of what he’s doing, that he’s going to soil his hands from blood of ‘good’ non-shams (e.g. his parents). He probably also doesn’t consider himself a good person, as seen from when he talked to Haibara. But he still does it anyway. He sacrifices himself in a sense, to do the dirty work ‘for the greater good’, because that’s who he is. Furthermore, even if the ‘good’ non-shamans didn’t go around creating curses, there would be no guarantee they wouldn’t in the future, so it’s like nipping a problem from the roots before it can even happen. After all, his parents were still non-shamans, meaning that they might still create curses, and he ‘couldn’t go around making exceptions’ which I think shows how much Getou really is willing to sacrifice. 

So my opinion is that that, coupled with Tsukumo’s whole reasoning on how mass genocide would benefit them (lol), is ultimately the difference in how resistant we as readers are to his current ideology of killing all non-shamans and how Getou ultimately made the decision to ‘define his true feelings’ to become akin to a genocidal maniac (still love his character tho). Like, damn, if the religious group were the only non-shamans, heck I say go for it GETou, go GET them (ba dum tss).

On a side note, a moment of silence for Gojou as he mourned his best friend that I suspect he blamed himself somewhat for not being able to ‘save’. They really were a really great duo; their dynamic was so sweet. Shouko too, acting as a middleman for them without being asked to, to give the both of them closure perhaps :’)

Woah, look at that cold gaze in the last panel.

All in all, while I may disagree with some of the stuff he does? I think I can understand it—and that’s why I love him as an antagonist character so much. And I hope you guys do too, and I managed to help you with that :D Anyway, I’m signing out now, and I can’t freakin wait to see this animated in the beautiful anime aesthetics too. Getou Suguru (Gojou and Shouko too) is a really awesome freakin character and I just had to vent all these thoughts out somewhere. thanks for reading guys !! feel free to give your opinions too and have a great day/night (^w^)

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Snap Part 1

Read on Ao3 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Inspired in part by the lovely @random-snippets‘s post here

Warnings: roman angst and everything that goes with it. self-esteem issues, self-hatred, insecurity. sympathetic everyone

Pairings: roceit, platonic DLAMPR

Word Count: 5540

Most things in life are flexible to some degree. You can push and pull and bend them in certain ways and, to some extent, they will comply with you. There are some things that you can bend and bend and bend. Creativity is one of these things. Creativity, imagination, dreams...they can be shaped and changed into whatever you want.

Bend...and bend...and bend...until they snap.

Janus enjoys teasing.

He finds that it often reveals true intentions much better than simply taking someone at their word. Plus, the range of reactions he gets is endlessly amusing.

Patton will stutter and stammer adorably, or he’ll put on his Dad Voice™ and attempt to scold. Logan, depending on what sort of mood he’s in, will sass him back or give him a death glare. Virgil definitely isn’t the type to snipe back, keeping up with Janus blow for blow. Remus is…Remus.

But Roman…Roman is different.

Roman used to be the most fun to tease, puffing himself up in a fit of righteous princely indignation to defend himself, going red in the face only to be set off again moments later. Janus could spend hours just tilting his head this way and that as Roman muttered himself in and out of circles and paradoxes and contradictions. It used to be quite an effective way to shut the prince up, letting him stew in his own thoughts.

It’s still an effective way to silence Roman, but it’s changed.

It started after the wedding.

Roman had shut himself away in his room, much to the chagrin of the others. They expected a temper tantrum, they expected sulking. Logan and Patton were constantly on standby for the minute Thomas would start being affected by it.

They didn’t expect Roman to emerge a few days later and quietly ask to talk to each of them.

He apologized.

A proper apology; for mocking his name, for calling him evil, for dismissing him out of hand. Janus can only guess by the looks of pleasant confusion mirrored on the other Sides’s faces that they received similar apologies.

Janus hadn’t been surprised when Roman extended a nervous offer of having him and Remus come around to their side of the Mindscape more often, saying that they had…valuable insights to offer. He hadn’t been surprised to see Roman extend the olive branch to Remus, only for Remus to promptly snatch it up and hug his brother so tightly Janus winced in sympathy for Roman’s ribs.

Patton, as was to be expected, was overjoyed, throwing his arms around the princely side in what could only be described as euphoria. Logan had been surprised, saying he hadn’t expected Roman’s surprising amount of maturity regarding the issue, including the way Roman had promised to listen to him more often. Virgil had shrugged, saying it was about time Roman started doing that anyway.

He hadn’t thought anything of it, not really. And it had been pleasant, being listened to. Not being treated like a villain.

He should’ve known it wasn’t going to be only a few days for Roman to completely change his black-and-white view of the world.

Roman listened more, that was true, but he didn’t talk as much either. He stood quietly, occasionally asking softly for clarification.

“…L-Logan?”

Logan pauses mid-sentence, glancing over at Roman. Roman sits there, twisting his fingers together.

“Yes?”

“Can you…slow down a little bit?”

Logan blinks. He’d been talking about recent discoveries made in the field of quantum physics, just getting to the part about how SUSY particles could reconcile the different interpretations of the expansions of the universe. Roman had been the only one who volunteered to listen, and he half-expected Roman to dismiss the topic entirely or say he had some important thing to go to. He had not been expecting this.

Roman did not seem to interpret his silence in this way.

“It’s just,” he stammers frantically, “it’s not that I’m not interested, I am, I can assure you, I’m just…I’m having trouble keeping up with you.”

He balls his hands up tightly in his lap, staring at Logan with a frantic sense of urgency.

“It’s okay if you can’t or you don’t want to, y-you’re not boring me, I promise, and I don’t want you to stop, but can you please try and talk a little slower? I don’t…I don’t want to miss anything,” he trails off.

“It’s…it’s quite alright, Roman,” Logan says carefully, “I’m happy to slow down.”

Roman’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “Okay, thank you, I don’t know what’s going on with me today.” He taps the side of his head with a self-deprecating smile. “Not all here, it seems. Sorry, Specs.”

“You needn’t apologize, you haven’t done anything wrong.” Logan adjusts his glasses. “I would be more than happy to slow down. Are you quite sure I’m not boring you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Logan smiles. “…good.”

“C-can I say what I’ve gotten so far,” Roman asks hesitantly, “and then you can correct me where I’m wrong and then jump back in when we get there?”

“Of course.”

Roman had Remus share almost as many ideas as he did, but he didn’t share his own as much either.

“Roman? Do you have anything to add?”

Roman shakes his head, a small smile on his lips as he watches Remus bounce excitedly on the balls of his feet.

“I believe we have a solid idea,” he says, gently elbowing Remus, “and there is nothing I can do to improve it.”

“You know, Ro-Bro,” Remus says, shoving Roman back, “you’ve gotten so much less boring.”

Roman chuckles lightly, picking himself up off the wall. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Oh, I am!” Remus claps his hands. “But are you sure we can’t build in the part about—“

“We are not unearthing a roadkill corpse, Remus.”

Roman didn’t puff up when he was teased anymore, but he didn’t defend himself in any other way as much either.

“Could you be more extra,” Virgil sighs, nudging Roman, “really, Princey?”

Roman pauses, before slowly lowering his hands. “I am, aren’t I?”

Virgil’s eyes widen. “Guys! Guys, I got Roman to admit that he’s extra!”

“You did what?” Remus vaults over the couch. “You did it!”

“That is in fact a marvelous breakthrough,” Logan says, drinking his coffee, “especially for Roman.”

“Good to see you’re finally developing some self-awareness, kiddo,” Patton says with a wink, patting Roman on the shoulder.

Janus smirks, shifting in his chair. “Yes, because Roman’s observational skills have always been at the forefront.”

“Alright, alright,” Roman says finally, waving his hand, “I’m extra, I get it.”

It took far too long for them to realize that just because Roman’s behavior had changed, it didn’t mean he wasn’t still struggling with the ramifications of it. It took them far too long to realize that Roman still clung to the ideas of heroes and villains, the roles had just shifted. It took them far too long to realize that the ego, still hiding its black and blue skin, was still living in fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It took Janus far too long to realize he wasn’t doing his job.

“Oh, come now, I’m only teasing.”

“And that’s supposed to make everything better, is it?”

Janus pauses, the sharpness in Roman’s voice killing the follow-up in his throat. His eyes don’t widen at how Roman looks at him. For the first time in a long time, Roman’s gaze is filled with fire as he stares at Janus. It gives him pause for a moment. Just a moment. Then his smirk is back.

Good. You were starting to get boring.

“You realize that saying you’re teasing doesn’t make it hurt any less, right?”

“Oh, sweetie, there’s really no need to get so worked up—“

“Don’t pretend that your intention has not been to make me uncomfortable.”

“Then why’re you letting it get to you so?”

“…so if Remus tries to knock me out with his morningstar, I shouldn’t get hurt because it’s his intention to hurt me?”

Janus blinks. This is absolutely the direction he thought Roman was going to go. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

“So I shouldn’t prioritize emotional and mental pain the same way as physical pain?”

“…I didn’t say that—“

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it frustrating to have your words taken out of context and applied in ways you obviously didn’t mean? Wow, I wonder what that feels like.”

Janus’s surprise is hidden quickly as Roman takes a deep breath in. He expects Roman to bite back, to push, to hurl acid-laced insults at him. Given how Roman has been taking most of…this lying down as of late, he expects it, even if he would be a little...disappointed. In some way, he doesn’t deserve it.

That’s exactly what happens.

“…I understand that you care and you help in your own way. And I’m grateful for it, really, I am. You…you make people look at themselves—really look and you make me think and it’s great but it’s exhausting.”

Roman buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips hard to his eyes. It doesn’t hurt to see him so…tired.

“I can’t—I can’t do this all the time. I can’t do this most of the time. You know that. As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if that were the point.”

“…I do have a point.”

“You always have a point. That’s the problem. You are nothing but points, there’s nothing to you but—“

Roman stops, taking a deep breath and pressing his forehead with a fist.

“No, sorry, that’s…that’s not true. The version of you that you choose to present to me and to the others most of the time is nothing but points. There is no softness. No give. Not an ounce. It’s always a fight. I have to…double and triple check every single thing that comes out of your mouth, and I’m not…I…”

Another deep breath. Something softens.

“I respect you. I admire you. I like you. But I don’t know what you want from me.”

Janus isn’t shocked.

Not just at the fact that Roman is expressing all of this out loud, not just at what Roman is saying, but how the bitter taste slowly filling his mouth isn’t coming from any of it.

Roman isn’t lying. Not about this.

What happened in those days when you shut yourself away?

It takes him a moment to realize Roman is waiting for an answer.

“I don’t want you hurt.”

Roman huffs. No malice behind it, just exhaustion. “You enjoy putting me in situations that actively make me uncomfortable and you have enjoyed hurting me in the past. Try again.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Roman sighs.

“Look, I don’t think I’m in the right space for this conversation and the last thing I want to do is mess this up any more than I already have, can we…can we do this later?”

He nods slowly, even though it takes him back to hear Roman ask for something. It doesn’t sting a little to know he isn’t the one that’s made it easier for him to do so.

“Thank you, I—you...you know I care about you, right?”

Not many things can take him by surprise, not many things can make him more surprised than this conversation already has, but this…this earnest confession, this does. He nods.

“Good.”

They don’t speak for days. They don’t even see each other for days. Then Roman has an episode.

The others are away, helping Thomas. Roman is alone. He rides the attack to its end but he’s still trying to recover. This one was bad. He needs to get up, he needs to eat, he needs to drink, he needs to but he knows if he stresses out too much about this, he’s just going to send himself into another attack. He’s trying to breathe but it’s hard. It’s so hard.

Janus wasn’t even looking for him. And yet there he is, sprawled on the floor, hunched over, hands trembling as he struggles to breathe. For a moment he worries at how much he can feel that Roman’s afraid. Afraid of Janus. Janus…he hasn’t exactly shown him his…full capabilities.

And, in his defense, really, Roman is so clever, so sweet, so open that he can’t help but play with him, test him, poke at his comfort zone just enough to see him squirm. And Roman is lovely, truly, he is. And yes, part of him was thrilled when Roman finally snapped at him, but he’s right. Janus is…he has not been good to him.

Time to change that.

He approaches slowly, crouching, and offering a hand. The suspicious look that he gets doesn’t hurt his chest. He does blame him. But Roman trusts, he trusts too easily sometimes and this wouldn’t be the first time Janus has ever taken advantage of it. He tries to convey that he won’t break it when Roman takes his hand. He tries not to think about how much of this is Roman going along with it if only to prevent himself from being hurt.

He leads Roman to one of the common spaces on the Dark Sides’ hallway. It’s almost never used anymore, not since the barrier between Light and Dark started breaking down. He looks at Roman to see such an unsure expression that he can’t help the soft noise when he guides him to sit on the couch.

Janus keeps Roman in the corner of his vision as he carefully shrugs off his cloak. He considers draping it over Roman’s shoulders but decides that might be a bit too much. Too much for right now, even as his mouth starts to taste bitter.

What does he want? Roman can’t stop thinking it. He’s three seconds away from another attack, what’s happening, what’s going on, I don’t know what to do—

A gentle hand cups his chin and he distantly thanks whatever higher power there may be that Janus’s gloves aren’t a bad texture. But then he has to make eye contact and oh it’s the worst. He doesn’t know what’s keeping this fragile peace. He knows Janus will see through any mask he tries to put on right now.  

But not wearing a mask…he’s not sure he remembers how to do that.

He tries.

I’m trying, I’m trying so hard, can’t you see? Can’t you see that if you just tell me, I’ll be good? Whatever you want, I can do it, I promise, I’ll be good, I can be good, but I can’t do it if I don’t know what you want and if you tell me I’ll do it, just tell me what you want me to do, I can’t figure it out, I want to be good, but I don’t—I can’t—what do you want?

Janus sees. He sees all of it and it doesn’t break his heart.

He lets Roman go, the ache getting worse when he immediately shuts his eyes. He crouches, waiting.

When Roman opens his eyes again, he tries to offer. What do you want? Let me help, if you want?

Too much, perhaps. So he tries smaller.

Roman’s unsure when he offers his hand again. He…Janus doesn’t like being touched. But would he really be offering if he wasn’t okay with it?

Janus smiles when Roman reaches a trembling hand out. Slowly, carefully, he takes it in two of his, playing with it gently. Running his fingers over the back, tracing the knuckles. Roman’s hand is so much more...worn than the others. There are calluses, scars, so many stories that Janus can’t help exploring, smiling a little when the light touch makes Roman twitch. Even here, Roman’s scared of doing something wrong. His fingers tremble, try and move to match the shapes he makes.

Keeping Roman’s hand in his, Janus stands, tugging in a gentle ask for Roman to come with him. Roman stands up too fast and a second pair of arms shoots out to steady him. He looks so small…smaller still when Janus sits them down on another couch, between his legs.

Stay with me, Roman.

Playing with his hand again gets his attention, the second pair of arms holding Roman close. He waits. Waits to gently tug that hand a little closer. Roman shuffles. His phone tumbles out of his pocket and Janus catches it with his third pair of arms, setting it carefully on the table.

He lays back, all six arms accounted for. Waits.

Is something you want?

Roman looks so apprehensive, reaching out with his other hand. He folds Roman in gently, letting him move at his own pace, easing his weight down on top of Janus like they’re afraid of hurting him. As soon as he’s all the way down, still propping himself up to keep the weight off of Janus, Janus embraces Roman tightly, smiling a little at the way he instantly goes limp, exhaling sharply. Part of him takes a little selfish pleasure at having Roman in his arms; he’s so warm, he’s just the right weight, he fits so perfectly. But he’s still so tense, poor thing…

Just as he did with his hand, he explores gently. He lightly traces up and down Roman’s sides, wiggles his fingers as he runs them along Roman’s spine. Smirks a little when he feels Roman’s muscles tense and shift as he squirms under the gentle attention. Sweet little thing is ticklish too, hmm?

Like Roman, he doesn’t want to risk breaking this moment with too much noise, but he has to really fight the urge to coo and fuss when he starts scratching his hands through Roman’s hair. Roman whines for him, completely involuntarily, and it’s so small and tired and hopeful and adorable that he can’t help seeing if he can make him do it again. He can.

They have no idea how long they lie there but an alarm on Roman’s phone breaks the silence. Janus barely glances at the label—‘stop and get back to work’—as he shuts it off. He laments its intrusive presence as Roman startles horribly, scrambling up. And he can’t help himself, he catches him.

Roman should get back. He should do so many things but Janus is being so kind and he’s not too warm and Roman has no idea how he’ll react and what if they never get this chance again and he’s holding him so gently and the way he’s looking at him…

Is this something you want?

Janus lets out a soft oof when Roman throws himself at him, wrapping his arms around him so tightly he’s sure it hurts. But it’s the thing he wanted and the thing Roman wants and it’s perfect.

He clings to Roman just as tightly until his own arms ache from it. Still, he holds on, until Roman slumps, burying his warm face into his scales without hesitation. Roman’s breathing stutters, he’s still so scared...so Janus softens, gentles his grip, goes back to the soothing touches from before. Tries to lull Roman back into that half-doze they were in before. It takes a long time, much longer than he’d like. Roman keeps jerking himself awake, his fists clenching and unclenching, unsure where to put his head, where to put his arms.

He breaks finally when his fingers hit a sensitive spot on Roman’s back and Roman gasps, Janus instinctively holding Roman closer and smoothing the hair away from his ear.

“Shh…shh…” One pair of his arms come up to hold Roman’s hands. “Shh… shh…”

I want you to calm down, Roman, that’s all I want right now. Shh…

It takes several minutes of careful shushing to get Roman to relax, several more before his breathing evens out and he dozes, right there in his arms.

They still need to talk. Roman’s carrying so much grief with him that, now that he’s looking, he can see the strain. Roman is so tired, he can feel it. And he desperately wants to know what happened to turn Roman into this frightened creature, constantly bracing for a blow, so confused in the face of any affection. But for now…

He’s self-preservation, protection when protection is needed most. Of course he can be caring.

He leaves Roman in Patton’s care, giving them the space they need to make sure he doesn’t push. Not now, perhaps not ever. He receives a gentle thank-you when they happen to pass in the corridor. And it’s…good. There’s a sweet aftertaste in his mouth when he talks for a few days.

A few days later, his mouth tastes horribly bitter again and he knows it’s time. He appears to see Roman sitting ramrod straight, staring at the wall.

“…well, you certainly look as calm as can be.”

“Oh. Hi, Janus.”

“Hello. What seems to be troubling you?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry. I’m alright.”

The lie tastes sour. “May I join you?”

Roman nods.

“Thank you.”

“Did you need something?”

“Are you…in a proper enough headspace to have that conversation?”

“…yes. Yeah, I think so.”

He can’t quite taste another lie. This is probably what Virgil means when he says it’s important to trust people about their own boundaries.

“I have a proposition for you. I would like you to hear me out before commenting.”

“Of course.”

“…you lie quite often.” Roman nods. “You are not of the opinion that lying is inherently wrong.”

Roman shakes his head nervously.

“You use lying as a defense mechanism to protect yourself, don’t you?”

A new wave of bitterness.

“…do not be afraid,” he says quietly, “it’s quite common.”

Roman’s brow furrows a little.

“Your first response to any question that causes a heightened emotional response is usually a lie,” he explains, “because your instinct to protect yourself kicks in and forces you to say what you think the asker wants to hear.”

Roman’s mouth tightens.

“It also coincides with the need to make yourself as small as possible. If you…do not require many things, or if you do not actively contribute to things that require any extra effort, odds are you will not be hurt.” Janus tilts his head. “I believe Virgil calls it ‘being low maintenance.’”

Roman huffs a laugh and looks away.

“Does that sound about right?”

“…mhm.”

Janus fiddles with the cuffs of his jacket almost absentmindedly. Roman has developed a…particular style of dishonesty that intrigues him.

Roman is very open about vulnerable topics; speaking freely and without hesitation about how he feels about his looks, his mannerisms, his sexuality, pretty much every aspect of themselves that the Sides can think to ask about. But that’s not the same as actually being vulnerable. It’s hiding behind too much honesty, taking advantage of the fact that others don’t tend to talk about those types of topics in that much detail to let them mistake it for actual vulnerability. But it’s not. It’s just a different type of hiding.

It’s not a lie. Not even a lie of omission. Which means it’s harder for Janus to detect. Even harder for the others. So it’s easier for them to believe Roman is more honest than they are. Which let him get away with lying, let him get away with sacrificing his own needs, let him get away with hurting himself.

The pitch is the easiest part, Janus decides. Definitely.

“Virgil and I have an arrangement of sorts,” he opens with finally. “Logan helped us figure it out. If…one of us receives an answer they believe is untruthful, a second chance is offered.”

“A…what?”

“If I ask Virgil a question, or if Virgil asks me a question, and we don’t believe the answer we receive to be true, we say: ‘second chance.’ Then we have another chance to answer. There are never any consequences for lying, or choosing to take the second chance.”

“…so…”

“So if I were to ask you what’s troubling you—“

“It’s fine,” Roman says quickly, “really, it is.”

Janus gives him a small, sad smile. No, no it isn’t, but this will serve as a good point.

“Second chance?”

Roman’s mask slips. It’s a good mask. Right up there with Patton, and Logan, if he’s being evaluative. Perhaps even up there with his own. But it’s cracking.

“You know it’s unwise to try and lie to me, dear,” he pushes.

Ah. Too much. Fear swells up behind Roman’s eyes and he stammers.

“…I…”

“If you do not wish to tell me,” he soothes, “I will not force you too.”

“Then I would rather not say,” Roman says carefully, each word laid down for Janus’s inspection.

“And there are no consequences.”

The wave of pure relief that washes over Roman is enough to make Janus smile properly. There’s a horrible moment where he looks like he doesn’t believe it, he’s waiting for the punchline, but then it doesn’t come and Roman just slumps, a massive weight rolling off his shoulders. Janus can’t help but watch the corner of his mouth tick up higher and higher as he realizes it’s okay.

“Well, judging by that expression,” he says, “this certainly will be awful for you.”

Another thing about Roman is that for some reason, probably tied to his connection to the Imagination, is that he has this…field around him. Janus is sure Logan’s not interested in it at all and they haven’t spend hours upon hours talking about it. But he can feel the wave of care and love and relief that hits him, making his heart ache pleasantly in his chest.

It’s gone far too quickly and Janus isn’t saddened by it, his brow furrowing when Roman fidgets with his hands, obviously trying to work up the nerve to ask something.

“…why…when you said this was common,” he says eventually, “what did you mean?”

Ah. This won’t be difficult at all.

“The…sophistication of your coping mechanism indicates that it has been developed over a long period of time,” he starts.

“…okay?”

“Not uncommon in victims of abuse.”

“What…what are you talking about,” Roman stammers, obviously trying to laugh it off, “I—I haven’t been abused.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s…oh, Roman…

“We have ridiculed you for expressing vulnerability,” Janus murmurs, “we have ignored you when you express deep feelings. Sometimes, when you attempt to speak about them, we tell you that your feelings are not worthy of your reaction, or we are indifferent.”

Janus shifts, letting his regret bleed into his voice as he continues.

“We have manipulated you to get what we want. We have used shame to make you feel bad.” Janus clenches his fists in his lap. “We have led you to believe things are your fault when they aren’t. We have pushed you to question your sanity.”

There’s an awful silence.

“We’ve been gaslighting you, Roman,” Janus murmurs, “and worse. Tell me, what does that sound like to you?”

Any semblance of relief from earlier vanishes, replaced by denial, worry, panic, and so much anxiety for a moment Janus worries Virgil’s going to be summoned.

Then his mouth fills with an acrid taste, coating his tongue so much it almost chokes him.

“…I’m sure you know that I’m summoned by continuous lying.” Why I appeared in the first place.

Poor Roman barely hears him enough to nod.

“I know what the lies are when I hear them.”

Another nod.

“Which means,” he murmurs, reaching out and gently touching Roman’s temple with two fingers, “…I can hear these.”

Roman freezes.

“There. That.” Janus’s eyes widen. “Oh, oh no, sweetie, I’m not here to be cruel to you.”

Roman doesn’t hear him.

“Breathe, honey, come on…in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.”

Roman’s not breathing at all. Janus leans forward to try and help when Roman’s mouth opens, his voice sharp and determined.

“When people lie,” he says, “does it hurt you?”

“What?”

“Does it hurt you?”

He knows what Roman’s asking and he adores it, of course he does. He adores that Roman’s so worried about hurting him, not himself, Janus, that he’s willing to punish himself by forcing away a defense mechanism that he’s had for years because it might be hurting Janus. He loves it.

“…no. Not a direct correlation,” he says, “no. More often than not, I can tell or sense what the truth would be and…that is not often pleasant. But no, Roman, you are not physically injuring me when you lie.”

“And what about when you’re telling the truth?”

“…sweetie, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself far more that you’re going to hurt me.”

Roman’s face pinches as he looks away, so determined that it looks completely painless. It doesn’t hurt.

“Would you like a hug?”

“N-no, no, I’m fine.” Roman’s hands don’t shake. He doesn’t hunch around himself protectively.

“Second chance?”

“…please?”

“Come here.”

He’s warm, but not warm enough. His aura is relieved, but not relieved enough. He’s still, but not still enough.

The bitter taste in Janus’ mouth isn’t horrendously painful.

“No, sweetie, you’re not being inconvenient.”

You have hidden this so well, so well we never realized how much this hurts you.

“I’m not angry with you for trying to protect yourself.”

I will be the first to admit that I have…not acquitted myself well from the things I have done to you, please let me try now.

“You’re not hurting me.”

Don’t deny yourself comfort, especially when you need it so badly.

“And no, sweetie, I don’t hate being touched as much you think I do.” Janus does find it easy to cry, he does get overwhelmed easily. And yet the lies he can hear right now threaten to make tears spill over. “…must you be so cruel to yourself?”

“…sorry?”

Ah, yes, apologies. That’s a conversation for another time. Janus sighs, running a hand through Roman’s hair. “At any rate, it’s not like you’re nice and warm and much better suited than the others.”

Finally, the bitterness recedes, just a little. Janus swallows, washing away the last vestiges on his tongue, cuddling Roman closer. He looks down, seeing his mouth open and close. Laying a finger gently against his lips, he shushes Roman as he tries to speak.

“Hush, you don’t have to say anything, sweetie. I understand.”

“Okay,” Roman huffs, “I will say the whole…mind-reading thing is not ideal.”

Fair enough. “I am only paying attention right now because you seem to be having some difficulty speaking,” he murmurs, chucking him gently under his chin, “I will not be all the time.”

“Okay.”

“Or you could simply…not lie to yourself.”

“Unrealistic.”

It makes him laugh a little. “Something to work on, no?”

Roman nods, gently head-butting Janus’ hand. He smiles, cupping Roman’s chin, idly tapping his fingers. The smile grows when Roman closes his eyes, tipping his head back so Janus can scritch lightly.

“Perhaps it will help you with these,” Janus murmurs, lightly stroking his fingers over the shadowy bruises just below Roman’s collar, “hmm?”

“…Thomas, huh?”

Janus raises an eyebrow when Thomas summons him. “Well, this is entirely expected.”

“I need your help.”

“Then this can’t be serious at all.”

“It’s about Roman.”

Janus pinches off the rest of his sarcasm. “Tell me.”

“I, uh, I made a…discovery,” Thomas says, “about…things.”

“How remarkably descriptive.”

“You know the phrase ‘bruised ego?’”

Janus stiffens at Thomas’s words. “…I am familiar.”

“…turns out it’s a lot more literal than I thought.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

It’s Janus’s job to protect the ego.

What…what has he done?

“He doesn’t care for you at all, sweetie.”

Roman opens his eyes, peering up at him with poorly disguised hope.

“Neither, for that matter,” he continues, running a thumb over Roman’s jaw, “do the others. Virgil, for one, despises you for being able to make him feel so wonderfully safe.

“Patton thinks the absolute worst of you—“ he pats Roman’s cheek— “and the care that you give so freely to others.

“Remus, well, he of course doesn’t value you at all,” he drawls as he tucks a loose piece of hair behind Roman’s ear, “let alone your willingness to touch and interact with him as he’s so used to that.

“And Logan would definitely prefer it if you were to never be so clever and considerate ever again,” he finishes, stroking his thumb across his forehead.

“I don’t think,” Roman murmurs, “that I’ve ever been so glad to be pretty fluent in sarcasm.”

“Yes, your sarcasm is absolutely awful.”

“Yes, I know, I love you too.”

He expects a familiar bitterness to wash over his tongue. It doesn’t.

Oh.

Oh.

“You don’t have to say it,” Roman mumbles, almost about to doze off in his arms, “you don’t have to say anything. It’s just…it’s there if you want it.”

“I definitely won’t take it,” he says as he presses their foreheads together, “and you definitely can’t fall asleep right here.”

There needs to be another conversation. He needs to know what happened after the wedding. He needs to know how, or perhaps more accurately, why Roman changed in the span of only a few days. He needs to know how Roman got so good at pretending.

He tries not to think about how much worse he’s made it.

…he also would like to know exactly what Roman meant when he said he loved him.

[readinginthereadyroom]

slow clap for sophie for hanging up on nate’s ass in the runway job (lev 2x10). I am 1000% over his nonsense.

tara sees it immediately. the lack of respect. the condesention. the hostility. the recklessness with her life. and she’s taking none of it. goes in and stomps her heels all over his machismo—she breaks his smarter than thou code-speak, masterminds a better plan, and wraps the con man around her little finger.

and she tells sophie all about it. like how could you stand working for a guy who is arrogant, condescending, and doesn’t listen? who thinks he’s some sorta man-of-mystery or that he can play the pity card? it’s ridiculous and unattractive.

but she also she sees the brilliance of the team. tara shows eliot and parker and hardison respect and they show it back. she sees how seamlessly they work together. how they’ve become a family. and tara tells nate as much, “you guys are the best I've ever seen.”

but she also says “no one in the world is as good as you think you are.” that’s not about the team. that’s a comment about nate alone. she hasn’t been with the team long but she aready sees. nate still thinks his above everyone else. that he’s not thief. because working for big insurance for 20 years makes him some kinda saint.

and maybe finally finally finally sophie will stop giving him more chances. she gets to see him from tara’s pov and all of the things she keeps overlooking are put into sharp relief. he doesn’t trust her recommendation of tara. her word. put’s her friend’s life at risk to show off how brilliant he is. how big a con he can pull off.

and he has the gall to lay all his faults at her feet. lashes out at sophie for not being there, with him. like a spoiled little boy throwing a tantrum. like a schoolyard bully yanking on her pigtails. he thinks he can manipulate her with self-righteous acts and words of condemnation.

except he can’t touch her. because this time, sophie’s hung up on him.

[themalhambird]

FIC MEME: 41 - hose for Richard, Anne and Robert?

Anne wolf-whistles as her boyfriend gives a slow 360 degree turn, his long legs clad in bright yellow tights. Richard flashes a semi-nervous grin at her, eyes sparkling although his cheeks are somewhat pinker than normal. “Good?” he asks.

“What about the garters?” Robert askes lounging on Richard’s bed. “Aren’t you supposed to be cross-gartered? Also, are you going to be wearing anything other than your hose on your lower half?”

“I’ll have shorts or something,” Richard says, “Or maybe I’ll just. Sensually pull up my trouser leg, we haven’t quite worked it out yet. We might try a few different things. We haven’t worked out if we’re going for modern or not yet, so.”

“Pity,” Robert smirks, eyeing the bulge at Richard’s crotch. Anne claps her hands.

“Booty shorts!” she exclaims, “With Steward This on the back.”

“I love you.” Robert says, as Richard snorts a laugh and said,

“I’ll mention that.”

“Still, Malvolio,” Anne says, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry, I just- I’m having difficulty imagining you as. No Fun.”

“I have to second that,” Robert says, picking up the script from by Richard’s bed and flicking through it. It was all marked up in Richard’s sometimes neat, sometimes scrawling hand. “I mean not that I doubt your acting abilities- I’ve seen you pretend to be interested in your cousin bleating on about how the stock market works- but severe, cold natured, self-righteous prude doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“There’s more to Malvolio than that,” Richard argues, but then gives a shrugs. “Mostly, I’m just gonna channel Uncle John. Severe, Cold, thinks he’s the boss and doesn’t like parties is him to a G.”

“G?” Anne frowns. “Isn’t the idiom ‘to a T?’

“Yeah, but ‘T’ just seems so arbitrary? I mean if it was to a Z maybe, that’s all the letters- but T is completely random. I figured ages ago I was just gonna. Randomise my letter selection whenever I used that phrase.”

Anne’s expression softens in to one of extreme fondness. Robert chuckles. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Richard grins, and pulls down his tights, balancing on his right and then his left foot to free each leg. “Throw me my jeans?”

“But you look so hot in your purple boxers.”

“Robert!” Richard huffs. “Anne?”

“Nope.” Anne sits down on the bed as well, leaning back on her hands and grinning. “I second Robert. You look way too hot for jeans.”

Richard huffs again, bending forward and grabbing his jeans from where he’d tossed them on his bed. Robert grabs the other side and holds on. “I will end you,” Richard threatens, tugging hard. “And worse- I won’t cook you dinner later this evening.”

Robert relinquishes his grip. Suddenly free of an equal and opposite reaction to his pulling, Richard stumbles backwards and ends up on the floor. “Ouch!” he exclaims. Anne throws her hands over her mouth, half in horror and half to stifle her laughter.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

“I’m fine. Mild loss of dignity but it’s not like that’s massively new.”

“Ooops,” Robert says ruefully. “Sorry.”

“Whatever. Your penance can be the washing up later.” Richard says. “For now- would you two mind helping me try and start learning my words?”

“Bagsy Olivia!” Robert grins. Anne rolls her eyes at him.

“Sure, we’ll help,” she says. “Where do you want to start?”

[auriel187]

10 Things I Hate About You (Sam Winchester edition)

A/N: This is just an exert of what I have written so far...there will be more. Also, not specifically set in the 90’s or 2020’s.

Sam (POV)

“Well, Mr. Winchester. I see we’re making our visits a weekly matter.” The Guidance Counselor said with a snide smile. She spoke almost bitterly, causing the young brunette to roll his colour shifting eyes in reply. He honestly couldn’t be bothered by her at this point. “Only so we can have these moments together.” He bit back with a forced smile. He stole a glance at her open computer. It was a widely known fact amongst the seniors that Ms.Perky spent most of her time writing her “romance” novel instead of, well... doing her actual job. “Should we get down to it, or should I turn off the lights?” He asked snarkily, adjusting his hold on his backpack. The shorter woman sent a glare his way as she reached for his discipline sheet from her desk. “Very funny, cowboy. It says here that you exposed yourself in the cafeteria.” He then huffed humorlessly. Did he even need to explain himself, it’s not like he’d get into trouble, he’s been living alone for the past four months. “I was joking with the lunch lady. It was a bratwurst.” He said not really ashamed at his actions but weirded out. It seemed more like something his brother would do.

“Well, a bratwurst. Aren’t we the optimist.” She quipped, with her eyes leveled to his crotch through his baggy blue jeans. ‘Gross’ he thought as his face contorted in disgust. She was still looking, even after a few seconds of awkward and impenetrable silence. “Next time, stick to the saddle, Texas. Scoot!” I left the room with an eye roll, I could have corrected her, told her I was from Kansas but I kinda had a feeling she didn’t give a shit and honestly, neither did I.

I walked down the hallway, towards my English class. Nice class if I was in the mood to listen, sadly that was rarely the case. Too many things distracting me about that class. Mostly that fuck boy model making some off handed comment that would get his ass flattened if people actually had the balls to stand up to him. As I made my way to class one thing I noticed is the fact that everyone is either blatantly staring or flatly avoiding looking at me. I caught the eyes of some of my schoolmates standing outside the Ms. Perky’s office, watching as they all began whispering the rumors that somehow spread at the sound of my name. I turned to glare at one of the guys staring at me. Another trust fund kid who wore their cardigan as a necktie. Those idiots who think they’re brilliant just because their dads donate to the school and they can’t pass a class no matter how simple the shit we’re learning is.

I seriously despise his school.

y/n (POV)

As much as I loved English class, I really would rather shove pins into my eyes rather than sit here with these flaming imbeciles. Being one of the six girls in the class of almost thirty didn’t help. Our teacher walked in with a look on his face that told me he was already done with all our crap. It was honestly quite funny. I take my seat in the middle of the class, Mr. Morgan chose to separate the girls from one another. It mainly had to do with the fact that they were vapid slow witted brats who didn’t read anything without a steamy sex scene and a muscle bound long haired Adonis on the cover. It was stuff like that that made me glad I was nothing like them. All these girls sitting around with their ‘I’m-not-like-other-girls’ crap just to drop their pants at the first guy to give them attention. And then there’s me, avidly avoiding contact with most people or completely annihilating the rest, what does it say about me that I’d rather have everyone hate my guts rather than change everything about myself to have friends who’d just talk shit about me when my back was turned?

“Okay class. What did y’all think of ‘The Sun Also Rises’?” Mr. Morgan began the second the bell rang. I saw one of the girls raise her hand with a fanciful flare and flick of her hair. I promise I’m not gonna internally barf if she ever does that shit again. “Oh, I loved it. He’s so romantic.” She melted at the thought, what an idiot. “Romantic, Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who squandered his inheritance following Picasso trying to nail his leftovers.” I mumbled aloud as I knocked lightly on my desk. I really needed to stop doing that. I could almost feel the eyerolls of my classmates. This’ll be good. “As opposed to a bitter, self righteous hag who has no friends?” Joey chastised me from his seat a few desks away from mine. “Pipe down, Chachi!” Mr. Morgan bit back, in my defence. I knew it was just because Joey pissed him off as much as he did myself. I slouched in my seat as I practically growled “I guess in this society being male and an asshole makes you worthy of our time.” I heard so chuckles from my classmates. Mr. Morgan just looked at me. “Can’t we read something different? What about Angie Thomas or Charlotte Bronte? Sylvia Plath?”

“What about them?” A voice echoed through the class, everyone turned their attention to the door, where two guys stood. The first one walked in and took a seat next to Joey, the other stood filling the doorway. “What did I miss?” He asked, taking a seat in the back of the class. He was wearing around four layers right now and all I could think of was how the hell has he not melted? “The whitewashed patriarchal values that dictate our education.” I said quickly, noticing the slight head tilt and small smile before I turned back around.

“Mr. Morgan, do you think it’s possible to get y/n to take her midol before she comes to class.” Joey and her douche brigade all laugh like that was the funniest shit on the planet. Mr. Morgan just deadpanned, looking Joey dead in the eye and saying “One day you’re gonna get bitch slapped, and I’m not gonna do a thing to stop it.” The class erupted in laughter and I just sunk in my seat knowing exactly what was coming. “And y/n, I wanted to thank you for your opinion. I must be tough growing up with the struggles of upper middle class suburban oppression. It must be tough. But before you storm the PTA for better...lunch meat or whatever you well off girls fuss about, ask why they can’t get books written by a black man.” He finished his rant, staring at me. Waiting for a rebuttal possibly, so I gave him one.

“Angie Thomas is a black woman. And I ask for curriculum adjustments for more diversity in the books we read. I’ll be sure to specify my wishes next time. Anything else?” I had a few chuckles at my reply, most likely due to my overabundance of sarcasm and smartass clap backs. I wanted to know who it was but before I could, Mr. Morgan kicked me out. “Yeah, go to the office. You’re pissing me off.” I groaned, grabbing my bag and heading to the door. As I walked, I felt a pinch on my ass. Before I could really think about it, my textbook was connected to the culprit’s face. I lost all sympathy when I saw Joey rubbing the side of his face and glaring at me from the ground. Mr. Morgan was laughing hysterically in the front of the class while some of my classmates were gasping for air in their seats.

@thinkinghardhardlythinking

[mysteryvoidscientist]

MLQC x The Arcana Game (Asra)---------Continuation-

⚠Possible Spoilers⚠

Lucien

MC: Now to our venerable scientist and professor, Lucien! Professor please hop on stage!

Unfazed by what happened to the others before him, he nodded with his usual calming smile and sat in front of Asra. There was a round of applause but the audience was more curious to see a Science vs Occult scene. Eyes fixed on both of them, they sometimes darted towards the table as the fortune teller was shuffling his cards per usual.

Asra: It's an honour to have you, professor Lucien. 

Lucien: The honour is mine. I look forward to what the cards will tell us.

Asra: Hahaha that's the spirit!

Everyone was dumbfounded. They didn't expect for them to be all friendly, and there was no electricity in the air whatsoever.

MC: Professor Lucien, what do you think of occultism, if you don't mind me asking? The audience is curious about your thoughts on the matter and is questioning your purpose in coming here to get a reading.

The neuroscientist chuckled then observed the cards being put on the table in a row.

Lucien: The famous scientists of history are often thought of as strict ideologues with personalities as empirical as their scientific methods, and there are plenty of those, indeed. But there were also a number of brilliant minds with major contributions to humanity whose beliefs in paranormal and metaphysical sciences will go down in the annals of occult history. After all, the occult sciences are based on physics, astrology, alchemy and natural magic. Isaac Newton, Jack Parsons, The Curie couple, Nikola Tesla and many more are important figures of science history, yet they believed in the occult sciences. Oh my, have I turned your show into a lecture again?

Lucien chuckled as did MC and the audience, who were equally amazed by what he said.

MC: So you believe in it?

Lucien: I would rather say that I try to observe it from another angle and experiment with it. I am curious to learn the psychological effect it has.

Asra: Are you ready then?

Lucien: Yes, of course.

Asra did the same to Lucien what he did to the previous three, as the scent of pure myrrh enveloped Lucien's senses.

"Trust your instincts..." Giving her the advice he could not follow himself was neither a wrong move nor a right one. Maybe it was a greater force which made him spit it out as a warning. If he was following his instincts, he would have never left her, never let her go, never hurt her. He would have admitted his feelings to himself then to her, he would have protected her like any good friend, or perhaps lover. He could have been the artist for all he cared, her safety was his major mission... The only instinctive thing he could remember was giving her his dear Iridescent, and perhaps it was a mistake too, for the pen is mightier than the sword, but her might made his Iridescent equal to the sword, stained with blood as she was bringing it to her neck as a threat. Once she was the purest being in his eyes, full of colour among a monochrome world. But the more they spent time together, the more he stained her with parts of himself. He was disgusted by his behavior... he wanted her colors to remain pure, yet he dared impose his monochromatic self to her... he had to leave. Leave her and Iridescent behind. Protect her from the shadows and behind the scene, away from her. He didn't care if he was part of her life anymore, as long as she was safe and full of color.

"The goodness of water is that it benefits the ten thousand creatures; yet itself does not scramble, but is content with the places that all men disdain." The selflessness and willingness to be indiscriminately useful to her was overwhelming. He had to protect her from afar, be there whenever she was in danger. Yet, he didn't expect anything from her in return... perhaps he once was selfish enough to want her love, but times have changed and changed everyone with their flow.

"Which of you can assume such murkiness, to become in the end still and clear." Perhaps it was his first intention, but as the times slowed down, he was now willing to remain murky as long as it took to keep her from danger and from hurting herself again.

His mind was now vizualizing water which shone like a molten mirror. It had lost its turquoise to the night but in the moonlight the ripples twisted, as if the sea below them was shivering to loose the summer rays. Yet to his feet the warmth was still there, cocooned in the sub-aqua currents. It was all the invitation he needed to dive in, swim deeply into the welcoming blackness and leave his troubles bobbing on the boat above. How he wished she were to come with him... but she was still on the boat. So he decided to stay there and assist her instead. He was not selfish enough to wish for a future with her... but at least he would allow himself to hope that they will grow together, hand in hand, an old couple sitting underneath a camphor tree...

Lucien was sweating and breathing heavily, eyebrows knitted and furrowed. The audience gasped as they saw his hands grabbing three cards, fists grasping them so tight that they could have filled his palms with paper cuts. Asra clicked his fingers, and immediately Lucien returned to his senses, eyes wide, panting as if just rescued from drowning deeply in the ocean.

Asra: Are you... are you okay?

His case was worse than the three previous contestants who were watching eagerly and silently. Shaw was surprised, but careless about the whole thing.

Lucien: I... am. I'm fine... I felt water flowing downhill. I felt it drown me...

Asra: ...

Asra: Water, in flowing downhill, adapts to the turns and twists and declivities it encounters, often taking odd paths or being momentarily interrupted, but always proceeding forward. Perhaps your cards will reveal the reason why.

Lucien apologized for holding the cards so tight which made the magician chuckle.

Asra: Blame your fate. It's fine.

The professor chuckled in return, seemingly appreciating the magician. Asra revealed the first card as he flipped it, then closed his eyes to hear the honeyed words of his own archetype, the Magician. He flipped the next card and heard the threatening Death with oddly encouraging words. The third card was also upright, an understanding Judgement, righteous and wise.

Asra: The Magician makes real that which is unreal, manifesting desires from nothingless. He tells me that it's time to take action before all comes to naught. He told you, "Stay focused, you have a job to do".

Lucien: ...

Lucien: Indeed he is right. But why three cards at once?

Asra: Ah well... it depends on the hardships one faces, the mentality and complexes one has. Perhaps your life is more dynamic than it seems.

Lucien: I see...

The audience was silent like a graveyard, listening intently to the fortune teller.

Asra: Death reaps that which has run its course, allowing new life to grow in the space left behind.

Lucien: Death...

MC: ...

MC brought her hand to her mouth unconsciously, her heart feeling weird at the mention of Death. Lucien's eyes were gloomier and knew that Death was a very probable fate for his kind, but all the present people were mistaking its meaning.

Asra: Death symbolizes change. In the arcana, it doesn't hold its literal meaning. Don't fret.

Lucien chuckled and MC let out an unconscious sigh as her hand gripped her chest, which made him widen his eyes in emotion, momentarily so. Was she relieved it wasn't the case? Did that sigh mean that she still cared about him? That he still had a place in her heart?

Asra: Death passed on this message to me. "Do not fear change. All things must come to an end. Beauty lies in the transition after all".

Lucien: Change... what kind of change?

Asra: A change of heart and opinion perhaps.

Lucien: ...

Asra grabbed the final card and placed it in front of Lucien.

Asra: Judgement looks within for absolution, shedding time, worn insecurities and doubts. Judgement is perhaps answering Death and yourself for your question by telling you. "You should forgive yourself of past mistakes, heal your wounds and start anew. To want change is not selfish. It is your right".

Lucien's dark eyes opened wide and stared at the card, his heart beating fast. Was it a psychological trick? How could he possibly know anything? He admitted to himself that Asra was truly a clever man, or perhaps quite experienced for someone as young as he was. It made him chuckle before looking straight at the fortune teller and shaking his hands.

Lucien: It has been a pleasure, Mr Asra. I thank your cards for their advices. Would you perhaps join me for a cup of white tea someday? I would like to hear your opinion on certain subjects.

Asra: The pleasure is mine! Of course I'd love to. I'm honoured a professor like yourself would even think of discussing things with me! I'll bring my special pumpkin bread then.

They both smiled to each other honestly, which made the audience clap and whistle, except the participants and MC who were both shocked and dumbfounded, their heads repeating whats and hows.

-To Be Continued-

[autumnsnuggling]

Six Sentence Sunday

I was tagged by the delightful @drarrily-we-row-along to throw up six sentences of a WIP, so please enjoy this next section from the WIP I posted last week, which you can find here

“Oh.” He claps a hand to his mouth, heart pounding when emerald eyes land on him.

“No, wait—” he calls, and Draco curses the way his entire body freezes.

“You don’t have to leave. Just— come and do your laundry. I’m almost done anyway.”

He can’t keep from chewing his cheek whilst loading the machine. And then his change won’t fit in the slot. And then the air, too humid and sweet and dizzying, starts to close in around him.

“Er, Malfoy—”

“Shut up.”

He can feel him staring, can imagine the self-righteous look, can hear the taunt in his voice.

“I just—”

“No.”

His eyes sting, his fists clench, and the stupid coin keeps hitting the steel slot.

“Please, can I—?”

“Just leave.”

It’s wail and he knows it, but a moment later there’s a sigh and slow footsteps recede, and he finally takes a shaky breath. On the next try, the coin clunks into the machine.

Tagging: @stargazing-enby, @gnarf, @ununquadius and anyone else who wants to do this!

[seeaddywrite]

overcome by shame, can i ever change?

part 3/6: five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor.

warnings: for this part – grief, allusions to depression, alcohol abuse, self-loathing, abuse of a police officer’s position, the usual. 

you can also read/follow on AO3, if you prefer. (the formatting is 110x better & includes italics where they are supposed to be!) i’m not making any promises about having the next part up tomorrow because this work week may kill me, but i’ll get it up asap. 

Less than a month later, Michael’s slumped against the wall in the Chaves County Sheriff’s station. The view from the cell hasn’t changed since the day Michael and Isobel gave Max hell for healing Liz Ortecho in front of it, and the sight gives Michael a painful expectation of seeing his brother walking through the door at any moment, uniform and disappointed scowl in place, self-righteous lecture at the ready. But that’s not going to happen, so Michael’s swollen eyes are closed. The feeling of loss eases, if only a little, and keeping his eyelids shut helps against the steady throb in his cheek and ribs, too. 

It also allows him to ignore the look burning into him from the desk across the room, where his arresting officer sits. The young man is new, desperate to prove himself -- fuck, it actually looks like he’s shined the badge on the front of his uniform. He’s wet behind the ears, too goddamned eager to show how much better he is than guys like Michael. 

Michael knows that’s why he’s still sitting here. Sheriff Valenti would’ve let him go by now, shaking her head at him in wordless disappointment, just as she had the last few times he’d found himself in here after Max’s death. This guy doesn’t give a shit about Michael’s grief, though. Doesn’t even know about it, since only a few have been told the truth. Kyle’d insisted on bringing his mom into the loop after Caulfield and discovering his father’s role in it, and Michael and Isobel had been too numb to argue for more than a few minutes. 

The sense of those eyes on him starts to chafe, and Michael forces his eyes open to meet the Deputy stare-for-stare. He knows the picture he paints: the black cowboy hat perched haphazardly on his head, the insolent tilt of of his chin and shoulders, the sprawling pose he’d adopted against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. It’s an image he’s cultivated for the last decade of his life. The rebel. The drunk. The outcast, challenging anyone who dares to get too close. 

Most people never bother to look beyond the facade, and Michael usually prefers it that way. Today, though, it rubs him the wrong way. He’s used to Max being the one to pull him out of the drunk tank in the morning, accustomed to the lectures and the insistence that Michael is worth more than this, more than the booze and the fights and the disappointment in everyone’s gazes when they looked at him. Those damned speeches had always made Michael homicidal; Max never seemed to understand that what they’d done to Rosa had killed any chance of a future for him just as surely as it had killed the girl herself. To Michael, Max had always seemed unaffected, infuriatingly numb to the truth of the crime they committed and immune to the consequences, and his insistence that Michael deserved to move forward, simply because he had, only ever made Michael resent his brother.

Finally, the Deputy seems to have enough of their staring contest. Michael’s eyes flicker open at the scraping of a chair leg on the floor, and he watches with a blank expression as the man strides across the floor with the sort of bow-legged strut used men with more ego than common sense. He tips his chin back to meet the man’s gaze, squinting through the swelling around his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise, letting the man come at him first, instead.

“So,” he says, and Michael’s eyes dart to the too-shiny badge on his chest. Simmons. The name is vaguely familiar, like all names in a town this small, but Michael doesn’t care enough to try to figure out where he’s heard it before. It’s not like it actually matters. “Your third bar brawl in two weeks. I’d be impressed, except that’s nothing for you, is it?”

The sneer in his words is expected, and Michael only rolls his eyes. “Slow week,” he drawls in reply, ignoring the shooting pain caused by moving his jaw. “I’ll make sure to throw a few more punches next week just for you.” 

Simmons huffs a disdainful laugh, and reaches back to take a stack of paperwork from his desk. “Unlikely,” he says, flipping a page in a file. “I know that you’re used to special treatment, Guerin, but I’m not Valenti. I don’t have a soft-touch for hopeless cases.” 

Michael snorts. “Yeah? You want to go tell her she’s a soft-touch to her face?” He doesn’t think much of the law, never has, but he knows that Michele Valenti is far from gentle. She’s fair, and usually pretty by-the-book, if Max is to be believed, but she’s as tough as nails when needed, and if Simmons hasn’t learned that yet -- well, Michael’s pretty sure the Sheriff will enjoy showing him how wrong he is. Michael can only hope he’s around to see it. 

Apparently, Simmons doesn’t like Michael’s flippancy. His brows draw downward into a pinched, angry expression, and he leans in close, close enough that Michael can see every carefully steamed inch of his impeccable uniform. The image jolts something loose in Michael’s mind, dragging unwanted memories of Max’s first days on the force to the front. 

Isobel had insisted on re-ironing Max’s slacks so they wouldn’t be wrinkled for his first shift. Michael’d been at Max’s for god-knew what reason, since he hadn’t even been able to look at his brother that soon after Rosa’s death -- but Michael had been there as Max put that uniform on for the first time, watched as determination filled his expression and inflated his chest and shoulders. Determination to make up for the wrongs he’d done, to atone for the sins he’d committed by helping others, as if he could somehow undo the horrible thing they’d done with good intentions. 

Michael had burned with fury at Max’s naivete, with jealousy, for his ability to move forward when Michael himself was stuck, suspended in that moment, day after day. 

It’s funny. Michael had always thought that the year after Rosa’s death was rock bottom -- yet here he is, still trapped, still furious and heartbroken, with no one to blame but himself. 

“You’re going down this time, Guerin. Assault, at the very least. That guy you were beating on had broken ribs, and there’s no way he’s going to drop the charges -- and I will personally see to it that someone claps you in cuffs and throws you in a cell to rot.” Simmons slams his hand against the bars, hard enough to make the entire cell rattle, and Michael blinks away the remnants of the memory to look back at Max’s replacement, lips curled in a sneer. Blood trickles from a split that hadn’t quite closed, yet and down his chin, but Michael doesn’t move to wipe it away. 

“That what gets you off? Guys in handcuffs?” he drawls. “I’m flattered, officer, but you’re not really my type.” And that is an understatement. In fact, comparing Simmons to Alex is an actual insult, as far as Michael is concerned -- not that he should be thinking of Alex right now. Or ever. 

Simmons’ face flushes with anger, and Michael allows himself a small, triumphant smirk. He knows he’s signing his own arrest warrant with his behavior, but he’s known that for weeks. Eventually, all of his sins would catch up with him, and he’s done trying to outrun them. 

Much to Michael’s regret, Simmons gets ahold of his temper quickly; his hands clench at his sides, and there’s a vein throbbing visibly beneath his carefully tousled blond bangs, but his voice is calm, almost cloying pleasant, when he speaks again. “Ah, well that explains things, doesn’t it?” he muses, and the knowing tone in his voice makes Michael wants to punch him hard enough to break that Colgate smile. “I knew Evans was disappearing your paperwork - every time someone tried to prosecute you, it would all just vanish, or the plaintiff would just suddenly withdraw all charges. It was obviously Evans -- I just hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d risk his career like that on a nobody like you.”

Michael struggles to make sense of that information, tries to fumble it into the schema of his and Max’s relationship for the last decade, but the pieces don’t fit. Max had always been the goody-two shoes, so by-the-book in dealing with Michael’s indiscretions that it is impossible to believe that he’d literally been tampering with the paperwork to keep him out of jail. Michael had always just thought Max had pulled in favors with Valenti, or used the ‘old friend’ card over and over -- but this? Had Max really gone to such extreme lengths to keep Michael out of jail?

“But if you two were fucking before he skipped town, well. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it?” 

White-hot rage greys out Michael’s vision, and he’s on his feet against the bars before his mind catches up with the instinct. The feeling is senseless; the insane assumption should be something he laughs at, uses to deride Simmons’ detective work, but Michael can’t summon any humor or snark to throw at him. Hearing Max’s name from his asshole replacement is too much, and Michael’s had all he can take. Power builds in his hands where they’re pressed against the cold metal of the bars, humming through him and causing a ringing, metallic buzz to echo through the small room.

He can’t do this. He has to stop, needs to push the power down and keep it hidden, but Michael’s so removed from his own body in that moment that he can practically look down at himself and see the tension turning into a wavering aura of power in the small cell. 

“That’s enough,” a harsh voice snaps, and both Michael and Simmons’ attention shifts immediately to Alex Manes. He’s looming in the open doorway, blocking all view to the administrative section of the office, an air of authority around his camo-covered shoulders that makes Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

In some ways, Alex is as familiar to him as the parts of his truck, or the smooth surface of the ship fragments he spends his nights with, but while he wears that uniform and that particular expression -- the one that not only demands instant obedience but expects it -- Michael can’t help but feel like he’s staring at a stranger. And after years of limited contact and heartbreak, that’s likely how it should be. Michael almost wishes it could be that simple. Instead, he’s fairly certain that despite everything, he could still pick Alex out of a crowd of millions from miles away. Something in his chest always thrills to Alex’s presence, drawing Michael’s gaze to him even when Alex is the last person he wants to see. 

“What the hell are you doing back here, Manes?” Simmons demands, crossing his hands over his chest and straightening his shoulders in an obvious effort to look intimidating. He’s got an inch and several pounds of muscle on Alex, so it should work, but in comparison to Alex’s hard expression and relaxed but ready body language, Simmons is nothing. Alex certainly doesn’t think so; he stares fearlessly back at the Deputy and raises an eyebrow, a challenge inherent in the minuscule movement. 

“That’s Captain Manes, actually,” Alex corrects definitively. “And I’m here because the guy he hit—” Alex nods toward Michael. “— is Air Force. He’s being reassigned effective Monday morning with a black mark for excessive drinking and brawling in public, so he won’t be pressing charges.” 

Alex presents a set of papers to the Deputy with a flourish, a hint of the attitude Michael had fallen in love with a decade ago shining through in the movement. Simmons gives him a long, hard look, then snatches the papers from his hands, all but tearing them with unnecessary force. While he reads, Alex looks around him to Michael, a silent query on his face.

Michael blinks slowly, taking stock of his body and the energy that has receded somewhat at the sight of Alex. He’s sober enough to wonder, this time, if he’ll always have this reaction to the other man -- if he’s doomed to only ever feel calm and safe around someone who’s so tangled up in some of the most negative, traumatic experiences of his life that Michael doesn’t know how to separate Alex’s comforting grip with the vice around his heart when he thinks of Caulfield. Of his mother.

Right now, he can almost convince himself it doesn’t matter. Michael’s too relieved to see Alex, too grateful for his intervention, to feel anything else.Taking a long, slow breath, Michael peels his fingers away from the bars of the cell and takes a step back. The metallic hum in the room stops completely, and as long as Alex gets him out of there without Simmons making any more comments about the kind of man Max was, Michael thinks he can avoid this situation turning into more of a disaster.

“The military doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Roswell,” Simmons says a moment later, his chest once again puffing out in righteous indignation. “Guerin’s been picked up three times in the last two weeks for the same offense. We don’t need your guy to press charges; I’ve got plenty of evidence to keep him in lock-up.” 

Alex’s eyes narrow, and Michael almost feels sorry for Simmons. Almost. 

“Really.” The word is flat, loaded with insinuation. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost out on the  position at this station to Max Evans? And then lost out on the last open position for Evans’ partner because he said he didn’t want to work with you?” Alex’s expression is carefully blank, but Michael can read him well enough to know that he’s ready to go for the throat. 

It shouldn’t surprise Michael that there are large chunks of Max’s life he knows nothing about. The two of them hadn’t been able to get past what happened to Rosa and the way it was handled, and that crack had led to nearly complete fragmentation in the intervening years. There’s no chance of fixing it, now, no way of knowing if they could have regained the closeness they’d shared for so long, because Max is dead -- but somehow, Michael is still learning things about his brother that make him want to put his fist through a wall. How many times had Max risked his career for Michael by destroying documents and evidence? How many people had he run off from the position as his partner to protect Michael? And why had he done it? Protecting their secret is one thing, but fuck, how is Michael supposed to take that information in stride?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons blusters, but Michael can tell the Deputy knows that he’s been beaten. Alex doesn’t go to battle without all of the facts on his side, without an ironclad plan, and Simmons had lost before they’d even begun. 

Alex snorts. “Sure I don’t,” he says amicably. “Why don’t we ask Sheriff Valenti, then? If all of your evidence on Guerin is by the book? I’m sure she’d be happy to back up one of her deputies and kick me out, if that’s the case.” 

Michael doesn’t know if Alex is bluffing, which almost certainly means Simmons can’t tell, either. He waits, aware that he should be more concerned about the outcome of this grudge match than he is, until Simmons growls, “Fine. Get him out of here. But the next time --” 

“You’ll throw him in cuffs and leave him to rot, yeah, I got it,” Alex interrupts, his tone suggesting that if he weren’t in uniform, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Keys.” 

Simmons slaps the keys to the cell into Alex’s extended palm and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael watches, silent, as Alex allows his airman persona to fade back into the gentler, less composed version of himself. “I hacked the cameras before I came in, just in case,” he says, and gestures at the lock on the cell. “You still need me to let you out?” 

A moment later, Michael has released the latch on the cell with a tendril of thought and stands in front of Alex, chin raised daringly as dark eyes take in his injuries. “We should go before that guy comes back,” is all he says, and Michael trails him out of the precinct and into the cool night air. Michael takes a deep breath and slouches back against the wall, eying Alex. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or what’s expected of him now; hell, he doesn’t know how to interact with Alex on a good day, anymore. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says after a moment, the words stiff. Anger would have been better, but Michael can’t seem to summon it back now that it’s gone. “It would’ve been fine.” 

Alex shoots him a skeptical glance, but doesn’t argue. “I’m going to take that as Guerin speak for, ‘thanks for getting me out of jail,’” he snipes, and hits a button on his keychain, making his SUV blink its lights from a block down. “Come on. Your truck is still at the Pony, I’m guessing? I’ll give you a ride and you can pick it up tomorrow.” 

There isn’t much chance to argue, or Michael’s too tired to try. He trails Alex into the SUV, grateful despite himself for the unwavering presence at his side. His brain is still trying to process the fact that Max, despite ten years of distance and resentment, had still been protecting him. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition with the assumption that Max had only ever done anything to protect him in order to protect their secret. Max had fucked up so many times over the years: he’d left Michael alone and scared in foster care, had only listened as Michael whispered confessions of pain and fear of the families he lived with as a child, had pushed him into taking the blame for Isobel’s crimes and allowed him to give up on the one chance at a future he had -- 

Michael hates looking backward, and hates the fact that he understands Max so much better now that he’s gone. His brother had never been human, but he was as flawed as any of them, and yes, he had made mistakes. But how many of those mistakes had seemed unforgivable because of Michael’s own unhappiness? How much of his resentment toward Max had sprung from Max falling from the pedestal Michael had put him on? 

The hand that had, until recently, been numb and scarred, flexes against his thigh. Michael will never know what Max was thinking, that night. He’ll never be able to ask questions, or try to mend the rift that he’d helped created between them. 

Michael will never have a brother again, and the loss feels fresh, now, as if the experience with Simmons had ripped a new wound over the infected one still oozing in his chest. 

“Michael,” Alex says quietly, catching his attention more effectively than if he’d stood up and yelled. It’s rare to hear his first name from Alex, rarer still to hear it in a tone that borders on affection. They’ve avoided that sort of relationship for years, both aware that they’re in the middle of a balancing act, and one wrong move could send them careening over the edge into a world of hurt. “You’ve got to stop doing this. I’m not going to be able to use the same tricks next time, and . . .” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he psyches himself up for whatever else he has to say. “And Max isn’t here to stop them from making sure you end up in prison.”

The words emerge in a rush, so quick that Michael has to let them process before he understands why Alex is so nervous. No one who mentioned his brother had walked away unscathed, lately; it was a surefire way to send Michael spiralling. 

But it hurts less, somehow, hearing the truth from Alex. Maybe because he knows that Alex understands grief, understands the feeling of anger that follows in the wake of abandonment, or because he knows Alex isn’t throwing words around to hurt him. So Michael doesn’t react; he simply turns his head to look out the window and watches the New Mexican desert fly by. 

It’s clear that Alex doesn’t know how to read Michael’s silence. He rushes on, obviously determined to get the words out before Michael loses his temper. “Think about it, Michael. If they get you in a jail cell, how long is it going to take before your cellmates, or a guard, or someone realizes that there’s something different about you? What if you get hurt and sent to medical? Who’s going to stop them from doing tests and figuring out that you’re not human? My father would love that kind of opportunity, Guerin. Please, for the love of god, don’t give it to him.”

Michael swallows, an old fear rising in his gut as he considers the scenario Alex spins for him. Jesse Manes. Experimentation. Tortured, like his mother and the rest of those poor souls hidden away at Caulfield prison. He shudders, hands digging into his jeans hard enough that his nails score the tender skin beneath. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alex’s hand is resting over the back of his left one, a gentle slide of skin that makes it easier for Michael to breathe. He almost misses the tremble in Alex’s fingers, caught up in his own emotions, but it’s there, and impossible to ignore. Michael glances up at Alex, surprised to see an anxiety nearly matching his own on his face, and wonders how often he’s ignored the way the people around him are feeling in favor of drowning in his own feelings. 

Michael flips his hand and squeezes Alex’s back, and triumph sparks in his chest when he catches the barest hint of a smile flash across full lips. 

“I know you don’t want to talk, okay, I get it. Believe me, I get it.” Alex’s words, when he speaks again, are full of rueful self-recrimination, and again Michael is struck by his own selfishness. He’s not the only one mired in trauma and hurt. But despite his own pain, despite the way Michael has treated him, Alex has been there when MIchael needs him. Every damn time. 

“But the way you’ve been acting lately -- shit, Guerin, it’s fucking terrifying. The drinking is one thing, but the fighting? The total disregard for your own health and well-being? That’s not what Max would’ve wanted for you. Do you think he spent the last decade of his life bailing you out of jail because he wanted you to rot there? Do you think your mother died convincing you to run because she wanted you to die out here instead?”

Michael’s fists clench in his lap, but his powers don’t react. This is Alex, after all, the calm in the middle of his storm, and something in Michael refuses to allow anything that might bring him harm. He grits his teeth against the spiral of guilt and shame that threatens at Alex’s words, and reaches for the door handle, ignoring the fact that the car is still moving. Alex shouts and slams on the breaks, leaving them both startled and staring at each other across the console between their seats. 

“I just want to help, Guerin,” Alex says, obviously biting back a furious comment at Michael’s stupidity. “I’m not asking you to love me, or date me, or whatever it is you’re so set against. I just want to make sure you don’t end up dissected or left to rot in one of my father’s torture chambers. Can’t you just let me?” 

The fight rushes out of Michael with a long breath, and he slumps back in the car seat. His head tips to one side, and he looks straight at Alex with a resigned, wary expression. “That’s the problem, Alex,” he says dully. “I do love you.” As much as he could love anyone at the moment. “But I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.” Maybe not ever. 

Alex’s face is washed pale yellow in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Michael doesn’t miss the hurt etched into the lines of his face, though it’s gone in a moment. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” Alex says quietly. “I’m asking you to come back to my place tonight, get some sleep, and eat an actual meal in the morning. We can figure out where to go from there.” One large hand rests on the gear shift lever, waiting for Michael’s go-ahead before he puts it into drive. 

Michael hesitates, part of him determined to climb out the door and trudge back to the Airstream to suffer through another night alone. But fighting Alex never gets him anywhere, and Michael’s tired of trying to stand on his own. If Max’s loss has taught him anything, aside from the fact that he does care about the self-sacrificing dumbass, it’s that Alex meant it, when he called Michael his family. And maybe, on a night like tonight, it’s not so wrong to want that support, no matter how selfish it feels.

So instead of following his instincts to run, Michael catches Alex’s eye and nods.

[riverdalepoet]

All I Ever Wanted (part 4)

PAIRING: Sweet Pea and OC (Emma Carter Wilson); Kevin and Fangs, Toni and Cheryl, Betty and Jughead

WORD COUNT: 2209

WARNINGS: LANGUAGE AND SUGGESTIVE THEMES

A/N: For whatever reason, I’m having issues with these posts.  The tag for this story is all I ever wanted sweet pea and emma.  It is also being posted on AO3 (kaylahselman15).  PLEASE message me if you see something missing from this post.  and I hope you enjoy!

___________________________________________________________

         “I’m not saying you’re a terrible driver, babe.  All I’m saying is that you should be taking better care of this vehicle.  How long has it been making this sound? Fangs could’ve already had this fixed.” Sweet Pea droned on and on and on.

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the window.  “Sweets, you know how you said you wanted me to tell you when you’re being an ass?”

“No, I don’t.  I was drunk and I still think you made that up,” he laughed as I reached over to smack the back of his head.

“First of all, darling, think what you want to.  Second of all, YOU. ARE. BEING. AN. ASS.  Not all of us drive like grandpas.  Some of us like to live a little.”

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and shot a pointed glare my way, “And that is how you totaled your first car.  I swear to you, Emma, if I get a call like I got that night ever again, you’ll be driving a bicycle.”

I crossed my arms and looked back out the window, muttering “You flip a car one time, and you never live it down.”

To be fair, he had a point.  We were still in high school and just had a huge fight.  At that time, we weren’t officially together…just fucking like rabbits.  It was sometime after the White Wyrm had been reclaimed as Serpent territory, and my future husband was using it as his safe haven to get with every new girl that walked in.   We had an arrangement- fight, rip each other’s clothes off, argue, leave hickeys on every visible surface of our bodies, insult, sneak off to broom closets for relief, and most importantly- no one finds out.

____________________________________________________________

A few months in, and it was starting to fall apart.  The more I watched them fawn over him, the angrier I got, and that night my blood was boiling.  I sat, frozen, at the bar with Toni, and listened to her complain about Cheryl being away for the weekend.  I was terrified if I got up, I would walk right over and tell Mr. Pea exactly what I thought of him, so instead, I pouted.  

After a little while, I got bored and started making eyes at the new recruit across the bar. He was brawny and certainly seemed interesting.  A few winks later, and he started to make his way over to the stool beside me.  For the next few minutes, I flirted shamelessly, making the most out of this glorious distraction.

Downing every shot of whiskey Toni slid in front of me and getting this much attention from somebody new, made me forget all my woes. He had just lifted his newly tattooed hand to grip my thigh, when “What the fuck?” thundered from across the room.  We both jumped and looked over to see Sweet Pea storming over to the two of us.

Before the poor guy had a chance to stand up, Sweet Pea had him by his jacket and slung him off the stool.  “You’re new around here, so I’m gonna make this very clear.” His eyes were black and his fists were balled tightly at his sides.  ‘If you put one finger on her ever again, you can kiss that hand goodbye.”

For good measure, Sweet Pea shoved him towards the door, and he clamored to his feet making a swift exit.  The Wyrm had gone silent.  Fangs was watching the scene with a smirk as Toni was eyeing me carefully.  

Slowly Sweet Pea turned around and his cold stare was met with fire from mine.  We stayed that way glaring holes into each other until Jughead walked up, clapping a hand on Sweet Pea’s shoulder and saying, “Maybe you two should go outside.  Ya know, talk or whatever it is you do? We don’t want to cause a sc-“

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I yelled, ignoring Jug all together.  He took a deep breath and backed away.  Sweet Pea grabbed his jacket from the pool table and made his way towards the door, leaving his date for the night pissed.

I matched every step he took, finally able to corner him against the side of the building. “No, you don’t get to ruin my night and run away without an explanation.  What the hell was that?”

“Emma, go back inside right now,” he growled, reaching for his cigarettes, and leaning back against the wall as he took in a long drag.

“Excuse me?  Since you’re big on ‘making things clear’ for people tonight, let me clear a few things up for you. You don’t get to eye fuck every girl that gives you the time of day and blow your fuse when I flirt with ONE PERSON compared to your twenty.  You don’t get to insist that I follow the rules that we made, and then say to hell with them whenever you feel like it.  And you damn sure don’t get to tell me what to do, you self-righteous fuck.”  He pushed himself off the building with his foot, flicking his cigarette on the gravel.  He towered over me with ease, standing as close as he could to match my intensity.

“Get your ass back inside before I say something I regret, Emma, I fucking mean it.  Do not push me right now.” With that, I reached in my pockets for my keys and turned on my heel.

“I said get back inside, Emma Carter.  Where are you going?”  He followed me, grabbing my wrist and spinning me around to face him.

“Fuck you,” I spat through gritted teeth.  “Fuck this.  I’m done.” Jerking my hand free from his grip hurt, but not as much as it did to leave him in the taillights as I tore out of the parking lot.  

Paying too much attention to the pounding in my ears and no attention to my speed, I raced through the night, trying my best to get Sweet Pea out of my head.  The sharp curve on Holly Drive, locally referred to as the Devil’s Spine, appeared much sooner than I anticipated.  There was no use; I had no time to bring the car down to a decent speed.  Just like that the still of the night was broken as my car flipped over the guardrail, taking me with it.  

Sherriff Jones was the first on the scene.  Calmly, he assessed the damage and kept me sane as I dangled upside down, and waited for the ambulance. “You’ve really done it now kiddo,” he mumbled, dialing a number into his phone. I tried my best to focus on his voice as he spoke to keep from slipping into unconsciousness.  “Son, you might want to get Pea and head this way.  I’m at the Devil’s Spine with Emma…. Completely flipped.  Yeah, it’s just me here right now.  Okay.”

“FP, why’d you have to send for Sweet Pea?” I groaned when he hung up the phone, turning to face me again.

“Because he’s second in command…and because once Jughead told him what was going on, he’d come hell or high water.”

“I doubt it…”  FP shook his head in response as I tried to stretch my neck for relief.  I let out a small cry, and FP was kneeling in the window, trying to see what caused it.  “I’m fine, I’m fine.  It just hurts…why did I do this?” My eyes were getting heavy and I was struggling to keep it together.  

“Hey, little lady, stay with me now.” Tires screeching close by caught my attention and kept me going for a while longer. “Oh thank God.  Boys, get over here with her, I’m about to light a fire under these paramedics ass if they don’t get here.”

My vision was spotty, but I could tell by his height that Sweet Pea was quickly making his way towards my wrecked vehicle.  The crunch of boots halted as he bent down. “Emma, baby, look at me.”

“Go away, Pea,” I mumbled, wanting nothing more than to sleep. Paying no mind to the glass in his way, he reached through the window to stroke my cheek.  

“Emma, you gotta keep your eyes open. Hey, hey, open your eyes.  What can I do?”

Smiling to myself, I weakly replied, “You can say ‘I am a dick and Emma is the best’”.  Sweet Pea obliged making me giggle despite myself.

Jughead crouched beside Pea to let us know that the ambulance just pulled up, and before I knew it, they were working on getting me out.  Sweet Pea stayed by my side and held my hand.  At first, they would not let him ride in the back with me, but a few stern words from Sherriff Jones had them rethinking that decision.  Sweets clung to me for dear life and kissed each of my knuckles. “This ends now, okay? No more hooking up and hiding it.  That is over.  We are together now, you hear me?”

The last thing I remember before giving in to the medicine being pumped through my veins was nodding in response and begging, “Don’t leave me…”

_______________________________________________________________

 Sweet Pea reached over and squeezed my knee.  “Em, where’s your head?” I turned my attention back to him, swooning at his tender half-smile he saved just for me.

“Feeling pretty damn lucky,” I whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.  He used the hand that was on my knee to grab my hand, and we rode in comfortable silence the rest of the drive.

By the time we pulled up to our house right on the outskirts of the Southside, Carter was sleeping soundly.  We carefully got him inside and placed him gingerly in his crib.

We stumbled into the kitchen, exhausted from the stress of the day.  Sweets sat down on the barstool, reaching for a bottle of water. “Do you think we should cook something?”

“Well, a sure-fire way to get Fangs to fess up would be food, so yes.”  I laughed and started on dinner.

It wasn’t long before the man of the hour pulled into the driveway, and made his way into our home.  Sweets grabbed him a beer from the fridge as I set the table.  

“Well this is nice,” Fangs commented stuffing his face.  “I was just planning on going to Pops later.” Sweet Pea nudged my leg under the table.

“Oh? By yourself?”  Fangs slowed his chewing and looked suspiciously between the two of us.

“Yeah, I was gonna order take out like always.” I hummed in response.

“Emma….” Fangs started.  “Why are acting so….pleasant?”  Sweet Pea choked back a laugh as I stomped firmly on his foot.

“All I’m doing is feeding you, Fangs. I do this about twenty times a day.” Grumbling about being ungrateful, I stabbed a piece of chicken into my mouth.

Fangs was quiet for a moment as my husband was trying, still, to recover from his laughing fit.  “No, that’s not it. I’ve known you for too long. Come on out with, Wilson.”

The table shook as I slammed my hands down and rose to my feet.  “Alright fine.  I tried to bring you breakfast this morning, but somebody was already there, Franklin.  Any idea who that might’ve been? Looked suspiciously like Kevin Keller to me.”

Fangs averted his eyes as a deep blush spread across his cheeks.  He stared between me and Pea nervously, refusing to answer.

“Oh no sir!  What was that you told me? ‘Come on, Fogarty, out with it.”  Sweet Pea slid another beer to him, sympathetically and Fangs smiled slightly.  Sweets was thoroughly enjoying how uncomfortable Fangs was, and was fighting back a grin.

Fangs huffed and finally said, “No comment.”

“Okay then, no comment, no dessert.”  Fangs laughed at that and got up from his seat to follow me into the kitchen.

“Em,” he leaned against the counter and held eye contact.  “Why are you mad?”

I slapped the dishcloth on the sink and sighed before turning to face him.  “Because I’m not in the loop anymore.  You two used to tell me everything- even things I didn’t want to know.  When did that stop?”

Fangs grabbed my shoulders and looked me square in the eye, “When there’s something to tell, I will come to you first.  We’re figuring things out, okay?  It literally just happened less than eight hours ago.”

I nodded and pulled him into a hug, “Promise it’s not because I’m not cool anymore.”

Sweet Pea chose that moment to walk in the room and chuckled before I shot him a dirty glare.  Fangs just squeezed me tightly.  “No, no.  You’re still the baddest chick I know.  Now let’s go look at your car.”

Groaning, I ushered him outside, following Pea who handed Carter off to me so he could pop the hood.  It took a little longer than usual, but he had my SUV back in pristine condition.  I was still fighting my curiosity but felt a lot better after our talk.  Becoming a mom made me so happy, but distanced me from the people that in my life.  It was nice to know they loved me just the same.

[reverseblackholeofwords]

Magician and Moon (pt. 9)

The Fall of a Hero

    Chase screams in agony.

    Marvin finds Jackie at the top of a tall building, brooding like the stupid hero he is. There’s a fresh Septic Eye tag on the door that Marvin slips through, and he sighs unhappily when he realizes that he got some of the paint on his cape. Jackie turns around and crosses his arms over his chest. “Marv?”

    “Where have you been?” the magician hisses. “We needed you.”

    Jackie turns his head away, a perfect profile against the lights of the city. He looks like a hero, sounds like a hero, but Marvin knows the truth. Jackie is no hero. “Other people need me, too, Marv.”

    “Oh, don’t pretend like that’s why you left.” Marvin laughs and shakes his head. “If you can’t solve a problem by punching it in the face, you run away. Every time.” The magician raises his jaw a bit. “Well, come on. Hit me so we can get this over with.”

    “I don’t want to hit you.”

    Marvin grits his teeth. “Quit being so noble and self-righteous or I think I’m going to puke. I know you’ve been itching to punch me since I lost Henrik.”

    “Do you really believe that? Do you really think that was somehow your fault? That any of this was?” Jackie spreads his arms and glares at Marvin. “And you think I’m self-righteous? You’re just full of it!”

    Marvin loses his temper and slings a club card at Jackie, but the hero has trained with Marvin before. He knows his attacks. Jackie flips out of the way and lands ready to pounce. Marvin’s hair flickers with green flames, and he screams and twists his fingers through it in frustration. “Please, just hit me already so that I won’t feel so guilty!”

    Jackie’s face falls from pure determination into a scared confusion. “What do you mean?”

    “Anti has Jack’s card, one of my cards all because I had to get cocky!” Marvin throws his mask onto the concrete. “And look at me! I cast black magic, and there’s no coming back from that!”

    “Marvin…”

    “I know you saw me talking to Anti, but it’s not like that. I didn’t mean to ever let him out again. I just thought that after we captured him that Jack would wake up, and when he didn’t and you were gone, I didn’t have any choice!”

    The sound of slow clapping resounds loudly as Anti appears perched sitting on the edge of billboard above them. Jackie gets into another fighting stance as Marvin stares up in horror. “Bravo, Marvin, that really was quite a beautiful display.” Anti mockingly wipes a tear from his eye. “I’ve never seen something so sweet! But you and I both know that you’re on my side now.”

    Jackie looks between Anti and Marvin like he isn’t sure who he’s more scared of at this moment. Finally, he settles on Marvin. “Is this true?”

    Marvin’s brow wrinkles. “You really think I could ever work with him? You really think I’d betray you?” The magician’s fire goes out, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. It’s true, you really do think that I’m evil.”

    “No, I…” Jackie flinches when Marvin takes a step closer to him, and Marvin looks down at his mask. “Marv, things have just been so confusing lately…”

    Anti hangs over the edge and shouts down to Marvin, “See? I told you that they don’t understand. Your favorite brother has betrayed you. Do you really think you can keep playing pretend with them now?”

    Jackie seethes up at the glitch. “You shut up! What do you know about us?”

    “More than you think, little hero.” Anti hangs onto one of the metal poles that suspends the billboard with one hand and spins slowly around it. “You see, I’m always there, always watching, and when Marvin accidentally let me switch out my card with Jack’s, I snuck back into Jack’s mind again. It was like riding a bike, you never really forget how to take over a body...”

    The glitch shrugs and looks down at the hero like a cat looking down at a bird with a broken wing. “Jack might’ve been in a coma for nine months, but he still knows everything about you. That the hero is a coward, that the magician has a dark side, that the father is sinking deeper into depression, and that the doctor fears losing his friends so badly he’s willing to do anything to bring them back, even make deals with the devil. And my puppet, well, he can’t even scream for help.”

    Jackie grinds his teeth. “Don’t you dare talk about my brothers that way!”

    Anti snickers and points down at Jackie. “Are you serious? You immediately suspected your closest brother just because I said something about him working for me? I’m a liar, Jackieboy darling. I do it all the time.” The glitch leans down over them again. “But then again, you’ve always been pretty stupid.”

    “I never would’ve suspected you.” Marvin reaches down and picks up his mask. “Not once, no matter what you did. I would always believe the best of you, because you’re my brother. Or you were.” He presses the mask back into place as a horrific smile curls his lips and turns his eyes to slits. “Well, if you want a villain, I’ll give you a villain.”

    Marvin draws a card from his cape, The Hanged Man. “Goodbye, brother.” Marvin flings the card at Jackie and a magical impact blows the hero back over the edge of the roof. Marvin races to the edge to watch Jackie fall, down and down and down.

    Anti appears beside him and sighs. “I suppose we should catch him, huh?” He snaps his fingers, and a silver thread wraps around Jackie’s ankle, stopping his descent with a horrible snap. The hero hangs suspended from the puppet string, and Marvin feels the slightest hint of satisfaction burrow its way into his heart.

    It feels good.

[nureyevapologist]

Hiyaaa, if you want an aftg prom still, pls consider: Neil coming home to his and andrew's apartment with one of his newest recruits, and they boy is beaten and battered and neil's first instict was to take care of him because no one ever took care of neil, and andrew's reaction to this! ❤

thanks for this!! i might have veered from the specifics a little and this is like, 70% a character study of neil and 30% Andreil Content but i hope this is okay!!

Neil Josten felt that he owed a lot to the idea of coincidences.

Coincidence was Neil taking an uncalculated risk on the Millport Dingoes the very same year that Riko Moriyama finally snapped and took the bones in Kevin Day’s hand with him. Coincidence was falling into the same orbit as the man who had watched Neil’s father slice a man like lunchmeat and coincidence was him being so single-mindedly focused on Exy that he didn’t notice Neil’s terrible dye job or the white ring around his contact lenses. Coincidence was Andrew Minyard being the single-most observant person Neil has ever met, and coincidence was Neil being forced into his field of vision.

Coincidence was also Neil here and now, stopping off at a convenience store to grab a packet of cigarettes and accidentally witnessing his potential new recruit fall victim to a heavy, parental hand. 

It had only taken one video on a grainy, digital camera to show Neil that this kid had the raw potential to be one of the greatest backliners Palmetto State would ever see. Not fifteen minutes into the footage had Neil shoved aside his other folders and said to Wymack, one thumb jutted at the screen, we have to have him. Wymack had shrugged, assented with a nonchalant you’re the captain, captain and the very next week saw the two of them riding out to Georgia in Neil’s shiny new Lexus.

(“Having a Pro Athlete for a boyfriend sure does have its perks, huh kiddo?” had almost gotten Wymack elbowed bodily out of a moving vehicle.

“Above your paygrade” in a smooth, Andrew-esque tone had Coach laughing for the next ten minutes of the drive, safe and unmoving in the passenger seat.)

So they had approached the boy, Josh, after hanging back in the shadows to watch his high school team completely demolish their opponents. Wymack had loitered, no doubt trying to catch the name of the opposition’s only saving grace, a furious offensive dealer, and Neil had attempted to look cool and friendly as opposed to cold and menacing.

Naturally, the kid told Neil to fuck off four times before Neil backed him into a corner and told him to stop squandering his future by being unnecessarily abrasive. There was something in the complicated ice of this boy’s eyes that Neil connected with, an innate fear that ducked for cover behind aggression and hunched shoulders. One minute he stood every inch his five feet and ten inches and the next, body folded in on itself like he was willing it to disappear, he looked to stand no taller than Neil himself.

“I don’t know what your deal is,” Neil had said, arms tucked across his chest with all of his patchwork scars on show, “but I come from Palmetto State. I’m not here to judge, or pry, or fix. I don’t give a shit about your tragic backstory, I give a shit about the way you single-handedly held up your team’s defense line and I give a shit about putting you on an NCAA Class I Exy team. If you can get over yourself for five minutes, I suggest you sign first and cry later”

Every fibre in this kid’s body twitched like he wanted to run and Neil was hit, not for the first time, with jarring memory of himself in this position, shadows of a dark locker room curling in around his ankles, Wymack promising a future he’d never stayed still long enough to know he wanted. Sentiment was lost on Neil, most of the time. Still, if his family of Foxes had taught him anything, it was that sometimes you had to save people despite them not wanting to be saved. At this point, that may as well be the Palmetto State Motto. Neil had given the kid a few hours to think on it. Go home, talk to whoever you need to talk to, think about it. Just remember that we did not drive out here for a no.

Wymack had, of course, grumbled about having to spend a few hours sweating my damn ass off in the pleasure of your company but had mellowed somewhat when Neil had taken him for a suitably greasy dinner and showed him how to use his new phone to FaceTime Dan. He had allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the scene; Wymack, his face far too close to the screen, cursing Dan out for not texting him all week because saying I miss you is too overrated. Dan, a pixelated blur of joy and exuberance, showing her father every single corner of her new apartment and zooming in on one Matt Boyd, tangled helplessly in the middle of an Ikea side table.

With Wymack occupied, Neil had called Andrew, who answered on the very last ring because he was a certified asshole at the best of times. “Am I to assume you will be elsewhere when I get to the dorms?”

Andrew always makes him feel so known. “I managed to pick another stubborn one”

“Yes,” Andrew says, his voice a slow rumble over the familiar, quiet growl of the Maserati, “because you were so quick to acquiesce”

“I might have been running to grab a pen,” Neil replies. Andrew doesn’t laugh, but there’s a puff of air that Neil recognises as amusement, and his own mouth curls. “I think I sold him, though. A few hours and I might finally have secured a backliner”

“You should hope so,” and then there’s a beat of silence and the tell-tale flick of a lighter, “because I refuse to listen to you whine about it all weekend”

“So you admit that you do listen, when I talk?”

“Absolutely not” and when the silence stretches for a beat too long, Neil lifts the phone from his ear and realises Andrew has disconnected the call. Typical Andrew, but now Neil’s fingers twitch to hold a cigarette and he distinctly remembers leaving them behind at the behest of Wymack’s disapproving frown. Beneath his thighs the sticky vinyl booth creaks in protest when he shifts his weight and he waves a round-about hand at Wymack before ducking out of the diner, knowing that Wymack will see him cross the road toward the convenience store and put two and two together.

It says a lot for how far he has allowed himself to sink into safety and familiarity and family that he doesn’t immediately notice the shouting. He’s caught up in realising his ID is somewhere in the glove compartment of his car and wondering if his sharp scars and sharper expression will dissuade the cashier from asking questions. Behind the front counter is a door, all peeling red paint and a half-hearted Staff Only sign, and the slight space between the door and the frame is the source of the noise. Neil has no interest in interfering. Neil has no interest in even listening to some inane disagreement between cashier and colleague, and is considering returning to the diner empty handed when he hears a sharp crack, followed by a sharper, you are never leaving me, Joshua, not ever and the unmistakeable sound of hands pummelling flesh. Something in Neil twitches to intervene but he isn’t stupid enough to walk into a small room with flying fists so, in a bid of panic, he thumps the bell by the cash drawer once, twice, three times.

A man appears from the back, face flushed the red of barely-swallowed anger, eyes a little wild and searching. Neil smiles something icy and the man is stupid enough to misread it. “Sorry ‘bout that, had’ta catch up on some paperwork in the back. What can I do ya for?”

There’s a moment where everything slows down and Neil files away details like his life depends on it. Blood, smeared across the knuckles of one large, meaty hand. A row of scratches, three raised and red, sit tucked against his chunky neck in an indication that someone had raised a hand to defend themselves. A gold ring, thick and faded, shaped to spell out DAD. Neil doesn’t know what makes him say it, but he opens his mouth to ask for a packet of Camel Blue and what comes out is “someone round the back is casing the place, you might want to check that out”

A self-righteous rage takes over the man’s expression, clouding his eyes and the twist of his mouth and he claps Neil on the shoulder as he passes on his way to the door. Men like him, Neil thinks, are far too predictable for their own good. Something like a memory tugs at his subconscious; Neil at age sixteen, dropping a similar line, waiting for the all clear to stuff his pockets full of food and hightail it out of there before anyone noticed. That, Neil thinks, was a far more sensible plan than whatever this was. He rounds the corner of the cashier desk, nudges the back door open with the flat of his hand and comes face to face with the cowering, crumpled body of his newest recruit.

The kid, Josh, is folded in on himself in the far corner of this office, schoolbag tossed a few paces away, face hidden in his hands. At Neil’s entrance he starts so hard Neil almost feels it like a physical thing and then his face does something complicated when he realises it isn’t his father; relief warring with shame warring with anger warring with hope. One of his eyes is beginning to blacken and there’s blood pouring from a cut in his eyebrow – the ring, the fucking ring – and from one side of a crooked nose. His wrist doesn’t look particularly healthy and the way he holds himself tells Neil that this is not a one off occurrence.

“What do you want?” asks Josh, and Neil has no fucking idea. There are scars on his skin from the hands of his father and the hands of his mother and there were long years of his life where he was so accustomed to being beaten within an inch of his life that he never stopped to think that maybe, he didn’t deserve it and maybe, it wasn’t normal and maybe, someone should have helped him. How many teachers saw his black eyes, his split lips, his bruised arms, and how many of them said nothing. How many strangers saw his mother grip his wrist so tightly that it popped, pulling him into a car or a hotel or an alley, how many men saw his father pummel him like a punch bag?

Without thinking about it too much, Neil holds out a hand. “I want to help you. I want you to come with me”

Josh scoffs, gesturing loosely to his face. “This is nothing compared to what he’ll do if he comes in here and I’m gone”

Neil frowns. “Look at me,” and he points to his own scarred face with equally scarred hands, “look at my face and tell me you don’t think I’ve survived worse than your piece of shit father. Come with me, now, and don’t ever come back. Let us help you”

And there it is again, the flurry of anger-fear-shame-hope. “Why?”

“You’re a damn good backliner,” Neil tells him simply, “and if you let that pathetic excuse of a man beat you any harder you won’t be, anymore”

Hesitation twists his features into something ugly. Neil knows that he has minutes, maybe seconds until the man outside realises he’s been set up. If Neil has to pick saving himself over saving this kid, he’ll probably save himself, but Josh drags himself to his feet and looks Neil squarely in the face. “If I do this…he will come looking for me”

“And he will find an entire team of angry, troubled Exy players who know their way around a racquet” Neil replies. “I can protect you, but we have to leave. Right now”

His jaw goes tight but he nods, once. Neil nods back and together they make their way toward the front of the store, Neil pushing ahead, body strung-tight with focus. Outside he nudges Josh ahead of him, watches him adjust his gait around a lopsided limp, reels in his anger for another day.

They reach the Lexus across the street and a voice from behind calls “Joshua, get back here this goddamn instant.”

Three things happen.

Josh, in a bout of incredible bravery, flips his father the middle finger and falls over himself to clamber into the back seat of Neil’s car. The father, in a bout of incredible anger, starts for Neil like he means to snap his head from his body. Wymack, in a bout of incredible exhaustion at the familiarity of a situation such as this, appears at Neil’s right shoulder and swings a right hook up and under the man’s jaw.

It sends the man on his ass and in a split-second shared glance, Neil and Wymack make the mutual decision to get the fuck out of there.

Over the course of their drive back to Palmetto, Neil explains the situation with their new backliner, Wymack assures Josh that he will be resolutely protected, and Josh leaks blood all in the fancy seats of Neil’s car. When it doesn’t seem like it will stop, Neil shucks off his hoodie and throws it at the kid, telling him to hold it fast to the wound – after a brief, whispered argument, Neil pulls over and hands Wymack the keys and throws himself into the backseat to try and assess the damage. The ring hadn’t cut his eyebrow so much as it had gouged out a chunk of skin and his nose and lip are bust but mostly dried up. There’s a patch of blood at his side, seeping through his white t-shirt, and he waves that away as split stitches. From what, Neil doesn’t ask. He tries to staunch the bleeding but succeeds only in covering his own fingers in the blood, and in the end Wymack has to drive them straight to Abby’s house.

“Abby is our team nurse,” Neil explains, while Wymack tries to parallel park a Lexus under a blanket of colourful curses, “she patches up sprained ankles but she also patched up every wound visible on my skin, so you can trust her. I can stay, if you want, or I can leave you in her capable hands while I go back to campus and make preparations for you. There’s a spare bed in one of the freshman dorm rooms, or you can stay with Abby, or you can sleep on my sofa. Whatever you need”

Josh tucks his arms around himself, bravado stripped for the day. Neil assumes it will come back, that things will be difficult, that the kid’s attitude will fling itself all over the place, but for now he’s looking at Neil like Neil just saved his life and Neil thinks he just might have.

“You can go,” Josh says, “I have more shit under here I don’t wanna flash to anyone but a nurse, right now. Uh, I don’t…maybe I can stay on your sofa? For a bit. I don’t…”

“Hey,” Neil interrupts, “you don’t have to explain. Sofa it is. Though, I should tell you, my…my boyfriend is visiting right now, and he isn’t the friendliest person you’ll ever meet-”

“Understatement,” Wymack interrupts, “fucking understatement”

“-but,” and Neil flips off Wymack, “as long as you don’t give him any reason to distrust you, you’ll be safe”

He watches the kid for a minute, waiting for something. Protest, anger, homophobia, acceptance. Instead he shrugs, tired, overwhelmed, and climbs out of the car. Wymack follows him out, with a parting jab about Neil’s use of the term boyfriend, and then Neil is left to drive back to campus alone.

Maybe it should be embarrassing that the sight of the Maserati fills Neil with a fuzzy sort of warmth but this past half-a-year has begrudgingly taught him that distance makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever, and that he should allow himself to recognise that he misses Andrew and likes it when he comes home.

Or maybe Bee had taught him that, but he wasn’t about to admit it to Andrew.

The man in question is leaning up against the hood of his car, sleek and sharp in his black jeans and leather jacket, one booted-foot propped against the license plate, a cigarette between his lips. He’s gotten broader, since Neil last saw him, bulkier in the arms and shoulders and if Andrew is feeling up to it, Neil wants to relearn the shape of him with his fingers, maybe even his mouth.

Andrew doesn’t look up when the Lexus pulls in, feigning a nonchalance the set of his jaw doesn’t quite convey, but he does look up when Neil steps out of the car and his face transitions from smooth to thunder so fast it gives Neil whiplash.

“What happened?”

Neil blinks and Andrew’s hands are on him, fingers tilting his jaw this way and that, skimming down the sides of his body, eyes roaming for injury. Neil belatedly realises that he has Josh’s blood on his hands, a little on his shirt and he curves his own fingers around Andrew’s wrists, meets his eye with a calm stare. “It isn’t mine”

“That,” Andrew says, shoulders settling away from tension, “is not as reassuring as you seem to think it is”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Had some trouble with the new recruit. He’ll be staying with us”

Andrew arches a pale eyebrow, studying the blood on Neil’s fingers with a calculated disinterest. Neil huffs. “His father was beating the shit out of him”

“Where is he now?”

“Abby’s”

Andrew studies him for a long moment. Then, “I thought taking in strays was my thing”

“Well,” and Neil smooths his thumbs down over the fine bones of Andrew’s wrists, “someone had to pick up the slack. I couldn’t leave him there. So many people must have seen my mother backhand me and no one ever stepped in. How could I-”

“Stop it,” Andrew says, and Neil stops. “You cannot take responsibility for every single person in the world. It will never make your mother un-hit you”

Neil flinches, but he knows Andrew is right. Still, “I can help him. I can help this one. I want to”

“Alright”

“Yeah?”

Andrew gives him a look. “What, were you asking my permission? Are we adopting this child together?”

Neil laughs, a new thing, tipping his head back, teeth slipping past his lips. “You don’t think we’d make good parents?”

Andrew steps close enough that one of his boots rests between Neil’s two sneakers, their hands still clasped between them becoming squashed between their chests. “I would be a textbook parent. You would be a nightmare”

“I resent that,” Neil tells him “We’re never having kids”

“Obviously”

“Cats, maybe”

Andrew blinks. “Cats? You’ve thought about cats?”

Neil shrugs, once, but can’t fight the smile spilling back onto his face. “We’re getting cats. You said yourself that you like taking in strays”

“No,” Andrew says, firm. “I do not like it. The last one I took in continues to test my patience, so I will not have another”

“I’ve been testing your patience for four years and you’ve yet to get rid of me” Neil reminds him, “I think you’re getting soft”

“I think I am getting back in my car and leaving you here” Andrew replies, allowing it when Neil’s hands wiggle up between their bodies to frame his face.

“I think you’re going to help me make use of my empty dorm room before a freshman backliner moves in onto my sofa”

Andrew doesn’t respond to this either way but he allows it when Neil stretches to press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth and he allows it when Neil takes him by the fingers and leads him into Fox Tower, and he certainly allows it when Neil peels him out of his leather jacket before the door is even closed behind them.

(Later, when Josh announces his presence with a tentative knock at the door, Andrew answers it. Neil watches them size one another up and then Andrew reaches up into his armband for a knife. “Use this on anyone other than your father,” he says, “and I will use it to remove your hands”

If the expression on his face is anything to go by, Josh has no idea what he’s agreeing to in taking that knife, but he does it anyway. Neil has to hide his smile in the collar of his newly-acquired leather jacket.)