#sorry if this is American centric I’m just trying to figure out thing

[quokkacore]

with great power I [lee jeno]

summary: there are two things jeno loves most about his life. one being spiderman, the other being you, his best friend. there’s just one issue: after your father’s death, you decide you hate both spiderman and yourself.

pairing: lee jeno x reader

genre: superhero au, high school au, coming of age, best friends to strangers(ish) to lovers, fluff, ANGST, minor crack

warnings (for this chapter): language, violence, gun violence, the mafia, parental death, police presence, sexual references, bullying (ily san im sorry), the dreamies being dicks to each other, police corruption, towards the end jeno experiences something similar to sensory overload, americanized names, pop culture references, VERY jeno centric

song rec: we go up - nct dream // any song - zico // 21 questions - waterparks // talk (remix feat. megan thee stallion & yo gotti) - khalid // sunrise - ateez // i really like you - carly rae jepsen // dare - gorillaz // stray kids - the tortoise and the hare

word count: 10.5k

a/n: this is so late...... i blame attack on titan. but hey!! better late than never :] a huge thanks to @doderyscoffee​ for beta reading <3

main masterlist // story masterlist

chapter one: jeno and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week

Jeno despised Tuesdays. He was pretty sure that Tuesdays despised Jeno as well because all of his worst days just so happen to be Tuesdays. He was 96% sure that, if there was a god, his day off was on Tuesdays, or that the planets aligned in such a manner on Tuesdays that it caused universal despair and misery. If he was to take Donghyuck's word for it, his chakra attracted negative energy the most on Tuesdays.

When Jeno was 5, his goldfish Pippin had died on a Tuesday. When he had his ass handed to him on the playground by San Choi in the third grade, it was a Tuesday. And in the seventh grade, he'd failed his Spanish test, missed his bus and walked home in the rain only to find out that his Aunt Sunny was at work, he'd left his keys in his locker and that had to wait an hour before she got home to unlock it for him, all on a Tuesday. 

And wouldn't you know it, here he was, late for the first day of senior year, which was, of all days, a godforsaken Tuesday.

In his eternal wisdom, he'd stayed up gaming with Renjun until two in the morning, and because of it, slept through his three alarms, one set at six-thirty, the other at 6:45, the last one at 7:00. 

He'd woken up at 7:17, to the sound of his elderly neighbor's pet chihuahua barking at a pigeon, checked the time, immediately panicked, sped into the shower, gotten dressed in a haste, grabbed a few granola bars from the pantry, and ran out the door while trying to jam his backpack closed, and managed to catch the train at 7:40, which took about twenty minutes to get to his stop, plus a ten-minute walk to school, and class started at 8:10. Not to mention he’d have to stop by the office and pick up his schedule. At best, he’d be five minutes late to his first class. But tardies were tardies, regardless, and the last thing he needed was to lose his perfect attendance streak. 

He fished out his phone while standing on the train, waiting for his stop, scrolling through Instagram, and liking random pictures. A ping! from his phone caught his attention, then two, then a third. He smiled softly when your name popped up on his screen.

[7:48 AM]

y/n: pssst

y/n: shithead

y/n: where r u ????

[7:49 AM] 

y/n: i can sEE u online on ig u know

jeno: …… i'm on the train

jeno: woke up late

y/n: YOURE GONNA BE LATR

y/n: LATE*

y/n: ON THE FIRST DAY OF SENIOR YEAR

[7:50]

jeno: probably, yeah

jeno: it's the school district's fault, why would they make the first day of school on a fkn TUESDAY 

y/n: ohhh yeahh its terrible tuesday

y/n: [sent an attachment!]

[7:51 AM]

jeno: SHUT UP

jeno: you're not funny >:(

jeno: how dare you laugh at my misfortune

y/n: au contraire im hilarious

jeno: meanie :(

jeno: im gonna be late i hate it here

jeno: it'll end up on my permanent record and i'm not gonna get into college and then i'm gonna die,,,

[7:52 AM] 

y/n: sometimes ur worse than hyuck i swear 

y/n: FIRST OF ALL permanent records dont even exist !!!!!! its propaganda duh

y/n: also ur literally never late 

y/n: im sure o n e tardy wont do anything chill

y/n: dont be stupid youll be fine

Don’t be stupid. Too little, too late, he thought, already having got off the train at a previous stop. Now, he was looking for an unoccupied street or alleyway, which, for once, was easy, taking a deep breath before he did the exact opposite of what you’d told him not to do. Don’t be stupid. 

The buildings are low, he thought to himself, it’ll be easier to see me. 

Don’t be stupid.

Too late!

Thwip!

Jeno didn’t hesitate to use the web fluid to pull himself up onto the wall, climbing in a haste, before running and jumping onto the next building. He quickly built up a quick pace, using the web fluid occasionally to swing onto a building slightly out of jumping range. 

Signs in English, Chinese, Korean, and Spanish flew past him as he seemingly flew over the Queens traffic, leaving Flushing behind and crossing quickly into College Point quicker than he would if he took the train. He glanced to his left and caught a view of the bay, and far across it, the LaGuardia airport watchtower.

Jeno had lived in New York City his entire life. He knew Queens like the back of his hand, knew every dingy alleyway, every sketchy street, which restaurants to avoid if you didn’t want to get food poisoning, which convenience store aunties were the nicest and didn’t pinch his cheeks too hard. It was his home, and most likely would be for the rest of his life. 

But seeing it like this, flying past him below as he glided with ease from building to building would never cease to be a sight to him. It was like watching from the perspective of an outsider, seeing people in their cars, walking along the street gave him a brand new perspective. A Jeno’s eye view, he called it, since he was pretty sure he was the only one in New York City.

Another noise from his phone brought him back to reality. He shook his head, stopping briefly to catch his breath and fish out his phone briefly. 

[7:57 AM] 

y/n: let me know when u get here !!!

No time to respond, he put away the phone and continued his trek to school. He had less than ten minutes to get there. But he knew he was already at least five minutes away, much quicker than he would be if he had decided to stick to the train. He smiled a bit to himself, feeling ever so slightly smug.

The hustle and bustle of the city definitely proved challenging to find a place to land without many eyes, but he figured it out eventually, landing behind a dumpster in an alleyway behind a restaurant that he knew was about three or four blocks from the school. He figured it would be a lot better to take it on foot from here. The notebooks he was carrying in his backpack bounced up and down with every step he took. 

After what seemed like forever, the gates to the school appeared in his view, and Jeno felt a joy in his heaving chest, something he would have never thought would happen upon seeing the absolute hellhole that was Samuel Morse High School. 

[8:06 AM]

jeno: just did >:D

Picking up his schedule was both quick and insanely long. He couldn’t stop himself from tapping his left foot while the secretary found his schedule and handed it to him. “Kibum, please hurry,” He muttered, and Kibum raised an eyebrow at him, but his gaze was teasing. “That’s Mr. Kim to you, in school at least.” 

He handed Jeno his schedule a few seconds later. “Tell your Aunt to come pick up her casserole dish, by the way. She left it at my house after my last viewing party.”

“The Bachelor?”

“Please. We’re too classy for that. Drag Race.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Jeno,” Kibum said, staring up at him from his desk, his gaze now much more serious, “Get to class. Happy first day of senior year.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kim.”

He managed to make it to chemistry class at 8:09 with seconds to spare. His eyes quickly scanned the room upon entering, hoping his friends were in the class with him. He caught a few familiar faces, most of which, like San Choi's, he wished to avoid. No one paid him any mind. Everyone was still speaking to the people next to them, no doubt exchanging stories of summer vacation. 

  A hand shot up towards the back, waving at him. A smile stretched across his face as he registered your face, feet not hesitating to carry him towards the empty seat next to you. His heart skipped a beat at seeing your smile, and he tried his best to ignore it.

“Hey,” You greeted, “That was fast. I thought you said you were gonna be late.”

Jeno shrugged, eyes landing on the dark shade of the lab table. “The train was a lot faster than I expected, apparently.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Why do you smell so bad?”

“I, uh… ran a little.” 

You grimaced, and Jeno tried to casually sniff at his slightly sweaty clothes. It’s not that bad. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me drive you to school. You’re literally next door.”

“I don’t know,” He answered, rolling his eyes, “Maybe it’s because when it comes to that truck, you are absolutely insane. You won’t even let me drink water in that thing.”

The truck in question, a faded red 1998 Chevrolet S-10, had been your gift to yourself for your 17th birthday. You’d spent two summers saving up to buy yourself a truck, and that was what you were able to get for what you had. To say it was a huge piece of junk on wheels was an understatement. 

The thing smelled like mothballs no matter how many air fresheners you bought it, the engine sounded like an old man having a coughing fit, and there was a very suspicious stain in the backseat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times you scrubbed it. But for some reason, you treated it like it was your own baby. The amount of times you’d yelled at Jaemin for trying to put his feet on the dashboard was too high to count.

You mirrored his movement, eyes rolling as you sighed. “At least let me drive you home after school today. Maybe you can stay and we can finally watch Blade Runner.”

You’d been trying to get him to watch the film for almost a month now, begging and pleading because you insisted that he’d love it. He offered an awkward stare, before opening his backpack and pulling out a notebook. “Can’t,” He mumbled, “I’m headed into Manhattan. I have my internship afterwards.”

“Oh, yeah,” You said nonchalantly, eyebrows shooting up as you remembered, “Park Industries.” 

He was about to reply when Mrs. Baker, the chemistry teacher, finally entered. She’d been working at SMHS for 30 years and had never, apparently, been nice, if his Aunt Sunny’s stories were anything to go by. However, she had apparently always spoken as if she smoked two packs a day. She was rambling about the importance of making the most of senior year academically, adult responsibilities, college, and whatnot. You and Jeno exchanged glances often throughout the monologue, hoping it would end soon. 

“Enough of that,” She said after what seemed like an eternity, “Everyone quiet down, I’m going to call roll.”

Names were quickly called, and Jeno was ready to pull out a pencil and start working with you until Mrs Baker demanded a switch in seats, beginning to call on random names in an effort to deter everyone from speaking. 

"Please not with Choi, please not with Choi," Jeno muttered under his breath, glancing warily at San, who was staring ahead, looking bored. 

San had had it out for Jeno ever since day one, in first grade. For some reason, everything Jeno did seemed to annoy the other boy. He wasn't funny enough, or too nerdy, or too quiet. Jeno was always too much or too little for him. 

You touched his forearm, and he looked towards you. 

“You’ll be fine,” You said softly, trying not to alert the teacher, “You’re not gonna get paired up with him, and you can take it to the office if you need to.” “Yeah, because I’m sure Coach Peralta would be thrilled if someone tried to get his precious midfielder in trouble.”

“Choi, San,” Mrs Baker’s voice rang throughout the room, and Jeno braced himself for the worst, eyebrows furrowing with worry. 

“You’ll be sitting with… L/N, Y/N.” 

Jeno’s shoulders slumped, but your face remained impassive. You picked up your stuff, and pouted silently at Jeno in apology, before making your way to the front. 

“Lee, Jeno,” Mrs Baker called a few minutes later, “You’ll be sitting with Jang, Yeeun.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief. Yeeun is nice, Jeno thought to himself, I could sit with Yeeun. She wasn’t part of his main friend group, but he had tutored her in math during sophomore year in exchange for her helping him with Spanish, and they’d been pretty friendly ever since. 

“Hey,” Yeeun greeted as Jeno sat down, and Jeno smiled at her. 

“Remember, these will be your assigned lab partners for the rest of the semester. No changes, no exceptions.” Mrs. Baker sat down at her desk, before beginning to talk about something Jeno didn’t really pay attention to.

You exchanged glances with Jeno, and he gave you a look of sympathy as you gestured at San with your eyes. San was talking to you about something—probably bragging about some soccer achievement—but you weren’t paying him much attention. Jeno swallowed something growing in his throat as he looked at how your hair looked today. 

It was nothing relatively new, the same hairstyle you used on most days. But still, there was a bit of a shine to it. He wondered vaguely if you had changed your shampoo, the other day you’d been complaining about how itchy your normal shampoo made your scalp—

“You still haven’t told her about how you feel?” Yeeun asked quietly, and Jeno’s head snapped back to look at her, eyes wide.

“W-what? Me. Like Y/N…” He laughed nervously, trying to keep his voice down. He scratched the back of his head, avoiding Yeeun’s accusatory stare. “You’re hilarious, Yeeun. Tell another one.”

Yeeun shook her head. “You’d better hurry before someone else snatches her up, Jen. She’s not gonna wait around for you forever.”

 “I don’t like her, Yeeun.” 

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Hey! Jeno Lee!”

“Hey! Jaemin Na! What do you want!” Jeno answered as he sat down, mimicking Jaemin’s tone next to him.

“Well, for starters, a million dollars, and second, a date with Yiren Wang, but I doubt you can help me with either of those, so...”

Jeno glanced at the rest of the table. Along with Jaemin, Mark,  Renjun, Donghyuck, and you were watching the interaction between the pair. “Where are the munchkins?” Jeno asked, noticing Chenle and Jisung’s absence. No one could really call them munchkins anymore. That nickname dated back to middle school, before the two underclassmen had gone through growth spurts.

“Eh, they should be here soon,” Renjun said, chewing on a french fry, “How’s your day been?”

“Pretty good so far, I guess. I got AP Calc with Mr. Washington later, though. That man wants me dead.”

You rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t want you dead. I’m telling you, you and Hyuck have been spending way too much time together. You’re being more dramatic than usual and Hyuck’s being more… weird than usual.”

“And just what is so weird about being enthusiastic about senior year, Y/N?” Donghyuck asked, shaking his head, “It’s our last year in this hellhole, I’m excited that we’re finally getting out of here. And besides—”

“Please don’t bring up the fact that you’re abandoning us next year.” Chenle seemingly appeared out of nowhere, sitting next to Renjun, Jisung following quickly behind him.

“Hi, Sungie,” You said with a smile, and Jisung smiled back. “Hi, Y/N.”

“What were you saying, Hyuck?” Jaemin looked at Donghyuck, who had taken the quick interaction as an opportunity to take a bite of his sandwich. His wide eyes darted to the slim boy, cheeks stuffed with chicken. 

“Oh,” He replied after swallowing, “This is gonna be my year. I’m getting male lead for the winter musical and no one is gonna stop me.”

“Do you even know what musical you guys are doing yet?” Mark asked, “What if it’s like… Shrek?”

Jisung made a face. “There’s a Shrek musical?”

Mark nodded, and Renjun laughed.

“I don’t know about male lead, if it’s Shrek. You should try out for Donkey,” The Chinese boy joked, “With those front teeth, you’re a shoo-in.”

The entire table was silent for a moment, before snorts and chortles started pouring out from everyone except Donghyuck.

“Fuck you, Huang.” 

Renjun flashed the friendliest smile he could muster. “Not if you paid me a million dollars.”

The subject remained on extracurriculars, everyone in your group except for Chenle and Jisung now wary of college applications. Donghyuck had been in theater ever since middle school, Renjun was in the robotics club and the debate team with Jaemin, who was also in the student council. Mark was on the math team with Jeno, and you had founded the film club. 

"You're not gonna believe who asked to sign up for film," You huffed, looking kind of confused. The rest of the table looked at you expectantly, and you pursed your lips, almost as if you were trying not to laugh.

"San Choi."

Renjun scoffed. Jaemin raised his eyebrows before letting out a single, humorless laugh. Jeno made a face, poking his plastic fork at you. 

"What is San Choi doing asking to sign up for film?"

"Fuck if I know. He said he needed one more extracurricular if he wanted to get into some college in Florida and he liked going to the movies, so he wanted to try out film."

Mark rolled his eyes. "I swear there's nothing in that guy's head but hot gas. It blows my mind."

"He's a dick," Chenle grumbled, "I'm still not over how he and Wooyoung taped Jisung to the flagpole last year."

Jisung scowled. "I thought we agreed to never bring that up again."

“Do you think they’ll finally calm the fuck down this year?” Jaemin wondered, looking wistful.

You took a sip of your coke and shook your head. “Doubt it. They’re not the hateful eight for a reason.”

The mood at the table turned tense, until Jaemin frowned at his french fries, before sighing and clapping his hands together dramatically. “I would like to hear,” He mused, “About the nuance that theatre gives the cinematic masterpiece that is Shrek when converted into musical form.”

Donghyuck beamed. “Oh, it’s amazing. You see…”

If it was difficult to get Donghyuck to stop talking in general, it was impossible when it was about theater.

The conversation continued on until the bell rang, and the eight of you had to go your separate ways. Jaemin and Jeno had the same class, so they both walked together down a relatively calm hallway. Jaemin looked both ways, before finally lowering his voice. 

“So, you’re going to see Mr. Park today?”

Jeno nodded, looking down at his shoes. “He said he wanted to give me an assignment. Says there’s something big going on.”

Jaemin’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Did he say what kind of something?” 

Jeno shook his head, pouting slightly. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.” 

Once school was out, Jeno was getting ready to get onto the subway once again, this time heading towards Midtown. It was only day one and, as Jeno had predicted, Mr. Washington probably was out to get him, because he’d swamped the class with homework.

As he left the school, he spotted you in the parking lot, leaning against your car door, texting someone. He glanced at his phone. He still had plenty of time, he figured. He walked over to you, and when you looked up, you smiled. 

“Hey!” Your voice had that signature tone of enthusiasm to it, and Jeno smiled back immediately. 

“Hello,” He sing-songed. “So, I was thinking… are you free on Friday night?”

You looked somewhere above his head, furrowing your eyebrows before you perked up again and nodded. “Yep! Why?”

“I’m free after nine. Maybe then I could come over to your house? So I can finally get you to stop harassing me about Blade Runner.”

You grinned, pumping your fists enthusiastically. “Hell yes,” You answered, “Do you want me to get like, some frozen pizzas or something?” 

“Pizza sounds good,” He said. “Who are you even waiting for?” 

You made a face that made it seem as if you’d just gotten a whiff of rotten milk. “Well—”

Your response was interrupted when the school doors slammed open, and eight figures poured out, carrying themselves with confidence Jeno both envied and despised. He frowned, trying not to react at their loud whooping and laughing. The Hateful Eight.

“Oh.” Jeno averted his gaze, meeting your eyes again.

“Yeah. If you don’t hear from me later it’s because I jumped out of my truck because I don’t wanna work with—”

“Well, hello, gorgeous!” San’s voice filled the parking lot, and Jeno took a deep breath. Your mouth stretched into a tight-lipped smile at the unwanted ‘compliment’. 

“Hey, San.” Your friendly passive aggressive tone almost made Jeno smile. “I’ve been waiting here for like, fifteen minutes. You could have just given me your number and asked me to send you pictures of my notes, you know.”

He shrugged, turning his body so that his back was turned to Jeno. “Sorry, babe. Coach wanted to talk to us about the upcoming season. When he gets going, it’s hard to get him to stop. And besides, where’s the fun in just asking for pictures when I could come here, talk to you, and take the pictures myself?”

You didn’t respond, but rather pulled out your backpack and began digging through it. When you pulled out your notebook, you handed it to San, who flashed a wink at you. You barely held back a gag. 

“Thanks, Y/N. I’ll just be a minute.” 

He walked over to the hood of your truck, and just as you were about to continue your conversation, two figures slung their arms around both of Jeno’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. 

Out of the fifteen soccer players on the team, San and his best friends—seven of them, to be precise—were the worst. The others were pretty nice. But right now, seeing two of those seven surround your best friend made you uneasy. 

Wooyoung was loud. He was also a temperamental brat. His dad owned three used car dealerships over in Brooklyn, so naturally, he thought he owned the entire world. He wasn’t someone who would get too physical in fights, like San, or Jongho, or Yeosang. But when he was angry, he could easily get you to jump into the stratosphere by yelling at you once. Over the years, he’d made several teaching assistants and substitute teachers cry, only getting let off with a slap on the wrist every time. 

 Yunho was terrifying for completely different reasons. He was friendly, but a little too friendly to the people he wanted to control. He could read people like books and could easily manipulate whoever he wanted. But he wasn’t afraid of getting physical either, especially not when he was built like a goddamn Power Rangers Megazord. 

All in all, they definitely weren't anyone you wanted near you, near your friends. Especially considering how much they had it out for your friends. 

"Hey, buddy," Yunho said, looking down at Jeno with a wide smile. "How was summer vacation?"

Jeno gnawed on the side of his cheek as he considered his answer. "Um, it was okay." He looked at you to catch your eyes darting between San, Yunho and Wooyoung, like you were analyzing the situation. "I kinda stayed in and played video games most of the t—"

"Cool, cool," Yunho answered, carding his free hand through his bleach blond hair. "What about you, Woo?"

"Oh, dude, it was so cool," He bragged, "I went to Brazil for like, a month. I went clubbing with Instagram models and shit, it was wild."

You stared at him as he patted Jeno on the back rather aggressively. "Where did you go? Have you ever even left New York?" 

You knew the answer. Only a few times when the debate team went to compete in different states. Jeno spoke up again. "Well, yeah a few t—"

"Doubt it," Yunho scoffed. He craned his head back. "San, you done yet?"

"Almost!" San answered. Yunho turned to face you, and for some reason his smile seemed genuinely kind. “What about you, Y/N?”

You never understood why it was that the soccer team hated your entire friend group, but seemed to tolerate you. It made no sense.

So you shrugged. “Not a lot, I guess. Did my summer reading. Hung out with my friends.” You flashed a reassuring smile at Jeno. “Right, Jen?”

Immediately, he relaxed a little bit. “Yeah.”

San appeared from behind Yunho, Jeno and Wooyoung. “Thanks, Y/N. I owe you one.”

You waved your hand, wanting them to get rid of them quickly. “Don’t mention it. But next time, just text me for my notes. I have to get to work, so…”

“Oh! My bad,” He answered with fake remorse, before unlocking his phone and handing it over to you. “Here. For next time.”

You stifled a deep sigh, punching in the numbers hesitantly. “Just for homework, got it?”

San took his phone back, holding a hand over his heart and raised his head. “On a gentleman's honor,” He declared, and you bit back a laugh. Jeno looked like he was going to hurl.

“San!” The team captain—Hongjoong—called from a few feet away, “Are you guys done yet or what?”

“Coming!” San yelled back.

“Alright, we’ll let you go,” Wooyoung said, patting Jeno on the back again, a bit too harsh for comfort. “Bye, Y/N! See you around.”

 The three of them stalked off, leaving you and a very frazzled Jeno. “Dicks,” You muttered once they were out of earshot. “You good?”

Jeno shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine.”

You tilted your head, frowning. “Jeno—”

“I gotta go,” He said quickly. “I’ll see you later?”

You nodded, offering a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Be careful!” 

Jeno offered a deep bow, fluttering his eyelashes. “On a gentleman’s honor,” He sighed, adding a very bad British accent to it. You burst out laughing, eyes squeezing shut.

You didn’t catch the way Jeno’s shoulders relaxed at the sound.

I want you to know now

Baby, it could go down

I don’t wanna talk about it

Baby, let’s just go now

The train ride into Midtown didn’t take too long. He spent it digging through his backpack for his Park Industries lanyard, listening to music and thinking about you.

When you talk right to me 

You gon’ have to do me

Every time you think you’re leaving 

You running back to me

You’d met Jeno when you were six. Truth be told, he didn’t really remember. For him it was like you weren’t there at one point and by the time you were, you were thicker than thieves. It was a difficult time for him. He had just lost both of his parents, and was moving in with his Aunt Sunny and his Uncle Jinki, who were barely out of college at the time. He’d had to move to a new school and basically restart his entire life. You were the first sense of stability in his life for months. 

Your mom lived next to his aunt and uncle. So naturally, you went to the same school and went on the same bus. And somewhere along the way, you two clicked. You’d introduced him to Renjun, Jaemin and Donghyuck. You were there to comfort him whenever he got pushed off the slide by San or Wooyoung. 

He was there for you when your stepdad and stepbrother moved in when you were nine and you weren’t sure how to deal with it. He was there when your mom died when you were thirteen. He’d introduced you and your friends to Mark, Chenle and Jisung. 

And you were there when his Uncle Jinki got killed when he was fifteen. And because fate had an especially cruel sense of irony, it had happened on a Tuesday. You didn’t know, but at the time, he had just gotten his powers. Your comfort and words unknowingly had a secondary effect: he made the decision to use them for good, and… well. The rest was history. 

Can we just talk? Can we just talk?

Talk about where we're goin'

Before we get lost, lend me your thoughts

Can't get what we want without knowin'

Just like when he met you, he didn’t recall an exact moment where he realized he’d fallen in love with you. He knew there was a world where he loved you, but wasn’t in love with you. And he knew that there was a world here he’d fallen in love with you—he was living in that world now. He realized he was living in that world maybe when he was sixteen, and had been stuck in it ever since. 

You were it for him. He’d had crushes before. But never something like this, where he was so aware of your presence around him. It wasn’t the way he was hyper aware of someone like San, or like Yunho or Jongho. It wasn’t out of anxiety or fear, where a shift in mood activated his fight or flight. He was aware of you in a way that only people who truly know each other do, where he could pick up on subtle changes in your behavior, but not out of fear. Rather, out of a desire to take care of you and to not have you worry about anything. 

I've never felt like this before

I apologize if I'm movin' too far

Can we just talk? Can we just talk?

Figure out where we're goin'...

As the train rolled into the station that was a fifteen minute walk from Park Tower, Jeno put away his headphones and took a deep breath.

The “Jeno Tingle” as his Aunt Sunny called it—Jeno hated the term—had taken him a few years to gain control of. And while he could never truly turn it off, he could at least tune it out enough to be more at ease. The only time he did so was at school or when he was studying, just because he wanted to feel normal, and because being aware of everything going on around him really messed with his concentration. 

Jaemin didn’t understand. “If I was able to tell whenever Seonghwa was behind me because he wanted to scare me into doing his chemistry homework, I’d never turn that shit off,” He’d said once. But truthfully, Jeno didn’t really care. Because while yes, he was still slightly scared of the “hateful eight”, he knew damn well that if things got to be too much, he could kick their asses if he wanted to. 

It was his friends he worried about. He couldn’t be around them 24/7. You, not so much. He knew you knew how to fight. Even worse, he knew that San had the hots for you so you were off limits to the rest of them, be it bullying or flirting. But for everyone else… Well. He couldn’t hover over them like some guardian angel. 

Now that the “Jeno Tingle” was on, it allowed him to sense everyone within a certain range around him. He could zero in on certain sounds with ease, and his reflexes became heightened. Halfway on his walk up Park Avenue, he jumped away from a chihuahua on its leash a second before it started barking at him.

When he entered the first floor lobby of the Park Building, he scoured the crowd of employees and visitors until he landed on one familiar face. 

He'd met Doyoung about a year after his dad started dating your mom. Things between your parents were starting to get serious, and Doyoung was four years older than you were. When they moved into your house, Doyoung as your new stepbrother became the de facto chaperone and babysitter. If you wanted to go to the mall with Jeno, he had to take you. Every time you dragged Jeno to the movies, Doyoung had to go also. 

To an extent, it wasn't that bad. Doyoung was cool, and he was smart—he was the one who got Jeno interested in computers and chemistry. He graduated high school at 16, and finished his bachelor's degree at 19. He'd also interned at Park Industries, and secured a job there almost immediately after college. 

To an extent, he was the whole reason Mr. Park knew who he was, because of one incident. It was relatively soon after he started the whole vigilante thing. Jeno, still figuring out how to maneuver on the webs that shot out of his wrists, had accidentally crashed into your backyard late at night, when only Doyoung was awake. He was standing in the back door while he was waiting for his dog to finish peeing. 

Initially, the older boy had freaked out, thinking that it was a burglar or something. When he yelled out that his dad was a cop and was asleep in the house, Jeno panicked, and pulled off his mask, holding up his hands.

“Woah, woahwoahwoah! Doyoung! It’s me, it’s me!” 

Doyoung’s eyes had widened to the size of saucers, paying no mind to the dog as it sauntered up to Jeno, before turning onto its back in a request for belly rubs.

"You're the spider guy everyone's been talking about!?"

"Spider man," Jeno had answered, voice cracking as he dusted himself off. He cringed at the sound of his voice. "...and yes."

Of course, his cover was blown, and he'd begged Doyoung not to tell anyone, especially not you. And while Doyoung had promised not to tell you, it didn't stop him from telling his boss. 

That had been almost three years ago now. The rest was history, and after that Jeno didn’t have to run around in bright red sweatpants and dollar store swimming goggles. Now, he had a nanotech suit that allowed him to activate protocols of the suit through voice commands using something top-secret Mr. Park called D.R.E.A.M technology. Direct Response Engaged As Machine—yeah, Jeno didn’t get it either. 

Doyoung offered Jeno a smile as he escorted Jeno past security, showing them his employee clearance pass. "Hey. How have you been?"

Jeno shrugged, recounting his day in minor detail as he was led into an elevator labeled authorized personnel only. 

This elevator only went up to the 35th floor, seeing as everything past that was only cleared for a certain list of people approved by Mr. Park and his security team, and everything past the 90th floor were Mr. Park's private living quarters. 

Now, as Doyoung led him to another elevator to head up to the 85th floor, which was always where Jeno got to meet with Mr. Park—which wasn't often, maybe once or twice a year—he wondered where he would be if he hadn’t surprised Doyoung that night. He would probably still be using those ugly red sweatpants as part of his disguise.

"How's Y/N?" Doyoung asked. 

"Oh, she seems okay. That guy who hates me keeps coming onto her though. He's a huge douchebag."

Doyoung frowned. "He's not harassing her, is he? Because if he is—"

"He just won't stop flirting, even though she clearly isn't interested," Jeno said bitterly, "He isn't physical or anything. Trust me, it wouldn't end well for him if he was."

Doyoung wasn't quite sure how to respond to the younger boy's dark tone. He looked down, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“So… how’s the apartment?” Jeno asked. Doyoung perked up instantly.

“Oh, now that Taeyong’s moved in and did his interior design thing, it looks great. He’s really done a great job at it.”

“When am I gonna meet this guy? He sounds cool.”

“He’s really cool,” Doyoung hummed, cheeks heating up. “Things are getting really serious.”

Jeno smiled at how flustered Doyoung, who was normally so level headed and calm, became at the mention of his boyfriend.

“You guys sound like a really good couple,” He said. Doyoung chuckled, waving his hand. “Oh, well—” 

 The elevator dinged, and Doyoung sighed. “I’ll tell you later. C’mon.”

The hallway it opened up to was lined with pictures of the company's history, starting from pictures of black and white of people in vintage clothing, to pictures in sepia tones to finally pictures of the current CEO at locations around the world: Chanyeol Park.

Jeno walked behind Doyoung as he led him down the hallway, before stopping in front of a door, and a friendly looking man in a suit. 

Junmyeon was a part of Chanyeol’s Security and Intelligence team, and often sat in on these meetings with Jeno. The chain of contact also included him. If Jeno couldn’t contact Doyoung (which rarely happened), he’d contact Junmyeon. And if he couldn’t contact either of them, or it was an emergency, only then could he contact Chanyeol. So far, that had only happened once.

"Hey, Junmyeon," Doyoung said, "Mr. Park's 4:30 is here." 

Junmyeon nodded, before smiling at Jeno and giving him a wave. "Hey, kid."

Jeno offered an awkward grin. "Hi, Mr. Kim."

Junmyeon rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Kid, you're making me feel ancient. I've told you a million times, just call me Junmyeon."

Jeno shuffled awkwardly, before nodding at the older man, watching as he pressed a button on his earpiece. "Hey, Yeol. Jeno's here."

The muffled response was barely heard, but Jeno automatically understood what Mr. Park said. Junmyeon turned to open the door, and let the pair inside. The “office”—if it could even be called that—opened up to more of a lounge, than anything. A wall of glass overlooked the Manhattan skyline, but Jeno knew that from the outside it looked only like a wall, due to camouflage technology developed by Mr. Park himself. As Doyoung and Junmyeon stayed back, closer to the door, Jeno took a few steps toward the man in question.

Chanyeol was standing a few feet in front of the glass window, working on a holographic model of a new piece of tech. His face was turned downward in a concentrated frown. He barely spared the teenager a glance as he said fondly, “Hey, kid.”

Jeno was used to this. Chanyeol wasn’t cold per se, but he wasn’t warm at all. He knew that Chanyeol cared about him, even if he didn’t really show it in a conventional way. Chanyeol was a very… eccentric man, so he had his own way of saying and doing things. 

“Hi, Mr. Park. Um… you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yep! Needed some help from the friendly neighborhood Spiderman… A little birdie told me about something going on in Queens.”

“Queens?” Jeno asked, gripping the straps of his backpack. “You mean, other than the usual stuff?”

“Other than the usual stuff,” Chanyeol repeated, nodding. With a wave of his hand, the hologram disappeared, and another one appeared in its place. This time, instead of a 3D model, a few pictures and another, smaller 3D model appeared. Chanyeol turned to face him, frown deepening. He pointed at the model—a long, shiny oval-shaped purple stone. It reminded Jeno of an amethyst, but instead of turning white at the base, it turned to an iridescent jade tone. “You know what this is, right?”

Jeno nodded, remembering seeing the rocks all over the news when he was a kid. “That’s… that’s a Chitauri stone. From the invasion a few years back.”

Chanyeol nodded, standing up straight. “These stones have the potential to power weapons with no need to recharge, or change them out. They’re an infinite, extremely strong power source, Jeno, and in the wrong hands can be very dangerous.”

Jeno took a deep breath, feeling his stomach sink slowly. Chanyeol sighed. “Cleanup of the city after the invasion was long, and difficult, and obviously the government and the company weren’t able to get everything. It caused a black market to pop up. Now, the NYPD has been investigating it for years, but they have their limits… that’s where you come in.”

“M-me, Mr. Park?”

Chanyeol gave him a crooked, reassuring smile. He pointed at one of the pictures, which was of a man who most likely didn’t know he was photographed. He was walking somewhere, face looking angry and stern.

“You don’t know who this is, right?”

Jeno shook his head, and Chanyeol turned his head to nod at Junmyeon. “You’re up, tough guy.”

Junmyeon huffed, before walking up to Jeno. He put his hand on Jeno’s shoulder as if he could tell that he was growing anxious. 

“Jeno, that’s Henry Duke. From what we understand on the intel team, he’s one of the cornerstones of the alien tech black market. He’s one of the top dogs. From what we understand, he likes to be present for all major negotiations that his group makes. A source of ours told us that there’s going to be a negotiation on Friday night not too far away from LaGuardia. We want you to go out there and just get a feel of what’s going on.”

“Just watch them, right?” Jeno looked at Junmyeon, who patted his back reassuringly. “Just watch. Don’t engage unless you absolutely have to.”

“You can do that, right?” Chanyeol said quietly, crossing his arms. “Because if not, then it’s totally—”

“Yeah, of course I can! Friday—shit, Friday. At what time are they supposed to be meeting up?”

Junmyeon furrowed his eyebrows, before answering, “Around eight or nine.”

Jeno bit his lip, thinking about the promise he’d made to you. It would just have to wait, he supposed. Chanyeol rarely asked anything this big of him.

“Alright,” Jeno agreed, “I’ll do it.”

Chanyeol grinned, clapping his hands together. 

“Perfect.” 

They discussed logistics briefly after. Doyoung would be on call with Jeno, his custom made suit allowing them to communicate, letting Doyoung see everything Jeno was seeing via a video feed coming from the ultra thin lenses placed in the white eye sockets of the mask. Doyoung would then report to Junmyeon, who would report to Chanyeol, who would probably report to the FBI. Jeno was only to engage if absolutely necessary.

After that, he set out on patrol. He usually found some discreet place to hide his backpack, and then went all over Queens looking for trouble, quite literally. Around five thirty, he stopped a robbery in Murray Hill. Then, around seven, he stopped a man from stealing a woman’s purse in Elmhurst. Nothing too much.

Around eight, he finally headed home, this time dressed normally, using the train and not web fluid. He walked home, tired, knowing that he’d immediately have to do that cursed AP calc homework. When he got home, he opened his backpack pocket to look for his keys, rummaging between his notebooks and other things. 

Shuffling through his stuff, he furrowed his eyebrows as he couldn’t find them. Thinking back, he remembered this morning, when he’d left in a rush… and had very obviously left his keys on his desk.

“Shit,” He muttered to himself. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, remembering that Aunt Sunny had said she’d be working overtime tonight. He could very easily sneak in through his window, but he was pretty sure he’d locked it the night before, and it was too early. People’s lights were still on—anyone could see him if they just looked up, and then he would be screwed. 

Huffing and zipping his backpack up, he marched up to your house, before ringing the doorbell. He shifted his weight back and forth, from his heels to the balls of his feet, until the door opened up. A familiar man with a face just like Doyoung's, but older, with graying hair and arms scarred and muscled from years of working on the police force stood in the doorway.

“Jeno?” Your dad offered him a warm smile. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

“Hi, Mr. Kim,” Jeno said, smiling back. He shifted nervously. “I, um… I left my keys in my room this morning, and my aunt’s working late, so… could I… maybe wait here? Y/N’s home, right?” 

The man nodded. “Of course, of course. Come in!” 

Your dad had always been super friendly, even from the day Jeno had first met him. You'd told Jeno once that he was the only real father figure you'd ever had. Once everything settled after him and your mom got married, you started calling him dad altogether. And since you and Jeno were practically glued at the hip, he got along with your dad almost as well as you did.

“Okay.” Jeno stepped in and set down his backpack at the base of the coat rack next to the door, as he’d done a million times before. Jeno stepped into the living room, and sat down on the couch. He folded his hands in his lap and looked up at your dad.

"I think Y/N's in the shower, but she should be done soon. You can just wait here if you want… have you eaten anything yet?”

“Uh, I had a granola bar on the train, but that’s it.”

“We have some leftover pasta here, if you want—”

“Thanks, Mr. Kim, really! I’m fine.”

Your dad nodded, sitting down on his recliner. “So, have you started your college list, yet? Y/N said you wanted to stay here in New York.”

Jeno nodded, pushing some hair out of his face. “Well, yeah. It would make things a lot easier, I think. I might want to apply to NYU, but I think I’ll just go to community college, or something.”

Your dad shook his head. “You’re a pretty smart kid, Jeno. I think you could get into Columbia if you set out to. Plus, Chanyeol Park doesn’t give out internships to anybody. That’s your secret weapon.”

Jeno smiled. “Well, you’ve got a point.” 

Your dad gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Come on, trying won’t hurt!” Your dad made a face, and then rubbed his knuckles. “Have you been working out? Those muscles weren’t there the last time I did that.”

Jeno laughed, trying to think of an excuse. “Oh, a little bit? The house needed some fixing up over the summer, and I wanted to help Aunt Sunny, so…”

“Jeno?” 

He turned immediately, eyes landing on you at the base of the staircase. You’d changed into an old t-shirt and pajama pants. Your hair was slightly damp. “What are you doing here?” You asked, with a curious smile.

His shoulders slumped, and he grinned sheepishly. “Terrible Tuesday strikes again. I forgot my keys.”

You grimaced. “Brutal, dude. You wanna come up?” Your eyes moved to your dad. “Or am I interrupting guy time?”

“Oh, definitely,” Jeno answered, playing along. He took a cocky tone as he rested his hands on the back of his neck. “Your dad was just telling me about how much the NYPD needs me.” 

You stifled a laugh. You dad seemed to be holding back a laugh too. "Hey, you're joking, but if you keep working out like that, and if by some impossible chance, the college thing doesn't work out… We might just be able to catch Spiderman if we finally got some brain cells on the force."

"Ugh, dad," You groaned, unaware of Jeno's gut twisting, "Not again."

"Yeah, Mr. Kim," Jeno said, scratching the back of his head, "He's not that bad."

Your dad shook his head. "Look, I don't hate the guy. In all honesty, crime rates have dropped since he started doing his thing. But he thinks he's above the law, and his methods can be a bit… unorthodox sometimes. He’s been undermining us for years and his tech is state of the art. Makes me wonder about what we should do to modernize the force."

Jeno looked downward, wondering what would happen if your dad knew the truth.

"Well, I guess we may just never find out. Jeno'd make a horrible cop. He couldn't hurt a fly if you paid him a million dollars."

But you came to the rescue as you grabbed his backpack, and soon enough he was up the stairs with you, heading into your bedroom, laughing to yourselves when you heard your dad jokingly call out, "Fifteen inch distance, you two! Door stays open!"

He sat on your desk chair while you lay on your bed, limbs splaying out. 

"So you left your keys."

Jeno groaned. "Don't remind me. I was in such a rush to leave, that I… I forgot. I'm so stupid."

You rolled your eyes, rolling over onto your stomach to look at him. "You're not stupid, Jen. You made an honest mistake because you were in a hurry." 

Standing up, you walked over to him and leaned against the desk. "Seriously, Jeno. What's gotten into you, lately? You freak out about every little thing. It's starting to worry me." 

Jeno shook his head. "I don't know," He admitted. "I think I'm just scared about how after this year, everything changes. Renjun’s headed upstate. Jaemin’s going to Boston. You want to go to LA. I think Hyuck and I are the only ones who want to stay here. I just… I don't want things to change." 

Your expression turned sad as he continued. "Everyone is expecting great things from me. You're smart, Jeno. You can get into an Ivy. Or, you have a Park internship, you'll be fine. What if I don't want things to be fine? What if I want them to just stay the same?"

You stayed silent for a few moments, trying to think of what to say. Jeno was relatively level headed for someone your age, but even he had moments of doubt and panic. It made moments like these difficult.  You sighed before grabbing him by the hand. Wordlessly, you tugged him over to the bed, sitting him down and leaning your head on his shoulder. He could feel the dampness in your hair seeping slowly into his shirt.

"I guess I understand what you mean," You mumbled, trying to reason with him, "But come on. You wouldn't really want everything to stay the same. You can't tell me you want to keep getting AP calc homework. And I definitely doubt that you'd want to have your ass kicked by San for the rest of your life."

Jeno looked at the floor. "You're right. But you know that's not what I mean—"

"I know," You huffed, "I'm just saying. Change… it's inevitable. The longer you fight it, the harder it is."

Jeno nodded. "This sucks."

"It does," You agreed, taking his hand in yours. "But at least we have each other's backs, y'know?"

Something of a smile appeared on his face. You were so close to him, leaning on him, stroking his knuckles with your thumb. He hoped you couldn't hear his heart pounding in his chest. 

"We really do, huh?" His voice turned quiet, with a bit of a sleepy lull to it. He allowed his head to rest on yours. "You're so comfortable. Can I like, use you as a pillow for the rest of my life?"

You giggled. "I'll consider it on two conditions."

"Oh, you'll consider. How generous of you."

"Yes, I'll consider. Now, do you wanna hear my terms or not?" 

Jeno raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead," He said, before putting on his best Marlon Brando voice, "Make me an offer I can't refuse."

Snorting, you lifted your head off of his. "Okay. One, you finish your calculus homework here before Sunny gets home."

He pursed his lips. "Okay, I could probably do that. What's the other one?"

"Let me drive you to school for the rest of the year." 

Jeno stared at you, and you nodded, eyes wide. "Trust me, Jen. You wouldn't need to wake up so early! And plus, you can't text the guy manning the subway asking him to give you five minutes because you need to find your keys."

Jeno gnawed on the inside of his cheek. You did have a point, and to be honest, he could probably refrain from putting his feet up on your dashboard.

"Deal." 

You grinned. "Awesome," You answered, before nodding towards his backpack. "Now get to work, Einstein."

The rest of the week wasn't that bad. Yes, you were absolutely batshit insane about your truck in the morning, but he soon realized he didn't really mind. Not when it allowed you both to spend some twenty extra minutes together in the mornings, and they were spent joking around and listening to your extremely varied playlist. 

On the other hand, he was saddled with more and more homework, greater and greater expectations. The looming threat of Friday's mission rolled around, and it made Jeno feel like time was passing much too slowly but also way too quickly. There was so much on his mind. He had chemistry with you on Thursdays in the afternoon, which also meant that San was there. Which also meant that sometimes, his heightened senses would pick up on San dropping a tacky pick up line which made Jeno want to punch him in the jaw.

Finally, finally, Friday afternoon rolled around. As he bid you goodbye and promised to see you later, he tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach. The feeling that something was about to go very, very wrong. He went out on patrol, ready for Doyoung to set up the call and tell him where he needed to go. It didn’t help that there wasn’t a lot for him to do that day. Crime had seemed to slow down altogether. 

When the time finally came, and the sun was beginning to set, Doyoung rang in at about 7, telling him the location. An old warehouse near LaGuardia airport, hidden from prying eyes. Jeno made his way to the place, avoiding security cameras Doyoung warned him about, and found a place to hide. There was a hole in the warehouse roof, which allowed him to peer right into the building without being seen. It was about thirty feet from the ground.

“Why is it always old, abandoned warehouses?” Jeno grumbled. He heard Doyoung laugh quietly. 

“Beats me,” Doyoung sighed. 

And so they waited. Jeno wondered vaguely if you were still working. He wasn’t sure. They made time talking quietly, until a black SUV rolled into the warehouse. “Woah, Doyoung,” He murmured, “Hold up.”

Jeno leaned forward, but quickly realized he probably wouldn’t be able to hear what was being said. “D.R.E.A.M, activate Heightened Intelligence Protocol.”

Activating Heightened Intelligence Protocol.

The protocol allowed Jeno to use the lenses over his eyes to zoom in on specific targets, as well as use a microphone embedded in the suit to pick up audio from far away and feed it directly into his ears.

He watched as three figures got out of the car, a fourth remaining in the driver’s seat. The trio stood in front of the car, and Jeno recognized the man in the middle as the man Junmyeon had been talking about.

“Alright, there’s Henry Duke,” He said, “The one in the middle.”

 “Got it,” Doyoung replied, sounding satisfied. “Now all we have to do is wait for the other party.”

“Did Junmyeon’s sources say anything about who it would be?”

“No. They weren’t able to find that out. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Jeno’s eyes never left the man. “Do you think it’s something international?”

Doyoung sighed. “I’m not sure. If it is international, then you need to be even more careful.”

“Got it. I think—Wait, here they come.” 

A second vehicle, this one another black SUV, rolled up not too far away from the first car. The lights turned off and the engine sputtered to a stop, and four men stepped out of the vehicle.

Jeno’s stomach dropped, and of its own accord, his mouth let loose a quiet, “What the fuck,” as he registered the person leading them. 

“What?” Doyoung asked, before realizing what—who—he was looking at. “...Is that my dad?”

“I think it is,” Jeno whispered, fingertips suddenly numb. Who was he kidding? They both knew who it was. 

“So,” One of the men next to your dad said, “You show us yours, we’ll show you ours?”

Henry Duke clapped his hands together with an impish grin. “I suppose. Reagan, get the case.”

One of the two men standing beside him started off toward the trunk of the car. “It caught me off guard when I heard that the force wanted to purchase these. Almost made me wonder if this was your attempt at a sting operation.”

“What made you change your mind?” Your dad asked. Jeno swallowed at how cold he sounded. This wasn’t your dad, and it didn’t seem like Officer Kim either. This was someone Jeno had never met before. 

“Honestly, Kim?” Duke raised an eyebrow, shrugging. “It was you. Your cooperativeness and willing to feed us information, as well as your… insurance agreement. And besides, you made a very interesting point when you said that the Avengers Initiative and Park’s alum Spiderman is ruining the way the law operates around here. That type of bitterness… hard to fake.”

Your dad huffed. “We’re fucking tired of it.”

The man leaning against the car your dad had stepped out of scoffed. “If this helps us catch the little asshole, then so be it.”

Jeno frowned. “I’m not little—”

“Jeno, shut up!” Doyoung snapped. 

“—Alright, then.” The man holding the briefcase—Reagan—clicked it open, as if it were a prize reveal on The Price is Right. Five guns, all modified to hold glowing Chitauri stones were placed carefully together side by side.

“You know the basics. No radiation. Keep it away from security scanners and x-rays. They will blow up. And second of all, these are at half the price, along with the promise from the chief of police that my business won’t be touched, and will only be distributed to officers in on the operation and have agreed to turn off their body cameras when they decide to use these weapons. Should this not be a sting operation, we’ll be back here to negotiate.”

Jeno leaned forward, watching anxiously.

“Yes, sir,” Your dad answered, nodding. “We have the money here.”

“Hand it over, then.”

That was when Jeno made his mistake. He leaned forward too much, and proceeded to fall right through the hole, bringing down some scraps of the roof with him. As he tumbled through the air, the zoom on his lenses caused him to grow dizzy as he had no idea what he was looking at. He caught himself before he could fall, clumsily commanding D.R.E.A.M to go back to turn off the current protocol. His vision returned to normal, and he swung up onto a rafter holding the warehouse up.

“So, we have company.” Duke didn’t sound as amused as he had before. His face turned into a sneer. “Get him.”

In less than a second, before Jeno could say anything, five guns were pointed directly at him. He managed to swing away before any bullets could hit him. 

“Jeno, get out of there now,” Doyoung ordered. 

“What about the guns?” Jeno asked, swinging to another rafter. “They know I’m here, I might as well get them before I go—”

“No! Jeno, listen to what I’m telling you. You’ve done more than enough, and you need to let it g—”

Your dad aimed, and a bullet fired right at Jeno’s chest. For a second, he forgot that the chest area of the suit was lined with bulletproof material. While it didn’t shoot into his chest, it ricocheted right off him, and since he was in motion, it somehow caused the bullet to bounce back in the direction in which it came. 

The wind was knocked out of Jeno, but it was nothing compared to watching the bullet land in the middle of your father’s chest. On the other line, he heard Doyoung yell, followed by the sound of something falling. And then, as he made his way back towards the hole he’d fallen out of, he couldn’t rip his eyes away from the body as it crumpled to the ground. 

The others around him scrambled to get back into their respective cars. Jeno was back on the roof now, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m sorry,” He gasped, “Do—Doyoung, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—”

“Jeno, you need to get out of there, now,” Doyoung said, voice raspy. “GO!” 

So he did, and Doyoung cut off the call once he was out of the vicinity. Jeno didn’t blame him. He swung across buildings, feeling numb as he looked for the apartment complex roof where he’d decided to hide his backpack.

When he finally did, he changed in a hurry, before slumping against the wall and forcing himself to take deep breaths. 

Doyoung’s dad—your dad—was dead. And it was all his fault. 

He cried on the way down the staircase. He cried on his way to the subway. The entire time, he ignored people’s stares. Suddenly everything was too loud, and if he met someone in the eyes he’d just about break down in the middle of the station. 

As he got onto the train, Jeno thought about all of the things your dad had done for you, and for Jeno. All the times he'd taken you both to Coney Island in the summer when you were younger. The year Pokemon Go came out he took the both of you driving around in his car so you and Jeno could catch as many Pokemon as you could. 

He’d formally adopted you when you were thirteen. You were his daughter in nearly every sense of the word, regardless of blood. And now he was dead, because of a stupid mistake that Jeno had made.

What would you say if you knew? He didn’t want to know. Checking the time on his phone, he saw he’d gotten a message from you just three minutes ago.

[8:36 PM]

y/n: lemme know when ur outside!! :)

“Fuck,” He murmured, wiping his eyes. He knew he needed to stop crying before he got to your house, and he had about ten minutes before he got to his stop, and then another five minute walk to the neighborhood. He focused on taking deep breaths and taking long swigs from his water bottle in the meantime, trying to tune out the sound of other people talking and the sound of the train on the rails.

The walk was the longest five minute walk he’d ever taken. The flashing lights of convenience stores did nothing to calm him down. As the stores in his peripheral vision began transitioning into suburban homes, he felt his heart speed up again. The constant movement as he walked meant he missed his phone vibrating in his backpack as you rang his number.

After what seemed like an eternity, two familiar houses came into his line of vision, and his shoulders slumped as he spotted you on your porch, looking small and teary, curled up into a little ball. In one hand, you were clutching your phone.

His stomach twisted as he put on a confused tone, even though he knew damn well that you knew. “...Y/N?”

You stood up, running to him and burying yourself into his chest, crumpling into his arms. You would have fell over if Jeno hadn’t held both of you up. 

“Jeno,” You sobbed, “You’re n-not go-onna believe it.”

He brought a hand up to caress your hair, holding back tears of his own as he asked a question he already knew the answer to.

“Y/N, what happened?”

taglist: @decembermoonskz @itsapapisongo @lenaluvs​ @crescentjen​

[black-is-beautiful18]

Hi, hello!

Your AAVE post is interesting but also so very USA-centric. What about the rest of the world? What can we do - whites (esp from europe) & poc - to be respectful? What should we know about - expect for the obvious, that its not just a slang/internet speech. I’m Hungarian (east european) and even *we* use AAVE in our everyday lives. I feel like its wrong, somehow, But i honestly cant figure out how (since we dont have the same history as americans)

/ if its reads like a mess im sorry & ill try to explain myself differently if you want /

AAVE has spread through things like social media, movies, and tv shows. People often copy it because they think it sounds cool. They don’t know that it’s an actual language. Some Black people also pick up on AAVE this way as well and as far as I know they never use it in a wrong or hostile way cuz some of our languages have similar structures. Or they’re just that good lol. When it comes to other POC and white people using it…it often gets disrespected. People say it’s not “Proper English” even though it is proper English. AAVE has also been used to be very hostile towards Black people whenever it’s used by nonblack people. If you pick up AAVE in any of the ways that I mentioned above it’s best not to repeat it. Like you might recognize words but it really something that shouldn’t be copied.

[artificialqueens]

The Electra Complex, 1 (Crygi, Jankie, JaidaxNicky) - Scarlet Bloo

A/N: This is my first multi-chapter fic! This first chapter is mostly Gigi-centric, however that will change in future chapters. Big thanks to Hy-Jinkx for beta reading this, it wouldn’t flow as well without you.

Trigger Warning: There are some mentions of underage drinking in this chapter, which I know isn’t always seen to be a big issue, but I just wanted to be on the safe side.

Summary: Gigi Goode has been shipped away to Missouri, where she meets at group full of big personalities and a lot of emotions. This follows 7 girls as they navigate new love, old feelings and past demons.

Wherever Gigi Goode went, a series of admirers would follow; at least, that’s how it always used to be back in LA. You could’ve taken one look at her and come to the conclusion that she was living the dream. She was the cheer captain, her grades were consistently higher than the average student and she had the perfect all-American boyfriend. She was on track to becoming valedictorian and prom queen, had she only stayed on at Arcasio High. Her shoulder length blonde locks were always carefully styled and sculpted, and she wouldn’t be seen without her long, pastel acrylics and coordinating outfits. If you weren’t in Gigi’s small circle of friends, then you idolised them. And if you were? Well, then you’d be vying for Gigi’s position as top dog. Los Angeles Gigi was a trope from a 2000s movie personified, and while she wasn’t particularly happy with her life, the validation from her peers satisfied her. She was worried she wouldn’t be able to say the same about this new Springfield Gigi. She hated change, it just didn’t sit right with her. 

The last drastic change in her life occurred when her dad finally left the picture for good, around 8 months before she was shipped away to live with her cousin, Nicky. Gigi had a rocky relationship with her father from the moment she was old enough to recognise him, and to recognise patterns. He’d be in and out, showering Gigi and her mother with gifts on every return, but with each departure, he would rob Gigi of something possibly more important than Louboutins or countless bottles of Chanel No.5, the scent that had become her signature; he had robbed her of the ability to express her feelings. 

He taught her to keep emotions bottled up and to repress natural feelings, instead nursing wounds with piles of money. Contrary to her relationship with her father, Gigi and her mother were always extremely close, but Gigi knew she’d ruined that. Why else would her mom decide she’d be better suited living with her Aunt and cousin in Springfield of all places?

“Gigi, mon amour!” Nicky exclaimed, running up to her with open arms. The cousins exchanged kisses on either cheek. Nicky pulling Gigi into an embrace. She knew things had been rough, and despite both girls’ tough exterior, they’d always had a special bond. Gigi could remember countless Christmases and Thanksgivings when they were small and spent curled up in a blanket fort watching Barbie movies - Nicky loved The Nutcracker while Gigi first discovered her fixation for tailored jackets while watching Barbie and the Three Musketeers. Nicky’s small house was very sophisticated, decorated and furnished almost entirely in black and white, with interesting marble sculptures bordering the hallway. The two girls walked upstairs to the bedroom they’d be sharing whilst Gigi was in Missouri. 

“So, Gigi,” Nicky started with a sigh. Gigi looked down at her feet, cracking her knuckles to keep her focus off of Nicky and her next words.

“What did you actually… do?” Nicky paused, trying to correctly word what she would say next without sounding overly blunt. She was prone to being slightly too forward, partially due to a slight language barrier (French being her first language), but mostly because it was just the way her mind worked. A simple to-the-point question should logically provide her with a simple to-the-point answer - and Nicky liked it when things went like that. 

“If it’s okay,” the L.A native began in a slightly sour tone, completely ignoring Nicky’s words, “I’d like to have a rest before dinner.”

Nicky was aware of the obvious avoidance, but she decided to let her cousin be for the meantime; her mother hadn’t told her what had happened with Gigi to make her move in with them, but she knew it must’ve been pretty serious. Gigi and her mom, Nicky’s aunt, had a bond she almost envied - she couldn’t think of any reason why she’d willingly send her away. The girl pouted slightly, pondering the severity of the situation for a few moments more, before leaving Gigi to rest and going downstairs to help her mom with food preparation.

Gigi walked into the bar, legs out, flaunting her doll-like figure. She was dressed in a tiny baby pink tennis skirt, and matching crop top. Her mom had shouted at her for “dressing like a pinup,” as she had called it, but Gigi just shrugged it off. She didn’t care what her mom had to say at that moment. She knew she was probably being unfair, that her mom cared about her and only wanted the best, but she needed to blame someone else for everything that went down so she could live with herself. Gigi cocked her head to the side, trying to snatch the attention of the first man to catch her eye. A gruff looking man, probably in his early 50s, his American tan glaringly obvious in the dim lighting, smiled at the 16 year old, biting his bottom lip ever so slightly. She gave him bambi eyes, giggling slightly as she walked towards him. She was nervous, of course she was, but the adrenaline and alcohol pumping through her system aided her greatly in feigning confidence.

“Hey, Candy bear.” he smirked at her, putting his hand on her cheek, “what can I do for you?”

Gigi wanted to shudder, but she managed to maintain her composure, and instead cooed, “I wanna be adored.”

The man slowly nodded, forcefully stealing a kiss from the girl, who submitted, kissing him back. As soon as he pulled away, she ran off, walking as confidently as she could out of the bar. She took a stick of bubblegum out of her bra, hoping it’s minty flavour would remove the lingering smell of liquor from her lips, as she rushed home before her mother awoke.

“Geege?” Nicky stood in front of her cousin, worry evident in her eyes. Gigi had zoned out. She snapped back into real life, “yeah Nics?” She looked towards the vanity where Nicky was seated, adjusting her hair in the large, illuminated mirror. Nicky’s room was barely big enough to fit both girls’ beds, so it was slightly cramped, but it was still very minimalist, very Nicky.

“I was just saying,” Nicky continued, “I should add you to the group chat of my friends and I - it’ll help you meet people before school starts.”

Gigi smiled, she was grateful that Nicky was being so welcoming, despite having to give up her room.

“Go on then, what harm could it do?”

TheNickyDoll added TheGigiGoode

JanJanJan: Ahhh hi !! I’m Jan, nice to meet you!!!!

JaidaEHall: Jan, chile, calm down you’re gonna scare her off

JackieCox: Hi, I’m Jackie.

                    And yeah, Janny, Jaida’s right, calm down baby.

TheGigiGoode: Hey, everyone <3

                           Thanks for letting me join, you guys are the first people I’ve                                      spoken to here other than my family!

HeidiNCloset: Heyy

JanJanJan: I’m sorry y’all I’m just excited !!

Gigi was relieved to find that she hit it off quite well with Nicky’s friends, whose personalities seemed to be so big she could get a good sense of what they were each like through the screen. Jan was very enthusiastic, Gigi noted immediately. She and Heidi both seemed super sweet, but in different ways - Heidi definitely seemed to crack a lot more jokes. Jan bombarded Gigi with questions about L.A, before Jackie pretty much ordered her to get some sleep. Jackie and Jaida were definitely the two most level headed of the group, Jaida seeming to lead group discussions and Jackie undertaking a more protective role. However, when looking through the list of group members, she noticed one more account that hadn’t interacted in the group chat yet. She was about to ask Nicky who Crystal Methyd was, but when she turned to Nicky’s side of the bedroom she found her fast asleep, in a silk set of pyjamas with her hair in rollers. Gigi knew the only way to get answers now was to stalk her instagram. Luckily, she wasn’t private, so Gigi spent the next 30 minutes looking through her feed. Crystal had curly red hair, and dressed very…. eccentrically, Gigi thought. As if by magic, Gigi then got a notification that made her almost jump out of her skin.

CrystalMethyd: Hey everyone! What have I missed? You know how out of the                                 loop I get when I’m painting.

Gigi waited for a couple of seconds before forming a reply, praying one of the other girls would initiate a conversation she could then jump in on. She wanted to talk to this girl, but she didn’t want to do it alone, not when she knew close to nothing about her. Gigi sighed, she’d have to just go for it and respond to the message. That’s how you get anywhere in life, she knew that. 

TheGigiGoode: Hey, idk if Nicky told you, but I’m her cousin. She added me to                               the chat so I could meet you all before school starts up.

CrystalMethyd: She did!

                           I’m Crystal, but you know that from my account of course.

Gigi and Crystal spoke for a while longer, their conversations jumping from favourite food (Gigi liked pasta, Crystal liked pizza, and they were both still obsessed with fruit snacks), to movies Crystal cried over (Marlie and Me. Toy Story, The Notebook, and the list goes on) and ones they both hated. At around 3am, Crystal made the decision to move the conversation to private dms, to avoid spamming her friends as they slept. This new, more intimate setting, and the early hour, seemed to pull feelings on feelings out of the two girls as they began to open up more with each other. If an outsider was to read the messages, they’d never have guessed Gigi hadn’t been aware of Crystal’s existence until just hours earlier. Gigi felt a strange yearning to open up to this girl, who seemed to be so clear about how she felt, but a part of her mind wouldn’t let her even type the words out. Guilt passed through her gut as Crystal explained her worries about her future, how she wanted to be an artist, but her parents weren’t sure whether she’d be able to make a long lasting, stable career out of it. Gigi wished she had half the vulnerability the girl possessed. It sure would make this whole making friends thing a whole lot easier. The light peaking through Nicky’s pitch black blinds startled Gigi, so she said her goodnights to Crystal, who wished her “Sweet dreams, Miss Goode.”

[thurisazsalail]

I’m tired of ‘leftist’ anti-intellectualism and America-centric xenophobia posing as liberalism.

Protip: If you are anti-academia on subjects of culture not being taught by someone genetically from that culture, even if they know nothing about the culture they are talking about and have never participated in it and were never raised with it... over someone who actually does have a background in knowledge from people of that culture who lived in it and were raised in it... you might actually be the imperialist you are talking about fighting against. You might actually be silencing the people you think you are elevating through deplatforming actual sources from the cultural background talked about, artificially holding up someone with the right genes but no heritage or ties. You might want appearance over substance to be a “good person.” Rethink your views on academia. Think critically. What sources is a person using? Does a person talk about Africa like it's a country and not a continent (ew), or does the person have a list of resources about specific cultures as spoken about by the people from those cultures? Do they make effort in finding anyone from that culture to present or speak in class, if possible? Do they show videos of those people, which are not denigrating to them? Did the person work hard to find resources for you in a language you understand, or did they work to translate for you? Or are their resources some old white dude from 200 years ago, like using the Budge translations for (ancient) Egyptian? Did they quote Fiona Graham or Liza Dalby on geisha? Because of those people is a damn liar who took a fucktonne of money and prestige from an ailing geisha house and ran, and one actually trained as an anthropologist who spent time in Pontocho, where they knew exactly what she was there for and they suggested she debuted as a geisha to better understand them. Does the person gloss over issues like war or genocide? Or do they say, "Yeah, we should probably talk about that. In fact, you can use some example from recent history to understand the attitudes a bit better. Here they are, and here are some differences. Here are some further reading (and if available, video) sources, including from the groups that got really fucked over." If you SAY you are into historybounding (taking historical elements in your wardrobe and making it ‘new’ fashion) and you want to make the frilly French dresses and the London fog coats, but don't ever want to talk about how people eventually used the Versailles floors as a latrine because of the decadence and wanton wealth they collapsed into... and how the common people suffered because of it... Or how England discriminated against it's own people heavily, relegating Jewish English people to certain neighbourhoods or refused jobs to them, or treated the Moorish-descent like shit, or actively would beat the Irish in public and stole their land... you might not be into history or culture. You might just like looking at the pretty things and copying them. You know. Probably culturally appropriating (if not borderline doing so). Not just "history bounding." People in a marginalised group often have to learn things about our own groups’ history, or else we might see "Stonewall" and believe that a white guy threw the first brick, or that "queer" is a slur. Our own people, gasp, might have to learn from... academia. And strangely, I know, it's so weird, but some of the people who teach... use primary sources (that’s sources from the time/place/people the source talks about, like Gay Manifesto written by gay man Carl Wittman)... or are closeted about being experts on the subjects... because they are talking about their own groups and STILL face discrimination and might lose those precious jobs if they are out... and they're just not identifiable by your *outsider* standards. And sorry, but if you don't know your own history, yes, you are an outsider in that sense. Yeah, I can trace some of my family lineage to Turtle Tribe Seneca. But I am an outsider because the only reservation I've ever been on is the one to Olive Garden. I might have to *gasp* turn to actual knowledgeable people to learn something about that. I can't just dress up in whatever or do whatever and say, "No, it's okay! My great-grandmother is Seneca!" and then claim not knowing better because my heritage was stolen by federal American laws. That's not how that works. There is some tentative evidence that some of my family was Jewish before hiding it and coming to America in the late 1930s. But I still have to go through an official conversion process. I still have to learn Jewish history and Jewish culture, and about Jewish diaspora issues. That’s how it works. If you are Japanese in Japan, same thing applies to certain things. Like if you are performing tea ceremony with your school, you can’t just wander in to most of them with whatever pretty kimono you want. There are rules for that. It is a language, not just a dress. You will be sent home. If you don’t want to adhere to those rules, you will not be accepted. That’s how it works. It sucks, totally. But welcome to real life. You might have to actually work at things... Including managing your feelings and not making other people responsible for them. You might have to take responsibility AND bury your ego long enough to learn from educated people. One tip is... Question sources! That was my biggest gripe ten years ago! Plenty of books about Japanese culture, and all of them with lots of white people (white according to American-centric ideas about whiteness) writing the narrative! I had to work to find books about Japanese social ideas written by Japanese authors. You might have to work, too, and not blame other people for not just *handing you shit.* But in the end, accept that other people might know more than you and that is isn't about being Uppity by nature. It's also about "I have all this, you want some?"

If you don't want to learn, then you have to leave the classroom. You can't be a child, throwing a temper tantrum. You're a grown-up. But don't just assume by someone's face that you magically already know how things will be. Ask for a list, a syllabus, a source, a curriculum vitae. That should give you some insight on what to expect. Ask for clarification. Oh, this class is teaching Arthur Conan Doyle? WHAT are they teaching about him, specifically? Erasure isn’t the answer, here. That legacy still exists.

Stick to a scope: you can't fit six books of info in one hour. You need to stay focused. That's part of learning. No "whaddabouts?" Yes, write them down and message them in! But they might not be for this specific post, lecture, or class. The class might need a thing right then, like when my Humanities prof decided that Britain just "had a skirmish" with Benin. No, they committed genocide because Benin refused to become a colony of England, and you need to know that RIGHT NOW while the class is happening, before the moment is gone or internalized. But if you have a side comment about what happened to diaspora in WW2 once they moved to Hawaii and Brazil, the focus of the class might be on experiences *in Japan* and not on diaspora. Email it. It might become another class. There isn't time for that right now. That doesn't mean the prof hates diaspora Japanese. It doesn't mean diaspora don't matter. It just means that the class is limited in focus and time, and right now, the focus isn't on diaspora. Don't make a big dramatic deal about it. Instead, idk, maybe write a well-sourced paper on diaspora experiences while fleeing hostile Showa-era takeover and release it publicly. You can just... do that. I've done that with transcripts for movies that don't have them, for essays on various topics. You can even get paid for that content! No one had to "approve" me. I put it on fucking Tumblr so everyone could have it. Open-source means something. jfc people. Stop whining. Start having open conversations instead of shutting anything new or different down. Stop the anti-intellectualism disguised as liberalism. Stop the xenophobia and nativism disguised as cultural protection. It's great when a culture decides for itself that most people (from that culture) don't want foreign interaction or interference! Leave them the fuck alone! It isn’t hard! Some cultures are closed. Some are semi-closed, like there’s certain things you can learn about or participate in but others are only for people from that background. But don't get mad when a totally different culture doesn't care or uses it for leverage. You don’t get to dismiss a different culture or denigrate them under the guise of “protecting” other POC by erasing them. And if your excuse is (Culture/group) is imperialistic/all people of ____ descent/race are _____ DUDE FIRST OF ALL WTF and second of all, let me tell you something about American history. French history. English history. There are some nuanced conversations we COULD have here, like adults. Or you could just be honest and say, “This isn’t a conversation I’d like to have right now.” That’s totally fine. Sometimes you just don’t have the spoons or time. I often don’t, being disabled. Or you could shut down like a child and say that this is fine but then mute all posts until you get your way, and anyone who posts an actual source is wrong or bad because intellectuals and experts are suspicious. Your choice. Real life is complicated. Figure it out instead of trying to reduce hard things to a box to fit in easily. Expand your world past your little tiny experiences in your own country and background. Stop assuming every fucking thing in the world works like it does in America. Stop approving/disapproving of any information that doesn’t match up with your American morality or experiences- there are *other people* that deal with things other ways than we do. Stop wholesale condemning anyone better informed than you just because of your ego. Start using some of those critical thinking skills you are supposed to have. If you don’t know how, type “critical thinking development” into youtube for tutorials. -------- Edit: hahaha I KNEW that Tumblr deleted something when it highlighted it. I just couldn’t figure out what at the time. The difference between Graham and Dalby: one worked in Pontocho as a geisha for research, and they knew that ahead of time; Graham lied her ass off to geisha and then tried to open her own house after taking only a few lessons to get famous and make a lot of money. She’s a fucking embarrassment and worse. --------------- Update 11/3 Turns out that dig I made about French costuming (a perennial fave in historybounding and historical sewing groups) and imperialism wasn’t all that far off... here’s a whole ass thread about how many fucking African presidents and leaders France has specifically killed, and how much France has done to just Africa relatively recently. That’s JUST to Africa. I bet some of my Mi’kMaq and Algonquin-descent friends would have some things to say about heritage erasure regarding the French.  https://thurisazsalail.tumblr.com/post/633807847387512832

[drawlfoy]

The Wonders of Ohio P.1

masterlist request guidelines okay i keep saying i’m on a hiatus and i literally start like 7 series kill me now

pairing: draco x muggle!reader

request: requested from my 14 year old brain...and her wattpad account...

summary: american high school senior y/n is roped into hosting a british exchange student, and something doesn’t seem quite right.

a/n: i wanted to do some country other than mine but it wouldn’t make sense for him to be sent to a UK family (wayy too close) and also i don’t want to assume things about a culture i am not a part of. so. yeah. sorry for this being such an ameri-centric blog, i’d like to change that but for now this is my guilty pleasure self-insert fic, along with all my fellow muggle high school seniors out here.

warnings: language. intense americanness. god i hate america

tags!!! i love you all so dearly wtf @accio-rogers @eltanin-malfoy @geeksareunique

music recs: orinoco flow from enya ( i know it’s a meme shhh it fits the scene i have of draco entering the us so well)

word count: 2,174

also: i’ll be writing the entirety of this from y/n’s point of view...i’m giving draco a rest

“So...his parents are worried about his safety in England?” Y/N shifted in her car seat, wincing as the hot leather scorched her bare arms.

“They weren’t entirely clear on it,” her mother said. She had just pushed the key into the ignition, and hot air was blasting out of the AC at an uncomfortable rate. “I’m sure you read the news about the poor people who were going missing over there...and he seems to be from a well-off family who can afford this kind of venture...”

“Did you ever tell me his name?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Y/N nearly spat out the sip of water she had just taken, spinning around to stare at his mom. “Draco? What kind of name is that?”

“Sweetheart, be nice now,” she reprimanded, giving her a stern look. “It seems as though this family has been through a lot. I remember them mentioning something about being political targets.”

“That’s funny. I don’t remember reading anything about the Malfoy family in BBC or anything.” Y/N frowned and set her water bottle in the cup holder, turning away to watch the scenery of her state pass by.

“Perhaps it’s confidential,” her mother said. “It’s best that we don’t pressure him too much. It’s just our job to make him comfortable for a year, that’s all.”

“That’s all? You want me to give up my senior year to make some random rich boy comfortable?”

“Y/N,” her mother warned. “You’ll be civil. I know it’s strange, but I can assure you that he’ll find his own group of friends after the first week or so of school. He’ll be like a brother.”

“I can only try.” Y/N glanced up at the clock in the car, noticing that it was already 10 past 4. “Aren’t we a bit late? I thought that the program said that they wanted us at the pick-up point at 4.”

“Did they?” Mrs. Y/L/N seemed hardly concerned. “I don’t think that it’ll matter. This is an exchange program after all, you remember how they were last year in the summer. The bus didn’t even show up with all the kids until half past the hour. Speaking of which, did you happen to bring the sign?”

“How could I have made a sign with his name on it if I didn’t know what it was, Mom?”

Her mother swore under her breath, her eyes darting around the car. “You’re right. I completely forgot to tell you, you know, with the PTA meeting and everything last night...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/N mumbled. “It was a real rager.”

“Do we have any paper in here?” Mrs. Y/L/N began opening the glove department and sorting through it.

“Mom! I’ll do it! Keep your eyes on the road, please!” Pushing her mother’s hands away, she began going through it. There was nothing but a crumpled napkin, a “Wonders of Ohio” pamphlet, and a slightly dried EXPO dry-erase marker.

“Yeah, we have some,” Y/N muttered, uncapping the EXPO marker and writing the words “Welcome Draco!” on the unfolded tour pamphlet.

“Oh, Y/N, that’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe if the PTA bake sale meeting wasn’t so crazy, we’d be in a different situation right now.” Y/N broke into a fit of laughter, leading her mother to do the same. “I swear. He’s not gonna want to come home with us. I think he’d probably take being a political target over going home with rednecks like us.”

“You’re bad, Y/N.”

Their conversation was cut short as they arrived in a school parking lot that Y/N had been in many times to pick up exchange students for the summer. Today, it was a bit different. The crispier fall air had turned the leaves orange and red, each color illuminated brightly by the sun, which was now hitting the earth at a sharper angle.

And, most curious of all, there was only one car in the parking lot.

“See, I told you that they wouldn’t be here yet,” her mother said, motioning to the empty lot.

“But...aren’t there usually coordinators? And other parents?”

Something was beginning to feel...off.

“Well...I suppose so,” she said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Yes, I guess this is a bit unusual.”

Their confusion only grew as they pulled into the closest parking space to the front. No one was there to greet them, which was very odd. Normally there were some adults who organized the exchange program set up a refreshments table and supplied sign building equipment in the case that you had forgotten...but today, things were different.

“Maybe year-long exchanges are just different?” Y/N suggested as they both stepped out of the car and made their way to the waiting area.

“I don’t see why they would be,” Mrs. Y/L/N said, frowning. “However, I think that this is being done by a third party program. Shannon told me that while our usual program was helping, a different one was doing most of the diplomatic and visa work.”

The two waited for about two minutes in silence. Y/N had folded and unfolded her “Welcome Draco” sign probably around 6 times before a pop rang out, loud enough to startle her.

“What was that?” she yelped, turning to see her mother just as concerned. 

“I don’t know, doll. Maybe someone is having...car troubles?” 

Y/N knew that that wasn’t true, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she was more focused on the two two tall figures walking towards them on the street. One had a certified dad body, tall with a broad chest that was only accentuated by a strange button-up with flamingos on it (and a sports jacket?). The man’s hair was what stood out most of all: a shock of carrot orange hair, nearly identical to the turning leaves around him. A very strange tri-cornered Revolutionary style hat was perched on top of his head.

His companion was taller but wiry, clad in long dark green cloak that flowed in the wind. As they got closer, Y/N realized how ridiculous the guy looked. His hair was a startling white blonde, but he had the face of someone around her age.

“Hello!” 

The older man stopped halfway through the parking lot, waving and grinning at Y/N and her mother. They both waved back, trading glances of amusement.

“Hi?” Y/N raised her voice. “Do you need help?”

The man’s face split even further into a grin. “Are you the Y/L/N family?” His voice had turned into a yell to battle the sound of a car alarm that had sounded just a few streets over. 

“What was that? You need to come closer,” Mrs. Y/L/N yelled back, motioning for them to approach. The man sent the blonde boy a pleased look, almost as if to say “see? That wasn’t too hard”. They began walking, but the carrot haired man seemed especially fascinated with the other car that was parked by them. He froze in the lot, staring at the white Subaru, mesmerized as the brake lights turned on and the car began to ease back--right in their direction.

“Oh my god...he’s gonna get hit, Mom!” They shared a concerned look before they both cupped their hands to their mouths.

“Sir, you need to move! That car’s going to hit you!��� 

They watched in horror as the Subaru slowly eased out of the parking lot, getting within a foot of the man before the blonde boy yanked him out of the way. Y/N could’ve sworn she heard the man say “Marvelous! Just fascinating!”.

“Jesus Christ, Mom, do you think they’re methheads or something?” Y/N made sure to drop her voice to a hushed whisper, worriedly turning towards her. “Should we get in the car and go? What if they’re going to kill us?”

“You’re too overdramatic,” Mrs. Y/L/N reprimanded...but Y/N could see how she was turning her car keys over and over in her hands. “If they come close and making strange advances, then we run, okay?” 

“Sounds good,” Y/N said, her voice weak as the two men stepped up onto the curb and began to get within earshot.

“Are you the Y/L/N family?” the man asked. His British accent shocked Y/N, and suddenly it all made sense.

“Yes, that’s us,” her mother said. 

Now that they were closer, Y/N got a good look at the boy in the green cloak. His features were sharply aristocratic, with a nose that looked like it belonged on a statue out of the Renaissance. She felt him looking her over with the same amount of intensity and immediately crumpled up her Wonders of Ohio pamphlet, shoving it into her pocket. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man said. “I’m Arthur Weasley. This is Draco Malfoy.” 

The boy’s scowl only deepened once Mr. Weasley nudged him forward with his elbow. “Say hello, Draco,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes carrying a degree of desperation. 

“Hello.” His voice was cold and uninterested, just like the weight of his gaze. 

“I’m Y/N,” she offered, throwing on a forced smile. “And this is my mother, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“You can call me whatever you’d like, Y/N, even Mom if that’s what you prefer,” Mrs. L/N said. Draco visibly winced at that. 

“Mrs. L/N is fine with me.” 

Y/N cringed at the painful amount of awkwardness. “Where’s your stuff, Draco?” 

Before he could answer, Mr. Weasley jumped in, unfolding a piece of paper and reading it verbatim. “Mr. Malfoy’s luggage is having some trouble getting through cus...customs? Customs. His items will arrive at your place of residence shortly.”

“Did you try to sneak a musket in here to win back the US for the British crown or something?” Y/N couldn’t help but let a snicker slip through. Mr. Weasley seemed to pick up that she’d attempted to make a joke and bellowed a laugh while Draco simply stared her down.

“No.” 

“This is going to be so much fun,” her mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “If there’s nothing more to do, we can go ahead and head home. I’m sure you want to rest, Draco.”

Y/N noticed that he flinched every time his name was uttered, and this time was no exception. 

Silence ensued until Mr. Weasley decided to break it. “Sounds like a splendid plan. Feel free to owl--contact me if you need anything, or if Mr. Malfoy here misbehaves in...” He paused to send a glare to Draco, “...any way. The Ministry can’t thank you enough for your help.”

With that, he turned and walked around the corner of the building in the opposite way he came, leaving Draco to stand awkwardly in front of them. Despite his expensive appearance and haughty attitude, it was clear that he didn’t know what to do with his right hand as he kept tucking and untucking it from his pocket. 

“Didn’t you guys come from a different direction?” Mrs. Y/L/N puzzled, staring back in the direction they came. A loud pop rang out once more.

“That’s very odd,” Y/N commented. She could tell that Draco was frozen up, his left hand curled up into a fist. “No matter. Let’s get you home. I call shotgun.”

“Y/N, no, he gets shotgun,” her mother corrected, walking towards their car. Draco trailed behind them with a very confused expression on his face. 

‘Fine, fine,” she moaned, flinging open the backseat. Once they had settled in--she had noticed that Draco took a fair bit of time to buckle his seat-belt--Y/N leaned forward over the console to look at him. “Do they not have cars in England or something?”

“Y/N!” 

Y/N ignored her mother’s shocked comment and looked at him expectantly. 

“You could say that,” he muttered, refusing to make eye contact with her and choosing to look out the window at the passing trees instead. 

“You have a very cool accent,” Y/N pushed, moving over to sit in the middle. “What part of the UK are you from? I’ve never been able to match an accent to a region.”

Draco shrugged. “You wouldn’t know the place.”

“Try me.”

“Y/N, leave the boy alone,” her mother interrupted, moving her hand to push her back from the console. “He’s had a long day of traveling and he’s tired.”

“What time was your flight this morning?”

“Y/N!” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, only partly meaning it. “I’ll stop. I’m really doing wonders for the loud American stereotype, huh?”

He made a sound that seemed like he agreed and rested his head on the window. From her vantage point, she could see that there were no dark roots in his hair, meaning that his color had to either be completely natural or just dyed. She mentally made a note to ask him about that later. While she couldn’t believe it, it seemed like his hair had to be natural: the strands looked so silky from where she was, with no frizz and a light gleam to it. 

She flopped back into her seat, casting her eyes up to the sky. 

This was going to be a long year.

final a/n: i’m so bad at managing my time...oh my god....please help...also i promise there’ll be more of this. i promise i literally love this story and also i’m not from ohio so if i get something very wrong about ohio then i’m very sorry to all my ohioan readers <333333

[wiisagi-maiingan]

Hello! Hope everything is doing good to you!! I have a question about language, like is it invasive if a non-native learns native/indian languages? Or it depends? Thanks in advance 🌸

This is a really complicated issue that I used to talk about all the time but don’t mention much anymore? Which is something I need to work on.

So like. On the one hand, learning a new language is great! It’s important to learn new ways of communicating and it helps you grow both intellectually and socially.

On the other hand, what’s the point of you learning an indigenous language for a culture that you aren’t part of? Who does it benefit? It’s very unlikely you’ll ever need to work as a translator in any sort of job, since most indigenous languages have very few if any native speakers. If you’re a historian and want to translate texts or songs or whatever, there’s indigenous people who are more than capable of doing that themselves and would rather have that left up to members of the community rather than outsider scholars.

Do you want to learn it because it’s a novelty to you? Because it’s interesting? Our languages aren’t trinkets for you to pull out for dinner parties or to make yourself feel “worldly.”

Do you want to learn it because you want to buff up your resume? Again, it’ll likely never be relevant in your line of work and you’ll just be using it as trinket to show off, especially since there’s much more vital languages you could learn to help you work with other people, like Mandarin, Swahili, Spanish, Arabic, French, etc. Those are all languages that are commonly spoken throughout the world, unlike the vast majority of indigenous languages.

Do you want to learn it to teach indigenous kids their own language? Because, uh. We don’t want you to. We don’t need or want outsiders making themselves into vital figures of authority on our cultures and communities. 

Do you want to learn it to visit indigenous communities for things like missionary work? Don’t do that. Just don’t.

Unless you’re planning on working directly with native speakers of the language you’re interested in, there’s no real point to learning it. “Native speaker” is, of course, referring to people whose first language is the one you’re interested in learning.

Doctors and other medical professionals who plan on working in or near areas with large indigenous populations have a reason to learn the languages that the people nearby speak in order to get indigenous people (especially Elders) proper treatment and act as advocates for them when it comes to working with other medical professionals.

Teachers who plan on working in those sorts of areas have a reason to learn those languages too, not to teach them, but to enable the children under their care to use the languages that their communities are trying to teach them again without constantly discouraging them or “correcting” them.

People working in environmentalist fields have a reason to learn indigenous languages because they should be working directly with indigenous peoples, especially Elders.

The other thing that is vitally important for you to keep in mind that there’s is a lot of history that you need to keep in mind when it comes to indigenous languages. I’m from the US and I’m assuming you are too based on your use of Native/Indian, so the following is going to be very US centric.

Native American languages had no protection in the US until 1990, when the Native American Language Act was enacted. This law legalizing the teaching of indigenous languages in schools and businesses and enabled federal funding of language revitalization programs. This was enacted after well over a century of the US government and its peoples doing everything they could to kill our languages.

From the late 18th century to the mid 19th century, Native children were forced into American Indian boarding schools, where many children literally had their languages beaten out of them. They were punished, often physically and always mentally and emotionally, for using their languages in the classroom and among each other. Many survivors reported going home after they were sent to those schools and being unable to remember how to speak their languages, replying to their loved in English. My grandma specifically remembered a particularly brutal punishment that she received for speaking Anishinaabemowin, where the nuns in her school made her kneel on a sack of dried corn for hours while she recited Hail Marys in English, begging God to forgive her for the sin of being Native. She never used her language around me or any of the other kids in our family, no matter how much we begged. She was just too scared.

Records of indigenous languages have, historically, been destroyed by colonizers. This was done on purpose, an attempt on destroying our communities and therefore destroying Native cultures and the existence of Native peoples.

Even in indigenous-run communities, languages weren’t taught. Many reservation schools still don’t teach them, not having the money or resources in order to do so. In Hawai’i, I’ve been told that the vast majority of schools that teach Ōlelo Hawaiʻi have high tuition fees and are mainly attended by white children who can afford to attend, or the kānaka maoli children of wealthy white foreigners who raised their kids to have no connection to their culture or heritage. The vast majority of actual indigenous people in the US cannot learn their own languages because of lack of resources in their community, disconnect from their culture, lack of money to afford a teacher, or their language just being pretty much wiped out of existence. For many of us, the only connection we have to our languages are dictionaries that we find online that may or may not be accurate.

The simple fact of the matter is that non-Native people learning Native languages is a privilege, especially if they’re white. Settlers, the descendants of colonizers who murdered our people and destroyed our cultures, learning languages that many of us actual Natives don’t have access to leaves an extremely foul taste in my mouth. It feels audacious to me, especially since most of the programs they use to learn those languages don’t benefit the people the languages belong to at all, like learning Diné bizaad or Ōlelo Hawaiʻi from Duolingo. The absolute least settlers in these situations can do is financially support indigenous-led language revitalization programs, but they rarely do even that much, preferring to reap the benefits of the work our communities due to keep our languages alive without giving anything back to those communities.

So yeah. Those are my thoughts on it. Sorry for the rant, anon.

For anyone wondering, yes, this is okay to reblog.

[ask-jumblr]

Thank you so much to everyone who’s been constructive.

Both commenters, and the anons below who were open about what they’re struggling with. Since all of the asks were either hateful, or seemed to be addressed at me, the mod, I’m going to handle them. 

Before you get too upset that I didn’t give all y’all equal chance to answer: I’m encouraging the anons to send in some asks dealing with the issues they’re mentioning, formatted in such a way that it’s easier for jumblr as a whole to constructively help. Based on their current asks, I can only ask questions about what they practically need.

Because I’ll be addressing the asks chronologically and the constructive asks come later, I’m going to put it all below the cut. If you don’t have energy today, don’t click through. Even the constructive stuff is heavy.

Here were the first two anon’s received:

Isn't Orthodox just exclusionary extremism? Aren't those the homophobes and transphobes who think you shouldn't be allowed to marry a non-Jew? Why aren't we staying focused on reform/recon Judaism?

It’s okay not to know things, although the assumption was a little harsh so I didn’t want to post it directly. In response I made a myth-busting post. Yes, it is American-centric, but here’s why: I can be pretty darn sure anon is American, or at least North American.

Given that you’re upset about intermarriage, you’re probably not Israeli. Given that the U.S. has the largest diaspora population, anon is likely American. Given that anon is referencing “Reform” Judaism as an alternative, they’re probably not in Britain (”Liberal Judaism”) or outside U.S./Britain/Canada/Israel (”Progressive Judaism” everywhere else).

Realistically speaking, I can’t call up every community everywhere. As an American coming out of a mediocre, Anglo-centric education system, I can only speak one other language with any competence and blurt a few words of a few more. If you want to know about a community in a specific place then please, please ask. There have been folks on here asking about communities all sorts of places who have gotten answers here. Jewish geography + the internet is amazing! When anon is American, with misconceptions about American Jews I’m going to assume such.

Orthodox Jews should probably stop existing. 

This ask is hateful and non-constructive. Hence the threat to block.

After this, I got some anons who are getting at some problems that we can really work on. They aren’t American, so I’ve assumed they aren’t the first anon.

hey if your responses and views could stop portraying us jewery as being the only way things are done and that we somehow all have access to the stuff you do, that would be grand

(cont) or where there zero chance of finding a group of that community that'll accept me and not treat me in hateful ways. I'm sorry that Jewery outside the US/NA is that unfamiliar to you and that our viewpoints and experiences makes you uncomfortable but I guess that's the way US Jews deal with Jewish "outsiders".

I’m going to start with part 1 to stay in order even though part 2 is what gets me antsy to help ya. You’re right. I don’t have a ton of experience with non-U.S. Jewery. That’s why I tag thoroughly and encourage folks who don’t know the answer to signal boost. If you’re specific, someone else on jumblr can help you. 

When anon asks are vague and, as they often do, reference U.S./North American terms for branches (”reform” rather than “liberal” or “progressive”), I’m going assume the anon us in the U.S. or greater North America. Most other respondents likely will too. Anon askers who want otherwise need to use terms that are more globally (”progressive”) or locally (”liberal”) appropriate, or give a little more locational information (e.g. city, country, region). Re-my new explanation above about American-centrism. I respect that you didn’t have the benefit of seeing the language in that ask, but I’m here to help you as much as I can without superfluously emailing every rabbi in every country for another anon who’s linguistically and statistically likely to be in New Jersey or Ohio or somewhere else in the U.S..

Now for part 2 (after “(cont)”), your concerns. (Getting something out of the way: Since you’re saying “Jewish “outsiders”” I’m going to assume you’re Jewish. However, many people reading this might not be; this audience has a lot of prospective converts. I want to point out that prospective converts aren’t entitled to conversion via any particular community. I might personally be dismayed, but it’s that community’s prerogative. Getting that community to a place where people who are already Jewish who are LGBTQ, have disabilities, etc. are accepted is going to be my priority if I were to harangue a community that’s not my own. In other words, people like anon. On that note...) I received another ask with a concern similar to part 2, by someone in a similar situation as a Jewish person under the LGBTQ umbrella whose only option is a community that won’t accept them. I’d like to answer these together. Here’s that second ask:

Not your first anon but there's no non-homophobic Orthodox community where I live. I live in Europe and maybe it is different in the US but the Orthodox communities here do NOT accept lgbt+ people. Or if they do it is under the "don't ask, don't tell" form of homophobia where you're accepted as long as you don't display it publicly or ask them to treat you as an equal in any way. So sorry for not feeling endeared to a group that have always hated me.

This means we’ve got a heck of a problem. There are Jewish people who don’t have a community and need one. Y’all (You all) don’t know me irl, but making sure Jewish people who want Jewish communities have Jewish communities is something I’m very big on. I’ve gotten some flack for being too welcoming or too focused on making sure synagogues are welcoming. I want you to know that we want you here. Unfortunately you aren’t close enough for me to personally offer you that hug.

You see, I’m a U.S. Jew, but I’m not one from a place like New York City where there’s a wealth of Jewish community options. (hint: #SouthernJews #ShalomY’all) I know those people near me who feel forgotten, ignored, scoffed at, or unvalued don’t always have another option (or that it’s a loooong drive and lots of gas money away). I am someone who has had to put in the work to build the community she wants and needs, and a community that is welcoming for the people she cares about. 

Putting aside the extent to which I’ve had to patch up my own education while trying to make sure others aren’t on their own doing it, I’ve also had an obstacle you’ll find more relatable. I know it’s not obvious, I’m also under that LGBTQ umbrella (sexuality, not really gender from my current self-understanding). I’m largely closeted irl because being Jewish makes me enough of a target and is harder to hide. I don’t discuss it much on the internet because I don’t want #woke #discourse about myself as I figure out my own identity, and don’t want my own processing  (yay for internalized -isms!) to hurt someone else. It’s fine that you didn’t know, but I want you to know now so that you can understand my experience:

Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend in Israel who’s had to make community choices too. My friend (who is also under that umbrella) convinced me that I should go to a shul with a rabbi who was openly homophobic in the past because it’ll be the best balance between programming that meets my needs (adult learning! services!) and driving distance. The rabbi stopped being openly homophobic, so I know I can be in that community. But it’s not exactly my dream. I don’t plan on relying on that rabbi for psak or life-cycle events--at least not until I know more. Then again, I’m lucky. I’m lucky in that there are rabbis I feel comfortable getting psak from who speak my native language. I’m lucky that I know enough to know that a non-rabbi can officiate a commitment ceremony (and actually a Jewish wedding too...), and that I’m from a well-connected extended-family that is friends with rabbis elsewhere (whoot! Jewish geography!) who would happily come in to officiate for me (though it might be costly and they might only do commitment rather than marriage). And I’m lucky that my extended family would be supportive enough to do so for me (they’d be getting eager enough for me to marry anyone...).  I’m also lucky in that I could drive even farther and hit a Reform community that’s been more accepting for much longer. It doesn’t have the resources or programming I need, but I would have hypothetical access to a place with other Jews that has gender-neutral bathrooms and a rabbi who hasn’t said anything (recorded) that’s unaffirming of my existence.

But what about people who don’t have access to an alternate community? Or for whom that other community is even father from being a good fit?                   With work, it is possible to make change. Do you know why that shul’s rabbi stopped being openly homophobic? Maybe compassion. But there was an outside trend too: the community shifted away from homophobia to embrace its LGBTQ members, and he was forced to follow. It’s quite likely that movement stances and responsum helped, but community organizing, changing minds one-at-a-time, those were definitely pieces of the puzzle.

I want this blog to be here for you in figuring out how to make those changes. I began an initiative on here called Tikkunity. It’s a goofy name for an important mission: help people find strategies to make their communities more vibrant, more welcoming, more supportive, more accessible, more whatever someone needs. The ones I’ve put out so far aren’t as heavy as your topic, but Tikkunity is also here for what you’re looking for. I’ve gotten in touch with some other blogs about topics that are less obvious for communities, and a bit heavier too. If either of y’all feels comfortable messaging me from off anon (just make a side-blog with a random url), I’d love to draft a post with you. Alternately, if you send something constructive and specific enough such as “I only have one choice of community and I don’t feel safe or accepted there as a [insert LGBTQ identity/ies] person. How can I make my community more accepting of [my existence/my partnership/my pronouns/etc.]? FOR: Orthodox and [LGBTQ accepting/affirming/or other word or phrase of your choice that describes people who would be in-line with your goal]” or “ I only have one choice of community (there aren’t many Jewish people near me) and I don’t feel safe or accepted there as a [insert LGBTQ identity/ies] person. Does anyone have recommendations of what to do and tools to help me do Jewish stuff to do without the big community? How can I find people from that community willing to join me so it isn’t as lonely?” then I can post it off the bat

As much as I’m not letting askers generalize Orthodox Jews as individually homophobic/transphobic, the U.S. isn’t a utopia for LGBTQ [Orthodox] Jews looking for communities. “Don’t ask don’t tell” is how many U.S. Orthodox communities function. You’ll notice that the Orthodox LGBTQ-acceptance group I linked (Eshel) is an activist-type group from within the Orthodox community. The most effective change comes from within communities, which is why I’d rather you talk to Orthodox jumblrs than me. There are many LGBTQ Orthodox Jews on tumblr who might be willing and able to help you make that change via advice on a Tikkunity post, connecting you with other activists, or via a longer-term messaging relationship as they make change in their own communities. While I don’t think Eshel formally works outside the U.S. right now, that doesn’t mean you can’t ask them about expansion or see if they can connect you  with other laypeople community builders and shifters to provide mentorship and support.

If you can’t start within the community, you can start building alternate spaces with Jewish people you know who have been willing to engage with you. Even communities that are largely homophobic/transphobic aren’t a monolith. There’s lots of advice out there for people making “start-up” communities or “indepedent minyanim” or “chaburas.” It’s not fair that you have to do the work. But don’t take it out on all Orthodox Jews, individually, especially because some of them are on your side.

And if you’d rather move than make those changes then if/when you are able to move this blog can also be a resource for you. If you send in a message with the cities you’re considering and what you’re looking for in a community, someone in jumblr can likely help give some advice on where you’ll find the best community for you.

[plantanarchy]

how the heck to figure out what plants are native in your specific local area (us-centric sorry)

step 1) Google is your friend but sometimes it is your enemy, as always.

step 2) Be wary of lists of “native plants” that don’t actually specify where the plants are native to or list species names.

step 3) USDA Plants Database can be helpful if you know the species name. Searching a plant in the search bar will come up with a map of states it is reportedly native, but be careful to zoom in to the specific counties. This is not going to be 100% comprehensive either because some places just don’t have enough info or have outdated data and it’s just hard to know with some plants.

Sometimes you’ll run into plants that have been widely adventive/introduced all over and no one quite knows where exactly they’re locally native to.

If you only know the genus, you can also just type that and it will pop up with a big list of plants in that genus.

step 4) your specific state or even specific county or overall region may have resources out there related to specific plants native to your area. search “[your state/county/region] flora” and see what shows up.

step 5) be wary of going to a local garden center and asking for natives without double checking the plants. some garden center folks will try harder than others, but ultimately the horticulture industry tends to paint natives with a broad brush because most places get their stuff from far-reaching distributors. so it’s difficult to specialize down to plants native to one specific area vs say... ambiguously native to certain parts of the US.

I’m increasingly seeing the brand American Beauties at local garden centers which is nice because it’s so rare to find widely sold species natives butttt their native ranges they give on their website are very vague and don’t really give too much info about the habitats they are naturally found in.

step 6) doesn’t matter if the plant’s native to your area if it’s not going to dig your garden. most of my locally native plants (in Western PA) tend to live in moist, slopey woodlands full of wetland areas and craggy cliffs. a lot of the sun-loving prairie roadside native flowers that thrive in poor soil are adventive (spread outside of their native range) and a lot of the gardens/yards around here are grassy, full sun, new suburban neighborhoods with all the topsoil scraped off and drainage rerouted. my neighborhood is a clay-packed drought-ridden nightmare for even prairie plants. my mom’s Echinacea will only live in her shade garden and refuses to reseed out in the sun. her Heliopsis is a big wilty mess half the day. but anyway

step 7) you may have a local facebook sales or swap group to investigate. your local community may even have some kinda club or society that can help you out! you won’t know unless you look.

step 7) idk man do your best, there are plenty of resources out there trying to help folks embrace natives which is a good thing. but also, if you’re a first time gardener, it may be less stressful to not worry about planting a 100% native garden. we as human beings have spent hundreds of years cultivating a bunch of very cool garden plants, after all. we may as well enjoy them. start small with your natives garden and slowly expand it. let milkweed reseed everywhere. pull an invasive or two.  you like that peony? plant that peony. let gardening be fun and don’t worry about being 100% ideologically pure.

[explodingcrenelation]

Tony Stark and the Messianic Archetype in Avengers: Endgame

* * * * * S P O I L E R S ahead for Avengers: Endgame * * * * *

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From a purely analytical standpoint, I don’t have anything against Tony’s character arc in Endgame culminating with his death. His last moments in the heat of battle weren’t rushed, poorly written, or unearned. If Tony Stark was going to die on screen, of course he’d do it like a goddamn badass—and he did.

At this point Marvel is telling a single story to millions upon millions of people and there’s no way they can craft a narrative to suit every single person. When I say Tony's death didn’t work for me, I do so knowing that Marvel wasn’t writing the story for me anyway. And I'm not trying to disparage the creative team's efforts and storytelling choices. They made a call. I don’t agree it was the right one.

For me, Tony’s death traps him inside a Messianic Archetype that doesn’t elevate his character in a wholly satisfying way and doesn’t fit the themes of the established, team-centric universe. In this essay I will…

…actually write a fucking 4000-word essay, so buckle up and read on if you’re in for the ride.

What Is the Messianic Archetype?

The Messianic Archetype is a messiah trope. It’s exactly what it sounds like—one person (usually (but not always) white, usually (but not always) male) who sacrifices themselves for the greater good. 

Here’s how TV Tropes puts it: 

In media, the Messianic Archetype is a character whose role in the story (but not necessarily personality) echoes that of Christ. They are portrayed as a savior, whether the thing they are saving is a person, a lot of people or the whole of humanity. They endure a sizable sacrifice as the means of bringing that salvation about for others, a fate they do not deserve up to and including death or a Fate Worse than Death. Other elements may be mixed and matched as required but the Messianic Archetype will include one or more of the following:

- The Chosen One. - True Companions who follow him. - Betrayal by one of those followers. - Persecution by nonbelievers. - Crucified Hero Shot (or other parallels to the Passion Play). - Figurative or literal resurrection. - A Second Coming. - The initials JC.

Some examples of Messianic Archetypes in popular narratives are: Gandalf in Lord of the Rings, Spock in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (or Kirk in Star Trek: Into Darkness), Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows, Superman in Batman vs Superman, or Neo in the Matrix trilogy. The Doctor in Doctor Who is frequently and repeatedly presented as a messiah figure. Multiple incarnations of Sherlock also follow suit in multiple imaginings of the the Reichenbach Falls scenario. (I won’t go into details with any of these characters. I trust the Messianic Archetypes here are obvious to anyone familiar with these stories.) 

In the Marvel Cinematic Universe itself, we see Messianic Archetypes popping up all over the place—like daisies! Steve plays this part when he sacrifices himself in The First Avenger to stop Red Skull's plan to bomb several major American cities. His time in the ice is a kind of death from which he is subsequently “resurrected” in modern day New York. To a lesser extent, he also offers himself up as a sacrifice to save Bucky in The Winter Soldier. 

T’Challa follows this pattern in Black Panther when he’s betrayed by W’Kabi, defeated by Killmonger, and subsequently resurrected within the safety of M’Baku’s tribe. 

In the first Thor movie, Thor is betrayed by Loki, sacrifices himself to the Destroyer to protect his human friends, and he comes back from near-death with the return of Mjölnir, having proven himself worthy of the hammer. 

Carol Danvers destroys Mar-Vell’s engine in Captain Marvel to keep enemies from getting their hands on tech that could harm millions of innocent people. Her human life symbolically ends in the subsequent explosion, and she’s effectively reborn with superpowers.

Pepper Potts is betrayed by her former colleague Killian in Iron Man 3, selected as his “chosen one” for the Extremis injection, and she dies and is reborn from fire.

Yondu in Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2—

Well, I could go on for a long time, but... you get the idea. 

The Messianic Archetype isn’t particularly new to popular media, let alone the MCU. 

This trope is deeply, almost subconsciously, woven into the fabric of popular western storytelling. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. Tropes are tropes for a reason—they speak to us on a cultural and instinctual level. We want to hear these stories over and over, replay them in new ways and look at them from different angles precisely because there is something meaningful in the narrative. 

And Tony Stark's narrative is no exception. His repeated acts of self-sacrifice fit into the Messianic Archetype very, very well.

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Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart

The MCU kicked off in 2008 with the first Iron Man movie and Tony Stark has ostensibly been the main character of the franchise from the beginning. 

The Iron Man movies establish early on that Tony has a savior complex to match the size of his ego. Our genius playboy billionaire philanthropist is a deeply flawed hero who started out his career as a maker of WMDs. He was widely known as “The Merchant of Death” before he saw the error of his ways. Tony understands he has done many Bad Things and he must atone for those Bad Things—with his life, if necessary.

“I shouldn’t be alive, unless it was for a reason. ... I finally know what I have to do and I know in my heart that it’s right.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man

The first Iron Man movie climaxes with Tony ordering Pepper to blow the Arc Reactor to stop Stane’s rampage, even though Tony might perish in the process. In Iron Man 2, Tony is actively dying from palladium poisoning, but he faces down Vanko (sans Iron Man suit) on the speedway of the Monaco Historic Grand Prix. In the first Avengers movie, we see Tony put his life on the line to get a nuclear weapon out of New York.

This is a repeated pattern for Tony, and like an addict, it’s one he struggles to break. Over and over Tony flings himself into the fray, believing he’s the one who makes the difference—he’s the willing sacrifice whose blood saves the world. 

Tony selects himself to be “the chosen one” because he sees himself as the one at fault for bringing evil into the world. 

“We create our own demons. Who said that? What does that even mean? Doesn’t matter, I said it cause he said it. ...So why am I telling you this? Because I had just created demons, and I didn’t even know it.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man 3

Iron Man 3 shows us just how deeply responsible Tony feels for the wrongs of the world. Because he made naive (and selfish) mistakes when he was young, Tony blames himself for creating villains that plague the earth now. 

We see this best in the aftermath of the destruction of Tony’s mansion in Malibu. 

“Pepper, it’s me. I’ve got a lot of apologies to make and not a lot of time. So first off, I’m so sorry I put you in harm’s way. That was selfish and stupid and it won’t happen again. ...And I’m sorry in advance because I can’t come home yet. I need to find this guy. You got to stay safe. That’s all I know.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man 3

Yes, Tony absolutely provoked the Mandarin, a known terrorist, and the result is the complete annihilation of Tony’s home. Tony accepts responsibility for the destruction as though he was the one who shot the missiles himself. He goes so far as to volunteer himself for a solo mission to find the Mandarin without even bothering to contact SHIELD or the Avengers for help. He made this mess, he’s going to clean it up. All the while he suffers through crippling anxiety and panic attacks, demonstrating that the burden he’s put on his own shoulders is, in fact, too much for him to handle by himself. Still, Tony denies himself the comforts of home and family until he can atone for his wrongdoings.

Miraculously, Iron Man 3 gives Tony a respite when the tables are turned and, for once, Tony is the one ultimately saved by Pepper. After her rescue (pun intended), Tony gives up the armor, commits to having the shrapnel taken out of his chest, and he starts rebuilding the literal ruins of his life—both physical and metaphorical.

The respite doesn’t last, of course, because recovery doesn’t go in a straight line—oh, and also the franchise isn’t over and the MCU kinda needs Iron Man. And so Tony slides back into familiar, self-destructive patterns. 

"Few years ago, I almost lost [Pepper], so I trashed all my suits. Then, we had to muck up Hydra. And then Ultron. My fault. And then, and then, and then. I never stopped. 'Cause the truth is, I don't wanna stop.” —Tony Stark, Civil War

Tony taking on the mantle of the Messianic Archetype once more in Endgame falls perfectly in line with his established need to compulsively and perpetually atone for his sins. As a perfectionist who needs to assuage his guilt for his ongoing (and perceived) failures, Tony simply can’t stop himself from offering up his life in penance. Statistically it was bound to catch up with him, and in Endgame it does.

And not only does Tony give his life in true Messianic fashion, we are “treated” to a hyper-realistic and painfully extended sequence where his life drains out of him as his loved ones gather to witness him gasping out his last breath. (Thanks for that, by the way, Marvel. I’ll put this scene with the dead baby bunnies my childhood cat used to bring home as gifts. How thoughtful.)

Maybe the reason for the intensity of Tony’s death scene is to make the audience believe his death is the Real Thing, not some comic-book-superhero-movie trickery that he’ll be back from in a few minutes’ time. Perhaps it’s the only way to ensure we commit to the emotional depth of the moment. Perhaps the filmmakers see it as an homage to RDJ’s acting talent and commitment to the role. Regardless of the rationale behind the camera’s unflinching gaze, Tony’s excruciating death hammers home the brutal and lonely reality of the Messianic Archetype: it’s cruel to put the fate of the world on one person’s shoulders. 

But Tony embraces that end. He throws himself into the machinery of fate, convinced he’s the cog that will make it all work. 

And he does make it work. 

So why is that a problem?

+

.

The Team-Oriented Universe

The problem with Tony doubling (tripling? quadrupling?) down on the Messianic Archetype at the apex of the franchise is that the MCU is an ensemble, team-oriented universe. 

“You think you're the only superhero in the world? Mr. Stark, you've become part of a bigger universe, you just don't know it yet." —Nick Fury, Iron Man

Fury tells us from the get-go that Tony isn’t the be-all-end-all of the MCU. It’s possible for Tony—for them all—to become something greater than the sum of their parts. 

“There was an idea, Stark knows this, called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, see if they could become something more.” —Nick Fury, Avengers

The entire first Avengers movie is dedicated to establishing this premise, to getting these knuckleheads to work together because, alone, they’re too wrapped up in their own bullshit to adequately deal with the forces that threaten the planet. Things don’t start to go right for them until they set aside their personal issues and act as a unit. 

As we all know, our team passes the test and they establish an important principle of the MCU: teamwork is powerful and it’s more effective than working solo. 

True, Tony’s self-sacrifice in the context of the Battle of New York helps save the day; but it’s only one part of a coordinated effort. Tony chucking the nuke into space would have been pointless without the added efforts of Steve to coordinate civilian safety, Hawkeye to relay enemy movements, Thor to separate Loki from the scepter, Natasha to close the portal, and Hulk to subdue Loki and ultimately catch Tony as he fell from the wormhole. The team achieved a better outcome together than they each could have achieved separately. 

But even in the shared afterglow of winning the Battle of New York, the individual members of the team struggle to perfect their dynamic. New challenges present themselves. There’s always room for the team to grow and become stronger together as the franchise progresses. That’s the whole point. 

Tony, for his part, waffles back and forth between his desire to be the savior mechanic (to fix everything by himself) and his desire to work cooperatively with his found-family of superheroes for the common good. This internal conflict plays out over the course of the franchise as Tony takes on the Mandarin by himself in Iron Man 3. The issue then escalates in Age of Ultron when Tony convinces Bruce to help him create Ultron, unbeknownst to the rest of the team. Murder-bot problems and team drama ensue. Tony’s cycle of guilt perpetuates itself in the wake of the disaster in Sokovia, which prompts Tony to adopt the Sokovia Accords. He submits himself and the team to UN governance in Civil War. More team drama ensues.

The logical progression of this escalating team conflict should have involved Tony confronting his deep-seated compulsion to destroy himself for the sake of others. This is exactly the problem Pepper keeps trying to point out to him—his Messianic tendencies have started to cause more problems than they solve. 

“There is nothing except this. ... There's the next mission, and nothing else.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man

Tony has struggled from the beginning to find the right balance between personal sacrifice and sharing team effort. 

Pepper frequently tries to remind Tony that he doesn’t live alone in the world, he can’t do it all by himself. And there are people who want him to live. 

“You’re all I have, too, you know.” —Pepper Potts, Iron Man

Imagine how emotionally satisfying it would have been to see Tony outgrow his need for sacrificial penance and internalize a better lesson: that the savior can be saved, the burden can be shared, and life can go on. 

+

.

A Better Ending for Tony

The MCU had the perfect opportunity to give us an ending that would be happier for Tony and a better fit for a team-centric universe. 

In Guardians of the Galaxy we see Peter Quill and his team survive the power of an Infinity Stone by working together to share the burden of its energy. 

Peter Quill is the son of a Celestial—he’s basically immortal up until the end of Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2. That’s why he and his team could hold the stone without any ill effects. 

Also, they only had to channel the power of one stone. Not six. 

That’s a fair point. 

But by the time Tony had all of the Infinity Stones in Endgame, the battlefield was chock full of all kinds of superheroes. Wanda and Carol by themselves are  embodiments of two of the Infinity Stones. Hulk had managed to bear all of the stones by himself earlier in the movie. Steve, T’challa, and Bucky are enhanced super soldiers. Thor, Valkyrie, and the other Asgardians might not be Celestials, but they are gods—and there were a lot of them on that field.

And we’re supposed to believe none of these characters could offer any help to Tony whatsoever? None of them could hold Tony’s hand for a single minute to save his life?

There are plenty of arguments that could be made: Tony was too fast, no one knew what was happening, or everyone else was occupied in battle. But at the end of the day, it’s a choice the creative team made. Tony died because they wanted him to die. 

And not much would have to change to save his life. 

Imagine this: Tony gets the stones from Thanos and, in true Messianic Archetype fashion, he commits to making the snap, fully expecting it means his death—but then Pepper is there and Pepper has always been the one asking Tony to stop offering up his life to pay for some imaginary debt he thinks he owes. He hesitates, and it’s just long enough for Carol and Wanda swoop in, putting their hands on him and taking the brunt of the energy. Thor and Steve and Bruce and Clint pile on. Peter Parker links up, too, and on and on until the entire rest of the team, all across the battlefield, are in contact with each other and alight with power, channeling the energy of the six stones, keeping Thanos and his monsters at bay. 

Tony can still have his ultra-badass “I am Iron Man” moment as he stands at the center of this surging and fluxing cosmic energy—but this time he does it with support. There are people who care about him (and each other) on all sides. And there are so many of them. Tony isn’t the only one who matters, he’s just the lynch pin that holds it all together. 

Tony is Iron Man. 

More importantly? Together they’re all the Avengers. 

*SNAP*

The universe is set right.

Maybe Tony doesn’t escape entirely unscathed. Maybe he loses his arm as suggested by this post. Maybe the others all leave with their own scars, too. But Tony’s alive and he’s finally, deeply aware of what it means to transcend the limits of personal sacrifice and share the hero’s burden with others. 

He knows now exactly what the Avengers are capable of. Oh, and by the way? That protective shield he wanted around the world in Age of Ultron? Here they all are. All these wonderful, powerful people are going to protect the Earth. And you know what? They don’t need Tony Stark’s myopic self-sacrifice to do it. 

Tony finally feels like he’s done enough—and maybe now he believes there are other heroes out there who can do better than he can. Anyway, he gets to go home to Morgan and Pepper and he finds that it’s not so hard for him to let the new kids do the tough jobs now. He happily goes back to his role as “consultant” for the Avengers, he’s a mad inventor helping change the world for the better, and he also gets to have the long adventure of being a husband and a dad. He doesn’t have to choose one identity over the other—he’s Iron Man. He can redefine what the job means whenever he wants to.

(Also, he finds a way to rescue Nat because she didn’t deserve to be fridged like that. Just saying.)

This ending, or any number of variations like it, would have allowed Tony to finally show real growth at the end of his character arc, instead of succumbing to the same old self-destructive pattern we've seen from him time and time again. And it would have reinforced the theme of teamwork and its power to elevate all those who participate. 

Maybe it’s cheesy, but you know what? It’s the ending I wanted. I know I’m not alone. 

+

.

Tony’s Not Really Dead, You Say? 

“There’s no need to be upset about Tony’s death,” some might say. “Tony’s gonna come back!” 

Resurrection is a huge part of the Messianic Archetype—and it might be that the filmmakers do intend to bring Tony back in some later movie. It might be they simply want Tony’s death in Endgame to sit a little while longer so it has a greater impact. (Gotta push for that best picture Oscar, right? The Oscars hate superhero movies, but they do love a sad ending.)

While I’m wishing for things, maybe Marvel will also release the multiple alternate endings they filmed for Endgame, essentially creating a “choose your own adventure.” Maybe we’ll all be able to pick the ending we like best and forget the rest exist. 

But I can’t make a judgement based on what might be, I can only say how I feel based on what we were given in the theater—for all intents and purposes, that’s the official story Marvel wants to share. 

The Endgame narrative insists there’s only one possible path to victory against Thanos. The “one possible path” is basically the equivalent of the creative team saying, “Don’t @ me.” There certainly must have been an impossible number of endings they could have put on film. Tony’s death is the one they picked. 

So, sorry for @ing you, Marvel, I guess, but there’s just one more point I want to make...

+

.

A Personal Note

RDJ acted the hell out of Tony's final scene. He acted the hell out of the whole franchise. Tony's death was powerful and intensely moving. I wanted to ugly cry in the lobby after the movie was over, and I was upset for days after. 

So. Good job, Marvel. You got in some surprises and you wrung out some feelings from viewers like me. Now that the movie’s taken the world by storm, the surprises will play themselves out. So, I guess the big question is: Will audiences want to revisit this adventure and the feelings you ultimately left them with? 

For me? My reluctant answer is: no. I don’t want to see Infinity War or Endgame again. Not really. Not in their entirety. I didn’t mind the slog through Infinity War in 2018 because I thought, Hey, maybe this is leading to an ultimately happy and satisfying conclusion for these characters I care about so much. And, to be fair—right up until the last 15 minutes of Endgame, I was ready to say, “All’s forgiven.” 

There’s this thing in storytelling called “payoff.” It’s when you deliver a satisfying resolution or fulfillment to your audience after they commit to your narrative journey. Payoff can be extraordinarily subjective, so, again, I acknowledge that there’s no way to please everyone. 

For me, there’s no reward in the resolution of Endgame that makes the slog to its conclusion worth it. Tony’s ending is so needlessly sacrificial, so unnecessarily brutal, that it erases much of the enjoyment I otherwise had in watching the entire rest of the film. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like sad movies and scary movies in their own context. I like them when I can choose them and know that’s what I'm getting myself into. Sometimes I want the catharsis of being utterly terrified or brought to tears. Sometimes we need stories to give us the chance to feel deep and scary emotions in a safe environment. That’s an important function of creative work.

And, I mean, truly, Endgame gave us some great acting, great effects. Amazing talent. Really fun and creative moments. I’m not trying to disparage all the work that went into its making. 

But I feel like someone took me in a limo to a high-class restaurant to eat caviar and watch sad arthouse theater when all I really wanted was to go into town with my friends for some ice cream and a fun movie. 

I didn’t need rainbow-colored sprinkles on my ending, but something a bit sweeter would have been nice. So, well done, Marvel. But also—no, thank you. 

As it stands, Endgame was too bitter for my taste.

[namjoonlooks]

Hi! Thanks for creating quality Namjoon-centric content. It has been one of my sources of happiness. :) Also, you said that you know things abt the connections between The Beatles and BTS. I hope you wouldn't mind sharing what you know because, although I listen to The Beatles' songs, I am not that familiar with their era and achievements. Thank you!

i’m glad to make you happy! :D

OOF it’s a lot orz so let’s settle in (i’ll try to limit their history to what i think is relevant to bts lmao)

so, very similar beginnings: both groups have a love of american (esp Black) music and while both clearly didn’t fully understand it, they did genuinely appreciate it and both grew out of their misplaced imitations (at different rates and different cultural climates ofc)

both did the underground grind! Namjoon in Hongdae and Hoseok on the streets of Gwangju etc; the early Beatles (Paul, John, George and some other people-they met Ringo there) did it in Hamburg. they also had to fit a handful of boys into one tiny room so they got very in each others business very quickly lmao

LennonMcCartney ..... is a whole thing unto itself woof it’s a Lot but the importance of that connection can not be overstated alright but they are responsible for most of the musical output and nearly all creative decisions much like a certain rapline ;) thankfully I think the current boys have a whole lot less Issues and ya know talk to each other but anyway...

both went to label/studios that risked it to believe in these boys because they were just that talented. they have all been afforded an unusual amount of creative freedom which is evident in the music they write. George Martin-their main producer- let them do what they want but also lent his musical expertise where they might be lacking

the music is highly personal and highly personalized. you can tell who wrote what, their personalities were very out in the open. they did general songs about love etc. but also pushed the boundary in talking about politics, the state of society, and truly out there subjects. nothing was off the table!

the Beatles literally with no exaggeration changed the state of modern music. they did their rock n roll in the early 60s (which was still to a higher quality than most) but they experimented earnestly- the peak of which was Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band- which ushered in this new era of what now sounds like the 60s to us. not all on their own ofc, their music worked in tandem with the avant garde movement happening at the time, but they really did have a huge role in moving the music industry forward. besides that they and their staffed altered the technical aspects of recording music. Tomorrow Never Knows was the first pop song to ever use a backwards track and Ken Townsend working on a Beatles song (at John’s behest) figured out automatic double tracking- that’s huge!!! artists literally had to sing over themselves to double before then. i’m getting off topic oml but yes changed the entire music industry, as we’re seeing again today with BTS. maybe not so much with technicals but in proving what a foreign-language band can do in the largest music market?? absolute global chart domination?? lifting up an entire country’s music industry?? it’s massive, you can see evidence of the entertainment  changing because BTS impact is real

this turned into an analysis rather than a history lesson whoops sorry if that wasn’t what you were looking for! i have a Lot of Feelings, just lemme know if it was something else you wanted to know alskdjf

here have this comparison of paul and joon wearing the same outfit to compensate:

thanks for sticking with me 😘

[brancadoodles]

Hey you two! Thank you for messaging me! Sorry if I won’t answer you two individually, it’s just that you two bring similar points I’d like to use to say even more stuff bc I can’t shut up, apparently.

Lady with Caribbean family whose dad plays Overwatch: that’s so cool, i tried to show my mom how to play too (she chose Mei, because chubby) but didn’t have a lot of time to try. I hope your dad is happy with Baptiste!! He seems like a very Dad character, being a defender and a healer! DAD MATERIAL Y’ALL!! THE DAD ROSTER IS GROWING!

For starters, I just wanted to make clear to everyone that I’m not a black woman - far from it, in fact - and I’m not Caribbean nor do I have many connections to the region. So any black person, especially black women, and MOST ESPECIALLY Caribbean people/people from Caribbean descent, has a deeper knowledge of what I said in that take and I do not intend to take away any place of speech. I just thought it was convenient to at least introduce my thoughts from the position of someone who clearly remembers the 2010 Haiti earthquake (many of your were too young then) and who knows game development to a higher extent than most of the OW community. Also, before I got crazy with the gamer community acting mega entitled over stuff - more on that later.

That said, I gotta say a few things under the cut:

Fans - especially fans from demographics that have little or bad representation in mainstream games - have the right to want a character that represents their image, culture, and values, and that celebrates them. But no one is entitled to such characters when the game is made and controlled by a private capitalist company. The SJW (a word I’ll use as a shorthand for people who defend diversity and respect in the community bc I personally love the idea of us being warriors) OW community is usually pretty understanding, but there are many corners that seem to demand the addition of x or y type of character in the main cast. And Blizzard is not a pizzeria: they try to cater to general cries of the community, within viable time, but game development is a freaking complicated business with lots of flaws and variables.

For instance: the Overwatch creative team at the beginning was, in its majority, male and American white. Michael Chu is of Asian descent, and I know through stories that Blizzard has many female employees and is quite accepting and chill, but it’s still a major multiplayer US-centric Triple A game, and they wanted to cater to what is perceived to be the biggest public for those: young-ish white males. That ties in with their earnestness to try and make a diverse game with a diverse and respectful cast, but their probable lack of understanding of what exactly the public wanted at the moment - or in the next year, because - and I’ll make it bold to drill this into your minds - it takes from 6 months to one year to develop a new character from scratch until they’re added to the cast. Fucking understand this once and for all - game pipelines are very complicated. Again, this is not a pizza place - they have a lot of testing and planning to do and changing the pipeline to add one character before the other is unhealthy for the production.

Therefore, what sparked the creation of Baptiste was, with almost all certainty, the claims for black Mercy as shown in the Overwatch Artbook released around mid-2018. I can’t affirm what they were thinking when they discarded that concept in favor of barbie angel Mercy (ilu blondie), but my guess is that they thought it tied better with both the Valkyrie and the Guardian Angel concepts they were developing, as well as adding a woman of “conventional European beauty” (uuugh) so girls would be represented without rippling the waters too much - remember, she was a release hero, and they had no idea how well Overwatch would fare then. BUT when the community said they would WELCOME a black man as a nurturing support figure (*cough* dad), they reimagined "Angelo” as Baptiste.

Could they have released black Mercy boy back in 2016? Maybe, but 2016 isn’t 2018, and Mercy was developed way farther back than this. They wanted the game to work first, and they probably thought a lot of what they did was already super diverse (and it was).

Which brings us to a very important and often ignored point: Brands aren’t friends. Blizzard, as much as its team tries to be inclusive, is a privately owned company and Activision-Blizzard just laid off 800 workers this month alone. Corporations, as they are conceptualized and existing in the neoliberal panorama of the 2010′s, are billion-dollar socioeconomic psychopaths. That doesn’t mean that Jeff and the OW team is inherently bad or seeking profit - honestly, game workers don’t make that much money in comparison to the administrative positions, and Jeff is very much just a designer -, but it does mean that they are held by the company straps to generate enough capital to keep the machine running, PLUS profit for the execs.

Add to that the fact that the senior members of the OW team have started working in the 1900′s/2000′s, when gAMeR CuLTuRe was being sedimented, and so a lot of the previous concepts of what should be done in a big budget game to appease to the “main audience” are still at play in their minds: simply put, they aren’t millennials, and our culture changes a lot from one year to another. When they release Baptiste, the community is already claiming for a black woman stranger than ever, but remember that it wasn’t THAT blatant in July last year before Hammond (who was a passion project in the works for 4 years) and Ashe (who was an original character for the short film the team fell in love with and decided to add) - it kinda started picking up after Moira and esp Brigitte.

Does that leave them out of the hook? No, of course not. Keep complaining. They’ve already proved they were listening with Baptiste here. I seriously believe that one of the next 3 releases will be a black woman like we are all asking, because they’re seeing that’s something the audience wants. Black people are historically entitled to fair and plentiful representation all around, especially in mainstream media, but it’ll hardly happen in current capitalist culture unless it’s proven to be profitable. No company serves its community, it serves itself using the community - the value said community draws from it is what us, consumers, consider important, but no brand is required to be loyal to us. It could be that Jeff and Michael are begging to the producers to let them add a black woman from the start, and the producers say their hands are tied because their research say black women don’t play games and players don’t care - we’ll never know. We can only tell Blizzard “Hey, Baptiste is really great, big leap you made here, next time black woman okay? We need a black woman.”

(To be completely fair, they should hire black women to the creative team just as is, and make the team even more diverse (I may be wrong but I don’t see a lot black people, not even a lot of Latino people, when the team is seen). Making diverse people part of the team doesn’t mean we’ll get so-and-so character, but it adds a flavor that American white males in their 30s and 40s don’t have. But that’s another discussion for another day)

Now, to wrap this up, a message for gamers who say “you’re complaining too much there’s no diversity are you blind half the cast is non-white” oh yea and ALL NONWHITE PEOPLE ARE THE SAME RIGHT???? WE ALL THE SAME. I’M BRAZILIAN I NECESSARILY AM FROM RIO AND PLAY FOOTBALL (it’s football) AND SAMBA. BLACK MEN ARE THE SAME AS BLACK WOMEN AND BLACK PEOPLE ARE ALL THE SAME EVERYWHERE. YES. OF COURSE. THAT’S HOW DIVERSITY WORKS THAT’S PRETTY MUCH THA go get a Viper shot up your ass in Capture the Flag it’s not my place to educate you on capital D Diversity, because diversity means there are a lot of takes in play. Diversity isn’t “nonwhite”, like white is a default. IT ISN’T.

So yea now I’m off to draw shippy art of Baptiste with everyone and family art too my God I love him so much you have no idea.

Also, brands aren’t friends, destroy the establishment, be aggressive but respectful, and the best fans are the ones who want the property getting better and make it better through their own creativity. Peace.

[cards-onthetable]

I'd ask you to write a March Madness Joble but that feels very American-centric and maybe no one's interested. But if it led to playing a little one-on-one in the Reagan driveway with Looks and heavy breathing and Competitive Flirting and Jamie trying not to push him up against the brick on the side of his father's house maybe people would be interested. 👀👀🏀

Oh, like this?👀👀👀👀👀👀

This is like, Aggressively American so I apologize to all our non-basketball obsessed dumpster members. It’s also a lot of words and I’m kind of mad about it. Consider it an authorized add-on to @ontherockswithsalt‘s highschool!Joble AU and party like it’s 1999.

***

“That was not a foul!”

The loud protest rings out as I cautiously slip inside the Reagans’ back door. “Come on, you’ll let it go when Miami’s hanging off the guy’s back, but you call that?”

I don’t recognize the voice, but Jamie’s reply is unmistakable. “He got him on the arm, Danny!”

“Jamie?” I call. “Hey, I’m here.”

“Who’s that?” Danny demands, but Jamie doesn’t answer him as he appears at the edge of the kitchen.

“Hey, sorry, I knocked but…”

“But it’s a little loud in here,” Jamie shrugs. “Come on in, we’re just watching Purdue give Miami a run for their money. My brother’s here. Hence the yelling.”

I trail him into the living room just as his brother Danny slumps down hopelessly into Mr. Reagan’s usual armchair. “This is so bad. Dammit, Jamie--”

“Not my fault your bracket sucks,” Jamie shrugs. “This is Noble, by the way.”

Danny turns a lazy glance on me. “Oh, that kid Mom was talking about.”

“Uh -- yeah, him,” Jamie confirms. He meets my eyes with a grimace that’s either apologetic or embarrassed, I’m not sure, but it’s damn cute either way.

“Basketball fan?” Danny asks.

“March Madness fan.”

“He’s pissed that Miami isn’t walking away with this game,” Jamie explains.

“I got Miami in the championship!” Danny wails. “Purdue sucks, they’re a ten-seed. This shouldn’t even be a game.”

Jamie rifles through a pile of papers on the coffee table -- his family’s tournament brackets, I realize -- and quickly checks. “No, you have them losing in the Final Four.”

“In my precinct pool, you dummy, the one that matters,” Danny grunts.

I squint at the score in the corner of the grainy screen, where number two-ranked Miami is losing by two. “Well I’ve got Miami in the Final Four too so…”

“So both of you are idiots. Miami doesn’t have the defense to match Purdue’s big guys.” Jamie holds up his own bracket sheet, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. “Go Boilermakers.”

“Lotta game left,” Danny warns him. “Don’t count your chickens, kid.”

Slinging my backpack off my shoulder, I drop onto the couch near Jamie. He does still help me out with Lit class but it’s become more of an afterthought, almost an excuse for the amount of time we’ve been spending together. I’m here once or twice a week, not to mention quiet mornings spent across from each other at our usual library table before class, and other… friendly excuses to hang out whenever they come up.

Danny -- a gruffer, more human contrast to Jamie’s polished parents, his Ivy League sister, the other brother who is apparently just a taller version of Jamie -- turns out to be more entertaining than the game. Purdue is dominating and soon there’s no question about who’ll win.

“You should’ve listened to me,” Jamie shrugs at his brother, who isn’t soothed by the sentiment. “I said when you turned in your bracket…”

“You did not, you’re full of it,” Danny grumbles.

“You know, I bet most people have Miami winning,” I offer. “Nobody thinks a ten will beat a two--”

“Well, not nobody--” Jamie interrupts.

“I didn’t ask you,” I say, shutting him up with a blind elbow to his biceps across the couch. “Who else you got in the Final Four? You could still have a chance.”

Jamie wrenches his arm away and counters with his own elbow. “Well I’m the only one here who got this game right, so maybe you should be asking me.”

I finally lean back against the couch, no longer playfully excluding Jamie from conversation with the angle of my body. “Oh-ho, you got one upset right, better call Sportscenter.”

“My bracket’s better than anyone else’s!” Jamie insists. “My entire Elite Eight is still alive. What about you, Danny?”

“It’s still early,” Danny retorts.

“Yeah, pretty early to have half your teams out--” Jamie ducks, laughing, as Danny pegs a wadded paper towel at him. “Well, you two enjoy watching your brackets die. I’m hungry.”

Taking the paper towel ball and the empty bag of chips from the coffee table, he heads to the kitchen. A moment later, when the game goes to commercial, I follow him.

“He’s just jealous because my bracket has been better than his every year since I was like, ten,” Jamie tells me. “Whenever I could start making informed decisions instead of random guesses.”

I help myself to the other half of the peanut butter sandwich he made. “That wasn’t until you were ten?” I tease.

“Well yeah, I don’t think I really understood the more obscure statistics until then--”

“Oh, my god,” I groan. “Why’m I not surprised?”

“What?” He wonders. “It’s how to do things if you want to win.”

“Stats don’t win games,” I argue. “If they did, there’d be no upsets, the Final Four would be all the one-seeds…”

“No, see, that’s not true. There are other important factors to figure out which team should win any given game, it’s not just win-loss record.”

I shake my head. “You’re the only person I know who can take something fun and make it like, some boring math problem. Your stats only mean so much. What matters is how you actually play.”

Jamie lets out an amused scoff. “That’s what stats are, man. They tell you how you play. A little more specifically than good or bad.”

“There’s no substitute for just playing,” I maintain. “Knowing how someone is on the court. You can’t break that down into a bunch of numbers.”

“Jamie!” Danny yells. “I’m gonna take off. Tell Mom Linda’s working on Sunday so she won’t be at dinner.”

“Okay,” Jamie calls back. “Any miraculous comebacks in there?”

“Can it,” Danny shouts, and the front door slams behind him before Jamie can do more than snicker at his brother’s frustration.

“You play?” he asks me as he turns to replace the jar of jelly in the fridge.

“Play?” I echo.

“Basketball, dude. Do you?”

“Sure.” I don’t, really. I quit organized sports around the time the coaches got serious and started to be pissed at me for dicking around.

“Alright then, let’s go,” he challenges with a flick of his eyebrows. “One-on-one.”

My eyes widen at the challenge. “What’ll I win?”

“That’s the question I should be asking you.”

“You’re not driving my car,” I announce, killing that dream of his before he can bring it up again.

“Sounds like you’re concerned. You know, I was the top three-point shooter by percentage on my eighth grade team.”

“How about you let your game speak for itself.”

“Just want you to know what you’re up against,” he says, an easy smile betraying his confidence. “Let me go change, be right back.”

He heads upstairs and returns quickly, having switched to mesh shorts rather than the jeans he was inexplicably wearing for a casual night in at his own house. Once he’s tied his New Balance tennis shoes he leads the way outside, where a hoop I hadn’t noticed before hangs above the garage door.

“First to eleven baskets wins,” Jamie says. “Jump balls go to the offense. Inbound at that crack right there. Here, you can be on offense first.”

Basketball propped against his hip, he waits at the designated crack in the driveway pavement as I position myself across from him, facing the basket. Then he passes me the ball and bends his knees into a defensive stance. I dribble in place for a moment before I attempt to go around him, only for his long arm to slap the ball away. He manages to grab it and turns to the basket to make an easy layup.

“Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?” I call out.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he smirks. “You could, I don’t know, play a little--”

“Alright, hey, check me the ball, let’s go.”

“One, nothing,” he says, and we start over.

This time I’m more ready for him. With a little momentum towards the basket, I stop short and send up a jump shot before he can adjust. It bounces off the rim and I dash for the rebound, making the second shot I take.

“How’s that for ‘playing a little’?”

“We might have a game here.” Jamie jogs to the inbound line and pushes his hair back off his forehead. “What’s wrong, Sanfino? Nervous?”

“No. For you, maybe.”

I bounce him the ball, expecting him to dribble and set himself up for his play. Instead he immediately flies past me and makes a show of his shot while I can just stand there and watch him score.

“What was that?” he calls as the ball rolls away. “Who’re you scared for?”

“Okay, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“How it’s gonna be? What, like a game? I’m not here to bake cookies, man. Get the ball.”

“You get it.”

“I’m winning.”

Brushing past him, I wing out an arm to shove him and then I smack the ball hard against his stomach. “Not for long.”

He’s a better ball handler than I am, but I’m bigger and I’m not afraid to throw my weight around a little bit. Where he pulls out fancy moves, dribbles between his legs and cuts around me to the basket, I just lower my shoulder against his chest and push back, keeping my dribble with the other hand until I’m close enough to turn and shoot. Despite our different styles we’re evenly matched, tied at eight when I have to take a time-out.

Jamie sends a confused frown my way as his chest heaves with a deep breath. “‘S wrong?”

“Lemme get some water,” I say, swiping at my sweaty forehead with the hem of my t-shirt.

“Hurry up, we gotta finish before my parents get home and park in front of the hoop. Whoa, unless that’s your whole strategy--”

“Strategy?”

“Put it off long enough that we can’t finish, and therefore you can’t lose.”

“Big talk from a guy who’s not actually winning,” I remind him with a teasing grin.

He body-checks me as we both go for the kitchen door like he can’t leave the game on the driveway. It’s different seeing him like this, letting loose a little rather than taking everything so seriously. Between that and the physical closeness of him as we play, every nerve in my body is buzzing and it’s kind of distracting. I don’t need the water break so much for the water as to relax myself for a second before I really do lose this game.

We down glasses of water, check the score of the game that’s on in the empty living room, and head back outside. Jamie pulls off his Harvard sweatshirt and his shirt comes up with it, flashing skin I didn’t ask to see. It almost surprises me when he shoves the ball at me and I remember I’m supposed to beating his ass.

“Let’s go!” he urges. “We’re losing daylight here.”

I pass him the ball to start his offense and he pulls another quick move around me to make a ten-foot jumper. Then I promptly miss the same shot, and he shoulders his way underneath me to come up with the rebound. Ducking away to reset, he beats my slow defense once more and I can just catch his point beneath the basket.

“Uh-oh, game point,” he pants, managing a knowing grin. “It’s your last chance, bro. Don’t blow it.”

“I’m not about to blow anything,” I assert. “Quit fucking around, Reagan, and inbound the ball.”

“Oh, he’s serious now, folks,” Jamie narrates to nobody. He takes the ball as I get in position at the line, and he bounces it to me. “Less than a minute left and it’s a two-possession game. Sanfino has the ball--”

Dribbling with my right hand, I turn my back to his defense and drive left to the basket.

“He’s going for the basket,” he continues, his breath hot at my neck as I push against him. “It’s a tough man-to-man defense. Lots of traffic in the lane--”

He’s fucking distracting, his teasing and his hips pressed against my ass stirring something deep in my gut that I try to ignore in my struggle to focus. When I shove off him with a strong push of one arm and turn to shoot, I’m just throwing up a prayer and it bounces hopelessly off the rim.

Jamie pivots and goes for the ball with me close behind. We both get our hands on it, fighting until I yell, “Jump! Jump balls go to the offense,” and rip the ball away. He scrambles to get back on defense but I’m quick enough to make the layup.

“Sanfino makes the layup and it’s getting interesting here in Bay Ridge, folks…”

“Oh, my god, shut up,” I demand, but I can’t help the laugh that escapes my winded chest.

He ducks his face againt a defined shoulder to clear the sweat, and then I pass him the ball. “The shot clock is winding down -- Reagan for the win -- five, four, three--” And he swishes a perfect long jumper, ending it without ever leaving me a chance.

He pumps a triumphant fist and jogs around me to get the ball before it rolls away. “And that,” he declares, “is what happens when you think you can beat the best three-point shooter on the 8th grade Bay Ridge Badgers.”

“Badgers?” I yelp, cracking up. “No way.”

“We only won two games,” Jamie admits. “But I made eighty-three percent of my three-pointers.” He stows the ball in the garage and shuts the side door behind him as he approaches me. “Hey, man, good game. That was fun.”

I accept his outstretched hand and we pull each other into a sweaty back-slapping hug.

“We’ll have to play again sometime, and I won’t let you win.”

“Let me win? Let me?” He shoves me back and heads for the door, grabbing his discarded sweatshirt as he does. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude.”

Running a hand through sweaty hair, I stay on the driveway for a beat to let a deep breath and a nice stretch disperse all the jumpy energy flowing through me. And then I follow him into the house.

[unpeumacabre]

Tony Stark Has Many Problems

“Ah, my friends!" Thor booms, and it's a strangely-familiar sound amid the slick noises emanating from Loki's (very pert) bottom. "My brother and I could hear your lovers' quarrel from our positions here. Would you care to join us?"

Tony and Steve have been dating for a while, but one little problem - they haven't had sex. It's making Tony very frustrated - he's never been this sexually inactive in his life - frustrated enough to take his anger out on Steve. Unfortunately (or fortunately) for them, Thor and Loki, recently reconciled and newly intimate, are more than happy to share their expertise with Steve and Tony.

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Steve/Tony, Thor/Loki (but mainly steve/tony centric)

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr messes up the formatting)

Count: 7k

Tony Stark has many problems.

Dum-E's gotten smart enough to figure out how to brew a cup of coffee, but not smart enough to realise that bringing a hot, steaming cup of coffee to Tony's worktable when he's holding a blowtorch, and spilling said cup of coffee all over Tony's lap, isn't usually the way coffee is served. Clint needs new arrows but this time he wants arrows that play Taylor Swift music when they explode - God only knows why - and Tony is having a really hard time trying to pick a song of hers that doesn't make him puke at the first teeny-boppy chord. Loki has recently taken up residence in his tower - his tower, goddammnit! - and hasn't caused any mischief in the past two days; in fact, he's even helped Tony out of a sticky situation on the battlefield, and things are getting so unreal right now, and oh, Pepper isn't answering his calls because he forgot to vet her speech for the Stark Industries annual ball even though she sent him twenty emails to remind him about her speech, and he really needs chocolate but Thor ate the last Kit-Kat yesterday, and Jarvis - that asshole - conveniently forgets to add chocolate to his grocery list, there's nothing wrong with his weight, goddamnit -

Oh, right, where was he?

Tony Stark has many problems, yes, but his new relationship with Steve isn't one of them. The fact that he's actually started dating the star-spangled, pinnacle-of-human-achievement, Spandex-wearing Captain America hadn't quite sunk in until after Steve had asked him out to lunch at the new diner down the road, and he'd looked down and seen that little burn mark on Steve's thumb, and felt a warm sensation flare in his chest. Because Steve'd told everyone he'd gotten it from fighting the Doombots that morning, but Tony alone knew he'd really gotten it from accidentally sticking his hand in the microwave when it hadn't been switched on. The memory had reminded him that, behind the facade of stoic patriotism and stern-faced Mama-bearism that Steve Rogers wears, he really is just Steve , a dork of the highest degree, who still thinks Jarvis is an actual human being hiding somewhere on one of the ninety-three floors of Stark Tower.

So yes, Tony can hardly believe that Steve is his, really his. It still has somewhat of a dreamlike quality about it, him and his childhood idol, holding hands on a picnic mat under the stars, watching Pretty Woman on Netflix while Steve respectfully gushes about how beautiful Julia Roberts is, kissing desperately in Steve's room while Clint and Thor play Mario Kart in the living room next door -

Okay, maybe there is one teeny-tiny, miniscule, quark-sized problem. And the problem is that Steve is absolutely not down for anything involving him, Tony, a bed and possibly fruit-flavoured condoms (well, a man can always dream). Sure, they'd kissed a couple of times, and maybe even engaged in some heavy petting where Tony had gotten to touch one marvellously-shaped pec before Steve had broken off stammering and red-faced, unable to look him in the eye and sporting an impressive bulge that had Tony drooling. But of course, Tony is all about respect - how proud Pepper would be of him now, if she'd only answer his calls - and he'd mournfully backed off every time Steve had called the festivities to a halt and gone off to spend a suspiciously long time in the bathroom.

Tony thinks sadly of the steamy dream he'd had last night - Steve on his lap, hands down each others' pants, and stroking each other to completion. If his younger self were here now, he'd be laughing his head off at how fucking tame Tony has become. Fifty Shades of Grey has nothing on his college days, but now he's with Steve, quite possibly the love of his life, and even the thought of a quick handjob between the sheets is arousing as hell to Tony.

Tony thinks the problem between them's because Steve's still a virgin. Hell, he knows it's because Steve's a virgin - no girl had wanted to put their hands on the skinny, asthmatic twig that had been Steven Rogers in the good ole pre-world war days, and once he'd become the gold standard for male attractiveness, being a war hero and propaganda tool hadn't exactly left much time for him to indulge. And now, in this new world where sex isn't as big a taboo as it used to be and with everyone speaking practically a foreign language, it's made Steve even more wary of carnal relations.

Yeah, Tony understands, and he's heartbroken for Steve, really he is, thinking about all the times someone'd rejected him just because they could curl their whole hand around his wrist and have their fingers meet, and about how Steve sometimes comes back after a solo jaunt about Brooklyn and just needs to lie down in Tony's lap for a while.

Unfortunately, he's also suffering from the worst case of blue balls in the entire American history. No, scratch that, the entire history of humankind, and animalkind, the entire history of the universe . Hell, he'd gone out and seen a pair of squirrels in flagrante delicto on a nearby tree branch, and he'd been so frustrated he'd pulled on his suit and taken out a whole fleet of robots in the training room.

The two sides of him - the one that's all sappy and pussywhipped and wants to worship and adore the very ground Steve walks on, versus the side making him make a bonfire out of all the Avengers' porn mags (except Natasha, because he actually values his life, despite what everyone says, and he doesn't even know if she has porn mags. Do girls read porn?) - are in huge conflict, and it's driving him crazy. Crazy enough that he's taken to avoiding spars with Steve, because if he has to endure one more chokehold with Steve's very hard, very manly body pressed against the entirety of his back, he will possibly fly to Latveria himself and offer himself as a sacrifice to Doom. Which is not a very welcoming thought, and Tony is sorry he even thought about it.

And of course avoiding Steve never works, because they know each other so well. Instead, Steve has started following him around Stark Tower and hiding outside his workshop to give him heart attacks at one am, with his goddamn baby blue puppy eyes. He doesn't even need to say anything, and already Tony feels guilty.

That's why Steve manages to corner him when he's dragged himself out of his workshop at - surprise! - a perfectly respectable hour to scrounge up some dinner, holding a plate of mac and cheese and touching Tony’s bicep with a gentle enough touch that makes Tony want to scream.

"Tony?" he says, and his eyes are very blue. "Can I talk to you?"

Tony knows he's lost the moment Steve opens his mouth, but he feels the telltale itch in his left ball - the one he gets when he hasn't experienced a release in many days - and suddenly he's resigned to the conversation that will follow. He sighs, and grabs the plate from Steve. At least he won't be hungry later during the inevitable argument, he tells himself, sadly.

He keeps walking to the kitchen anyway, hoping to get a cup of coffee, and slowing down to keep Steve at his side as a concession. Steve looks at him, his eyes crinkling, and oh no, that's not a good crinkle, it's a bad crinkle, and it usually means he's sad about something, and this time it isn't Tony's left ball that twinges, it's somewhere in his chest.

"Tony, you've been avoiding me," Steve says, directly, without preamble, because that's just the kind of guy he is. "At first I thought you were injured, y'know, because you only avoided me when we were supposed to spar, but then I realised you're not doing the same for Clint and Thor and Natasha and uh, I just wanted to ask..." He trails off, and Tony stops. He feels his heart in his mouth (and the macaroni too, but that's a different matter altogether) as he looks into Steve's eyes, and sees them bad-crinkle even further.

"Is something wrong?" Steve finally asks, and holy shit, he must've just bathed, because there's a strand of blond hair so dark it looks almost brown, escaped from his perfectly groomed fringe, and hanging over his eyes. It's adorable, and yep, Tony is totally whipped, because he automatically lifts a hand to brush it away, and immediately Steve's expression softens.

But he's still waiting for an answer.

Tony sighs. Best to get it over with, then. He fidgets with the spoon and can't meet Steve's eyes as he says, "Well, it's not something wrong , per se... Just, y'know, I'm just feeling a little... a little sick. Yeah, that's right. Feeling a little... under the weather. I think it was something Dum-E gave me, that salad he served me the other day didn't look very fresh..."

God, he's such a chicken, and when did he become such a bad liar, because Steve looks totally unconvinced. He steps closer and lays a hand on Tony's forehead instead, and that was such a bad idea, he should've said he'd gotten food poisoning instead, because now he can smell Steve's scent, the smell of fresh pine trees from his deodorant and underneath, that musky smell that is, uniquely, Steve's. Hasn't he read somewhere that if you liked a person's smell, you were compatible, because you had the same kind of olfactory receptors, or something? He tries not to think about it, and focus instead on not spontaneously combusting or ejaculating in his pants or something equally embarrassing.

Thankfully, Steve steps away after a harrowing few seconds, frowning. "You don't feel like you have a temperature, though," he murmurs, and there's so much concern in his voice that, suddenly, Tony feels irrationally annoyed. He's being such a mother hen, God , and usually Tony finds it adorable, but this time he's in a mood, a sexually-deprived, pissed-off mood, and he just wants to hole himself up in his room with twenty boxes of tissues and his Cockyboys lifetime subscription. And meanwhile he has this actual hunk of man-meat all to himself, but he can't touch him - the gods are truly evil. Tony wonders if switching to Norse pagan faith would give him better luck, seeing as how he's currently housing two deities of said faith under his roof, at great personal and financial cost.

His patience finally snaps when Steve produces a thermometer out of absolutely nowhere , and tries to stick it in his mouth. Angrily, he pushes him away, and tries to make excuses for running up to his room, but Steve is having none of it, and really Tony can't be blamed for finally yelling: "I'M ANGRY BECAUSE WE HAVEN'T HAD SEX, OKAY?? Now will you stop bothering me and let me go upstairs so I can jerk off over the one porn mag I have left?"

It's almost worth it for the comical expression of shock on Steve's face, his plump, beautiful lips in a perfect 'o', the one strand of hair once again escaping his fringe to hang over his eyes. Then of course his mouth snaps shut and pinches into an unhappy line, his eyes bad-crinkle even further, and Tony wants to hit himself. God, he's the worst person ever , isn't he? Yelling at Steve when all he'd been trying to do was make sure Tony's okay, taking out his frustration on Steve and bringing up the one thing he knows will hit his boyfriend the hardest. A low blow it was, and Tony immediately regrets ever opening his mouth. This is why people aren't supposed to talk to him when he hasn't had his caffeine, dammit!

He grabs Steve's biceps and, for the first time, doesn't focus on how they feel like the goddamn rock of Gibraltar under this hands. "Look, I didn't mean that," he babbles, frantically trying to erase the past few minutes. If he doesn't remember it, it means it doesn't exist, right? "I just meant, uh, I've been really tired recently and I haven't been able to -"

"To indulge yourself?" Steve interrupts him, and his voice is strangely steady. In surprise, Tony lets go of his biceps, and, finding nothing to do with his hands, lets them fall limply to his sides. Steve is staring down at the ground now, his face expressionless, but Tony knows him - he knows he's thinking.

"I'm just... I'm just afraid," he finally whispers, so soft that Tony hardly hears it.

"Sorry?" Tony says. He can't believe his ears.

Steve finally looks up, and his eyes are burning with anger and frustration and hell, is it inappropriate for Tony to be having an erection right now? Because his dick has taken the train to Bonerland and it sure as hell didn't buy a return ticket. Just imagining that intensity focused on him, in the throes of passion, Steve's strong hands pinning him down as he pounds his ass to high heaven -

"I said, I'm just afraid of sex! With you!" Steve says, and it hits Tony that he's yelling, his face blotchy with anger and his fists balled at his side. "It's easy for you, isn't it, you've done it a thousand times, how could I possibly compare? The farthest I've ever gotten is kissing - with you , I might add - and I'm just a virgin with hardly any experience, how would I know anything about how to please you, and after a while you're going to get bored of me because I don't know how to fuck you properly, and then you'll leave me and I'll just - ugh! " Breaking off with the most eloquent, disgusted exhalation of fury Tony has ever heard, Steve turns on his heel and stomps angrily down the hall towards the kitchen.

Tony stands stock still for a few seconds, his mind rapidly whirring through the deluge of words, before it finally clicks and it all falls into place.

Steve's scared , scared of having sex with Tony, because he thinks he's not good enough, with all Tony's experience, never mind that Tony's had sex a thousand times before, sure, but he can count the number of times he's made love on one hand. Steve isn't going to be a nameless fuck to him, Tony knows he's special , and he curses himself as he realises it's his fault for not making absolutely sure Steve knows it too.

He turns and runs down the hall to the kitchen, where Steve has already disappeared behind the door, pushing it open and fully intending on explaining himself to Steve, when the scene before him makes him stand absolutely still again, for the second time in minutes.

Because there's Thor, and there's Loki, and a whole lot of naked skin, and they're fucking against his kitchen counter .

A voice in his brain reminds him that this is hardly sanitary, but he brushes it aside in favour of looking at Steve, who's also standing there in shock, his hand gripping the table as if he can hardly stand upright.

"Ah, my friends!" Thor booms, and it's a strangely-familiar sound amid the slick noises emanating from Loki's (very pert) bottom. "My brother and I could hear your lovers' quarrel from our positions here. Would you care to join us?"

---

Tony can't move his limbs. Although he's seen a good many bodies in his lifetime - and with many of them belonging to the sexiest stars of his generation and the next - there's just something different about watching Thor and Loki going at it. For one, they're brothers - adopted , Loki always insists, but it never seems to make a difference to the way they treat each other - which adds an illicit touch to the whole affair that makes it just that tad bit more arousing. And for another, it's just unfair the way some people seem to get all the luck. Even though Loki's an evil son of a bitch, there's hardly a blemish on his soft skin, and the smooth lines of his back flex as he writhes and undulates sinuously under Thor's body. He's bent over with his hands braced on the counter, neck thrown back, and Thor pauses in his movements to lean forward and issue a sharp bite to the back of his neck that leaves a bright red mark against the pale skin. In response to that, Loki utters a high, unabashed keen that sends a thrill up Tony's spine, and Steve's too, from the way he shudders next to Tony.

You'd think he'd be embarrassed, but no, the smug smile he gives Tony while he glances at him under his lashes, speaks otherwise.

"Ah, yes, the noble - ah! - Captain, and the - uhh , Thor, harder - and the man of iron," he says, the breathless moans punctuating his sentences. "Quite a spate of good weather we've been having - ohh, Thor, don't stop , fuck, right there - don't you think?" and yes, he's an absolutely evil piece of shit, because it's been raining and thundering like an Indian monsoon every single day the past two days since Loki had joined them, and now Tony thinks he knows why.

Thor grips Loki's hips and adjusts him, his cock driving into him in a way that makes Loki squeal and lift his arm to curl around Thor's head and dig into his hair. Tony can now see his cock, and he's really going at it, driving it like a piston into Loki's bottom, and why can't he look away?

Steve has been standing silent and stock-still for the past few moments, but now he rouses himself and lets go of the table. "But - but - you're brothers! " he cries, his eyelashes fluttering, and Tony has to swoon a little at that. What, he's only a man, a very mortal man, with a very aching hard-on in his tight work pants and surely there's no harm no foul if he just slips his hand down to cup himself for a bit -

"Yes, Loki and I are brothers - "

" Adopted - " Loki sighs, like an afterthought, and Thor gives him a particularly athletic thrust as if to shut him up.

" - but that far from diminishes the love we feel for each other!" Thor booms, again - he only has one default way of speaking. "Actually, we have you my shield brothers to thank for helping us rediscover our love for each other. It was only when Loki came to Midgard last week to greet us that we discovered our passion for each other was beyond that of brotherly love. Loki, say thank you," and he slips an arm under Loki's chest and heaves him upright so he's facing the two of them, and Tony can see the blissed-out expression on his face and his very long, pale, slim cock bouncing with every thrust.

"Thank you, " Loki breathes, his eyes half-shut, the words like a prayer, but Tony swears that he's looking straight into Tony's eyes, and there's a little half-smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Yup, he's definitely the devil. A devil, actually, seeing as how they've met the actual, literal devil - but really, Mephisto isn't the one Tony wants to be thinking about, right now.

Instead, he moves closer to Steve and grips his elbow, right as Steve says, his face a little green: "You mean last week when Loki unlocked all the zoo enclosure gates and let the animals out into Central Park - when you two disappeared halfway through the fight - you mean you were - "

"Yes!" Thor rumbles, an ecstatic smile lighting up his face, and really, it's not like Tony's never noticed that, objectively, Thor is probably the most attractive member of the team. Because nothing can hold a candle to Steve, his Steve, but this is really doing a number on Tony's poor battered underserved libido, all that rippling golden muscle and the way his hand is moving over Loki's skin, pinching at his nipples and leaving pink trails where his nails have cut into the flesh.

"And we couldn't help overhearing your argument from just now - " Loki butts in, one hand now gripping Thor's hand and guiding it up to clamp around his throat in a parody of the intimate touch Thor often exclusively confers on his brother. Now, his voice sounds a little bit choked, and a lot breathier , but still he continues. "And we were wondering if we couldn't offer some, ah, assistance ."

"Assistance?!" Steve says loudly, and yes, he is turning green, but Tony chances a peek downwards, and it appears that even though Steve is uncomfortable with the whole situation, certain... parts of his anatomy... don't seem as uncomfortable.

"Yes! My brother and myself, having recently discovered the wonders of carnal pleasure in each others' bodies, are of course enthusiastic for the rest of our beloved team members to find the same! Especially for such beloved shield brothers as the two of you, Friend Anthony and Steven," Thor exclaims, with a series of vigorous thrusts that make Loki go "oof - oof - oof - Thor, there, fuck - "

Tony finally rouses himself out of his reverie at these words, feeling that he has to at least try to look after Steve - even though the words leave him shivering with unadulterated lust, especially after the deep growl that rumbles through Thor's chest as he drills deep into Loki and holds himself there. He grips Steve's elbow tighter and attempts to smile without letting on how frazzled he is.

"Uh, thanks for the offer, Point Break, but I think we'll figure it out ourselves - " he says, already ready to drag Steve out of the room where they can go and finish their argument, but to his absolute surprise, Steve rips his arm out of Tony's grip and turns to face him. His eyes are burning again, but this time with a determined expression that tells Tony that he's already made up his mind.

"I want to do it, Tony," he says, decisively. "I want to... I want to learn how to pleasure you."

Tony's eyes widen. "I can do that," he offers weakly. "I know you have your insecurities, but really - "

That was totally the wrong thing to say, and Steve's eyes narrow stubbornly. Instead, he turns away from Tony and strides over to Loki and Thor, who have paused in their lovemaking to look at the two of them. Loki has a speculative gleam in his eye that bodes no good, but still, Tony follows Steve helplessly, caught in his orbit. He only just remembers to set down the macaroni plate, with a tremor in his hands that he quickly stills.

"Tell me what to do," Steve says, and the purposeful lilt to his voice makes Tony adjust himself again. God, he's using his Captain America voice , as if he doesn't know that that drives Tony absolutely crazy - except, well, he probably doesn't.

Thor and Loki exchange glances, then Thor places a hand in the small of Loki's back and bends him over. He takes Steve's hand and places it right there , where Thor's fat cock is half thrust in, the rim of Loki's hole is stretched taut around the expanse of Thor's dark, almost-purple cock. It's obscene, and possibly the most arousing thing Tony has ever seen.

"Can you feel that?" Thor whispers, and the reverence in his voice is startling. Steve nods sharply, panting in quick, short breaths, his eyes half-closed as if he's trying to block out what's happening. Almost involuntarily, his fingers gently caress the stretched rim of Loki's hole, where lube is glistening on the wrinkled skin.

Thor presses down on Steve's hand, and Steve gasps as his finger slips in with a wet pop. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, as he watches Loki's hole clench and ripple around the unexpected intrusion. That same low growl rumbles through Thor's chest again, just when Loki lets out a hiss of shock that ends in a high-pitched whimper.

"That's right," Thor murmurs. "Finger him. Feel him open under you. Get him wet and open and ready to take your cock. If you press there - " Thor's finger slips in and guides Steve to below his cock, where he presses and makes Loki convulse with the stimulation to his prostate. If Tony was a woman, he'd be creaming his pants right now - as it stands, he really needs to wash his boxers already.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of Thor's cock, and the two fingers, squelching around inside Loki's hole, and the pants issuing from Loki's mouth as he swivels his hips in a desperate plea for more stimulation. Then Steve speaks, his voice breathless and rough with lust: "Is that - is that how you start? Is that it?"

Loki bangs his hand against the table in frustration, finally finding his tongue. "Thor, you imbecile, you skipped foreplay," he snaps, bitingly. "Pull out, pull out, show him from the start."

Thor rolls his eyes, clearly used to Loki being a demanding little bitch, and unceremoniously pulls out. Tony isn't sure what's worse, the unabashed fucking of earlier, or seeing Thor's cock flushed and leaking, and the swollen rim of Loki's hole. And is that beard burn around the swell of Loki's buttocks - ?

With his other arm, Thor pulls Loki up again, the other hand on his hip steadying Loki as his legs threaten to give out. He regards Steve thoughtfully for a few minutes, then gestures to Loki's nipples.

"First, you have to arouse him, bring him pleasure so he will writhe and crave your touch," Thor advises, when Steve looks puzzled. "Touch him at his erogenous zones. Stroke him across his neck, his nipples, his belly, the area above his cock, where he likes it the most - but of course Anthony will have his own preferences."

Steve lifts his hand hesitantly and touches Loki's chest gently, right in the centre of his cleavage, his fingers trailing feather-light over the almost-translucent skin. Loki, already on the edge of orgasm and high-strung from Thor's cock, twists and shakes in agitation. He tilts his head, helplessly seeking, his mouth moving and mouthing soundless words. Thor drops his head and answers with a tender kiss, breathing softly across Loki's lips and mouthing absently over his cheekbones.

Although there is the delicious vision of the two gods' cocks dripping below their legs, and the scratches marking the expanse of Loki's chest, Tony cannot tear his eyes away from the sight of Thor and Loki kissing. The movement of Loki's head had seemed so unconscious, without artifice, a desperate wish for contact, and Thor's kiss so tender and intimate that it makes Tony's chest twist. One glance at Steve's face tells him that Steve feels the same, his fingers frozen and unmoving, his eyes full of desire and wanting and trained on Loki's tongue licking at Thor's half-open lips.

A surge of boldness flows through Tony, and he steps closer, next to Steve, and cups one side of Steve's face with his hand. Steve turns to look at him, and although he is much taller than Tony, somehow the warm glow in his eyes makes Tony feel like the greater one. He pulls Steve down and they kiss, lips moving quietly over each other. Steve whispers something against his lips, and the soft caress of his breath across Tony's skin feels unbearably close. Tony pulls away and, with one swift, suddenly-brave movement, pulls his wifebeater over his head and bares his chest to Steve.

Suddenly, he's glad he bathed yesterday.

Steve's fingers settle on his chest, over the blue glow of the reactor. Tony tenses, wondering if perhaps he's made a mistake - if Steve feels repulsion at the inhumane - thing - he's made himself into - but then Steve leans down, and presses his lips to the scarred skin surrounding the reactor. Tony can't feel any sensation from the nerveless skin, but as Steve lifts his head, eyes sparkling, and says "I didn't expect it to be warm - "

Tony pulls him up and lunges for his mouth. Perhaps it's less of a kiss, more of a desperate, sloppy, desire-filled devouring, but Tony feels an unaccountable warmth filling his body, right down to his fingertips and the tips of his toes as Steve keeps his hand steady on his chest, his anchor. He digs his fingers into the soft golden hair at the base of Steve's skull, and strokes frantically through the fine strands, pulling Steve's body flush against his as if by doing so, he could swallow Steve into himself and possess him fully, underneath his skin and in his heart where he's already wormed himself in.

A soft laugh beside them reminds Tony, suddenly, that they have an audience, and simultaneously, he and Steve turn their heads to regard Loki and Thor. There is a new line of bruises along Loki's jawline, outlining the smirk that pulls Loki's mouth to one side.

"Why don't you take his pants off?" he asks, his voice a bored affectation but belying the sharp, keen interest in his eyes, as Thor carelessly kneads the swell of this buttocks between his large hands and watches them, his pupils dilated. "You do know how the basic biology works, don’t you, Captain?"

Steve flushes a bright red, and for a moment Tony panicks and wonders if Loki's words had been too much, perhaps he's scared Steve off with his brazenness and callous words - but then Steve turns back to Tony, and, miracles of miracles, he starts furiously working at Tony's buttons. Tony could almost weep for joy. A little bitter that he hadn't thought to try taunting at first - but maybe it wouldn't have worked, coming from him - Tony's fingers move automatically to his jeans and help Steve. When the jeans finally come off, and Steve yanks them off his legs, he groans involuntarily, his cock springing out, red and throbbing from the pressure of having been confined in his tight-ass jeans.

"What now?" Steve says, defiantly, the flush still high on his cheekbones, and Loki lifts a dainty eyebrow, as though unimpressed by his bravado. He glances over his shoulder at Thor, levelling the same disinterested look at his partner, and Thor smiles lazily, his eyes hooded. With a violent movement, Thor pushes Loki down onto the counter and holds him there with a strong hand at the base of his spine. Loki arches his back and thrashes a bit, but it looks futile, and he's clearly enjoying it, so Tony just rolls his eyes.

Thor reaches down and picks up a bottle of lube from under the counter, and Tony makes a strangled noise, because that's his emergency kitchen lube, and it's mint-flavoured too, and it's half-empty, goddammnit, it hadn't been like that the last time he'd used it , clearly some people have been very, very busy. He squeezes a generous helping onto Steve's outstretched hands, and his own large, thick fingers, and places them on top of Loki's buttocks. Steve mimicks the action, and his fingers are warm against Tony's skin.

"What I showed you before," Thor murmurs, gesturing a rude gesture with two fingers liberally coated in lube, "do it to Friend Anthony. One finger." And with that, he trails his finger down Loki's crack, a soft caress, and probes in slowly. Loki wiggles his bum, clearly impatient, but Thor stills him with a heavy hand on his hip.

Tony watches as Steve's Adam's apple bobs, as he swallows, and he looks down at Tony's hole with such trepidation that Tony feels slightly offended. So he strengthens his hold on Steve's cheek, forces him to look into Tony's eyes.

"Hey," he whispers, "It's alright. It's just me, okay? Little ole Tony Stark. I want you, any way you'll have me. Any way you want. You can take it slow." At his words, Steve's jaw clenches, and he nods, like he's made up his mind. He smears the lube all over his fingers, makes sure they're thoroughly covered, then places his fingers on Tony's hole and pushes.

Tony gasps. It's been such a long time since he'd been penetrated, he'd almost forgotten how painful - and how pleasureable - it could be. It does feel a little clinical, like he's getting a doctor's examination, with the cautious but determined way Steve's spelunking around, but one look at the adorable furrow between Steve's brows, and Tony's unbelieveably turned on, beyond anything he's ever felt before. The simple knowledge that Steve's pushing beyond his boundaries, beyond what he'd initially been comfortable, just for Tony ... the thought makes Tony want to curl up into a ball and squeal like a girl. Except he'd probably take someone's eye out with his dick, which is already hard enough to hammer nails.

"Does it feel good?" Steve breathes. "I'm trying to find the - the prostate - but I can't really, um..."

"It feels good," Tony slurs. He's going out of his mind, but hell, this is possibly the best way to go. He envisions the headlines: CAPTAIN'S COCK CRUSHES CEO. STARK SACRIFICES HIS ASS FOR AMERICA. "A little bit lower, yeah, yeah, lower... uh, not there... ah!" He jerks as Steve brushes his fingers over the spot, sending a warm thrum of liquid pleasure through him and his cock spitting out drops of pre-cum over his stomach as it bobs.

And all the while, Steve keeps relentlessly at it, his touch starting to feel a little less like Tony's last prostate exam - conducted by Bruce, and hadn't it been awkward . Steve's always been a fast learner, even before the serum, from what Tony's heard, and of course now he has the serum coursing through his blood he's practically a genius, because he's found a way of massaging just so in a way that makes Tony utter a very undignified screech, and clutch tight at the base of his cock so he doesn't spill prematurely. Because that would just be the cherry on the cake, wouldn't it.

When he can finally open his eyes, he realises Steve is staring at him with a rapt expression, awe and lust warring in his big baby blues, and Tony fucking blushes , yeah he does, like a goddamn virgin. Because this is turning him on like you wouldn't believe, being despoiled by his hero, being taken apart slowly by Steve , with his hesitant but sure finger pressing at his prostate, and his other hand stroking up and down Tony's side like he needs to keep touching Tony.

"Can I add another?" Steve whispers, his voice tender, and Tony nods, once, tight, not trusting his voice. Steve draws his finger out and presses back in without giving Tony a chance to recover, just the way he likes it. Tony gasps, because now Steve's scissoring, all on his own, and Tony feels almost proud of him, except that he's too busy trying not to die of a heart attack because of Steve's fingers rubbing against his walls and massaging him persistently. Sue him, he's old, and he has a goddamn heart problem. In fact, if he didn't have the arc reactor in, Tony's sure he would have expired of a heart attack ages ago, because now Steve is breathing fast as he looks down at his fingers and Tony's hole tight around them - pained, short, sharp pants of breath as if he's not getting enough oxygen, and it's the most adorable thing ever.

Steve starts moving his fingers in and out, slowly at first, then faster as he gets more sure of himself, fucking Tony on his fingers. And Tony can't help the whimpers coming out of his mouth, because it feels too good, can't help the involuntary swivels of his hips as he tries to grind down on Steve's fingers. But Steve gives a nervous little laugh, and pulls away - Tony thinks he's been scared off, and looks at him, but he sees a hint of a smug smirk around the edges of Steve's mouth, and he can't help it, he laughs a little too, because under the whole goody-two-shoes exterior Steve's actually a little bit of a little shit. And a fucking tease too, apparently.

Tony feels himself loosening, and he knows he's ready. He wants it, wants Steve's cock, so he lifts his foot and strokes one sinful, long stroke over the bulge in Steve's pants. With his toes, he deftly pulls the zipper down and dips inside, caressing the hot flesh within with his foot. Steve's mouth drops open, and his eyes shut, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones like a benediction. And hell yes, Tony does feel blessed, thank you very much.

"You going to give it to me, big boy?" Tony breathes. "Gonna give me your big fat cock? Gonna press me down into the sheets and fuck me rough and hard? Can't wait for it. Can't wait to take your cock." And bingo, he'd guessed dirty talk would press Steve's buttons, because Steve is tearing at his button and shoving his jeans down feverishly like he can't wait to get naked. Tony gives a triumphant smile and a mental high-five to himself.

A moan next to his ear reminds him, all of a sudden, that they're not alone. He turns his head and sees Loki's bright green eyes a few centimetres away from him, his pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat, pink tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as Thor fists him vigorously with his hand. Tony cranes his neck to see because, wow, Thor has really big hands, and when he pulls them out Tony can see the slick glisten from the lube, and the way Loki's hole clings to Thor's hands like he's not willing to let go.

Loki lifts a hand and lays it on Tony's cheek, his mouth curling into a mischievous smile. He thumbs at the corner of Tony's mouth, wipes some of his saliva away, and leans closer.

"You and I are much alike, Tony Stark," he purrs, the rich timbre of his voice like silk. "What say you we taunt the boys a bit, hmm?"

Tony's up for anything, he is, and he returns Loki's grin with one of his own. He's not expecting, however, for Loki to grip his chin withh superhuman strength, and yank him into a deep kiss that involves a lot, a lot, a lot of tongue. Loki moans into his mouth, and God, that sounds a lot sexier that it usually does, muffled by his own lips, and Tony gives back as good as he gets, nipping at the corner of Loki's mouth and tangling his tongue with Loki's.

They're ripped apart from each other suddenly, Loki keening a high, unsatisfied keen, and Tony blinking disorientedly. He looks up and sees Thor's hands fisted in Loki's hair, pulling him backwards and forcing his back to curve into a sleek, sinuous arch that pulls his skin taut. Immediately, Thor bends forward and captures Loki's mouth, swallowing his whine in an angry, vicious kiss. Tony can't look away.

Until Steve curls his arms under Tony's buttocks, and lifts him bodily from the kitchen counter.

Tony yelps, and looks at Steve accusingly, a stinging rejoinder ready, but the words die on his lips as he sees the look on Steve's face. His eyes are dark, blown with lust, but more than anything, with possessive anger and intensity that makes Tony shiver uncontrolledly. There's no more shy virgin in Steve now, that's for sure, especially when he wrenches Tony close and presses them together in a full body caress, pressing their lips together in a greedy kiss. He mutters words into Tony's mouth - mine, mine, mine - and Tony answers mindlessly - yours - and he only vaguely registers being carried up the stairs like he weighs nothing more than a feather, and then finally, into Steve's bedroom.

Steve lays him out on the bed and rips off his own shirt, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, but it only serves to make him look like a man in a L'Oreal commercial. Really, his looks should be illegal, it's criminally unfair that he looks the way he does, all fair, freckled Irish skin across his shoulders, the deep vee of his hipbones, the dusting of golden hair on his chest and happy trail leading down to Happyland. As he approaches, Tony grips his deltoid wonderingly, feeling how the muscle stretches and flexes under his hungry, questing fingers.

Suddenly, Steve stops, and Tony sees a strange vulnerability in his face.

"Is it the... is it the muscles?" he asks, haltingly. “Is it the muscles that you - ?” And suddenly, Tony remembers - remembers the boy he'd seen in Howard's memorabilia pictures, Steven Grant Rogers before the serum, a scrawny, weak-looking thing - but still effortlessly, ethereally beautiful to Tony, even if everyone'd been too fool to notice at the time. Vehemently, Tony shakes his head, trembling with the strength of his emotion.

"Steve," he says, instead of all the words he wants to say, and that's enough. Steve comes to him, wraps him up in his arms, and slides home. He thrusts deep into Tony, into his core, until Tony can't tell where he ends and where Steve begins. Steve laves kisses over his jaw, his neck, the tender inside of his wrist, until Tony knows he'll have to wear a turtleneck with long sleeves tomorrow. Somehow, the thought excites him, knowing that only he will know the bruises underneath the fabric exist, knowing that he's been marked by Steve, that he's Steve's .

He can feel his climax approaching, almost a distant afterthought, because he's so focussed on the feeling of Steve, around him, inside him. But then Steve grips his cock with a steady hand and starts working him, and Tony tries to hold on, he really does - but he's not released in a long while, and all too quickly it's over. He spurts, long white strands of cum, all over Steve's hand and his abdomen and Tony's own stomach. Steve gasps at the feeling of Tony clenching around him, in the throes of his orgasms, and it's not long before he follows, a mass of hot, sticky fluid filling Tony's insides.

It's the best feeling Tony's had for a long time, all of it. His head's in the clouds, he feels like he's floating on air, and also Steve's cum dripping out of him is possibly the only thing he wants to feel for the rest of his life. He realises Steve feels the same when he feels Steve probing at his poor overstimulated hole, and although he hisses at the sensation, his hips involuntarily jerk towards Steve's fingers.

"Next time," Steve says, distractedly, like he's not even aware of his words, "I'll buy you a plug. So you can keep my cum in you all day, and whenever I look at you, talk to you, kiss you, I'll know you're full of me. Inside you."

Tony sits bolt upright. "You..." he manages, because where did that come from?? But Steve is looking at him now, fondly, that familiar one-sided smirk curving his lips, and really, the thought of being plugged up like that, full to the brim with Steve's cum, and not being able to do anything about it... Well, it turns him on, and his cock gives one valiant twitch. He lies back down.

They lie there in contented silence for a while, Steve humming an unfamiliar tune, and combing his fingers through the sparse curls above Tony's cock. There's so much Tony wants to say, but at the same time, he can't bring himself to say it. Steve looks at him, their eyes meet, and Tony opens his mouth.

"You think they're still going down there? We're going to have to eat breakfast on those countertops tomorrow, y'know," is what comes out instead, and Steve laughs, a quiet, exasperated laugh. Happy and satiated, Tony closes his eyes, wraps his arms around his Steve, and goes to sleep.

His left ball doesn't itch anymore.

---

Precisely at that moment, downstairs:

Loki draws pictures on the countertop with his and Thor's mingled cum. He traces the outline of Mjolnir, remembers the time last week he'd stretched Thor out and made him sit on the hammer for two hours, loose and wet and wanting, and thinks, we'll have to try that again sometime . Thor is slumped over him, watching him trace his little pictures on the countertop with an affectionate look in his eye, one hand carding absent-mindedly through his hair. It's a bit sticky, and uncomfortable, but Loki decides magnanimously that he'll allow Thor this liberty, just this once.

"That was a good thing we did there," Thor rumbles, in his usual self-satisfied manner. Loki rolls his eyes, but quietly, because he's still feeling generous. With both of Thor's fists up his arse, he orgasmed twice, and he's still floating on the cloud of endorphins, so he supposes he should be thankful to Thor, at least...

In fact, he's still feeling a little randy. His cock is beginning to harden again, where it lies against his thigh, and he knows Thor isn't finished with him yet. Thor's not known for being a fertility god for nothing, he isn't.

"You didn't tell me Tony Stark was quite so good-looking," he sighs, affecting a dreamy air. He feels the air pressure around him drop, the distant roar of thunder outside the windows, and smiles a secret smile. Yes, he knows how to rile Thor up, like no one else can - no one knows his brother like he does. That mortal woman can't even compare. Pity she and Thor used to date, because from the things he's heard of her, he thinks he and her might have gotten on, if it weren't for her unfortunate romantic past with his brother. After all, he is something of a scientist, as is she, but daring to touch his Thor isn't a transgression he forgives easily. He can't count how many past lovers of Thor's he's vanquished, and not only that, how many of these past lovers Thor himself had willingly left, just for Loki. No one can take his place at his brother's side, just as he's unwilling to give up this place he's rightfully earned.

As Thor roughly yanks his buttocks apart and settles between his knees, Loki sighs a satisfied sigh, and turns around to gaze languidly at his brother. There's a twinkle in his brother's eyes that signals that he knows he's being played, knows it, and enjoys it, just like how he'd wrested the truth of his past lovers' 'mysterious' disappearances from Loki and simply laughed the matter off before. How can the puny mortal Tony Stark even hope to compare?

Yes, there is no one but Thor for Loki, and no one but Loki for Thor, thinks Loki hazily, as he buries his face in his arms and loses himself to the wicked pleasures of Thor's tongue.

[sandstonesunspear]

Coffee Shop, Version 2

Lucy/Marie (Marcy), Lucy-centric

Found a prompt chart for Pride Month and figured I’d try my hand at it. I’m a day behind because life. Parings are random.

AO3

Lucy’s fingers drummed anxiously against the top of the table. She stared at the door to the coffee shop. Two weeks ago, planes hit the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania. Upon seeing the news, Lucy immediately called back to the states to check up on her. There had been no answer, something that greatly troubled her. She knew that, as an EMT, Marie would have undoubtedly rushed into the frey the moment calls for help went out. That knowledge didn’t ease her worry.

Because of how serious the situation was, the need for a communications network was paramount. Unfortunately, the one the military had in place just wasn’t capable of handling the surge in communications. Thus, all available Signal officers were recalled to the states to change that. It turned out to be Lucy’s early ticket home, allowing her to arrive a few days earlier than she had anticipated.

The moment her boots touched American soil, Lucy was frantically checking the rosters listing the missing and the dead. To her relief, Marie’s name was on neither. However, that relief was quickly quashed with each unanswered phone call. After fourteen messages left on Marie’s answering machine, Lucy found it full. She took to walking through the numerous makeshift memorials through the city each night to try and see if she get any information about Marie’s whereabouts.

Which was how she found herself sitting in the coffee shop where she and Marie had met a little over a year ago. Nine months ago, they had made plans for an actual date to unpack the feelings between them. It was a day that Lucy had looked forward to for months. Now, with Marie unaccounted for, all she felt was dread.

The door chimed. Lucy looked up eagerly, only to deflate. It wasn’t Marie.

She lowered her head and pressed her fingers against her temples. Just breathe, Lane. Maybe she forgot. It’s perfectly reasonable, considering everything that’s going on.

Lucy started to relax. Then the snarky half of her brain kicked in. Or maybe she’s dead and no one realises it yet. Her stomach twisted at the thought. Her knee started to bounce as her anxiety rose. Stupid stupid stupid stu--

“Lucy?”

Lucy froze. I know that voice. She looked up and felt her heart stop.

“Marie.”

Marie smiled tiredly. “Hey.” She gave a small wave.

Lucy was on her feet so fast the chair screeched. She pulled Marie into a tight hug. “Oh, thank god,” she murmured. She pulled away. “I tried calling but I couldn’t get through, and then I checked the rosters once I got back and I didn’t see your name but--”

Marie interrupted her panicked rambling. “Luce, hey, breathe, sweetheart.” She brushed a hand against Lucy’s face. “Look at me, I’m okay. Tired as fuck, but I’m okay.”

“I tried to call,” Lucy said again.

“I know, I got your messages,” Marie said. At Lucy’s questioning eyebrow, Marie’s cheeks turned pink. “I listened to all of them before I came here,” she explained. “I kind of had to. Up until about an hour ago, I hadn’t been home since the planes hit. I’ve been working 16 hour shifts trying to get people out.”

That much was obvious to Lucy. The shadows under Marie’s eyes were so dark, they resembled bruises. If she didn’t know better, she would say that Marie had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight prize fighter and lost. Badly.

Lucy reached and ran a thumb under Marie’s left eye. “How much sleep have you gotten since the attack?” Something told her that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“Not much,” Marie admitted. “FDNY’s been nice enough to let us crash at their stations between shifts, but…there’s just so much work to be done, Lucy. So many people. And you know me, I can’t…” She ran a hand through her damp hair and sighed. “I can’t just sit by and do nothing.”

Lucy nodded. “I know.” It was one of the things she loved most about Marie. She decided to chance the topic. “How long are you free for?”

Marie glanced at the Casio watch Lucy had gotten her for her birthday. “Six hours,” she said.

Lucy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. That was more than she expected. Though, if she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t originally expected to even get time with Marie today.

“What about you?” Marie asked, quirking an eyebrow at Lucy.

“I have the day.” Seeing Marie’s surprised look, she continued. “Branch has us working in shifts. I just came off a 19 hour one about…” Lucy looked at her own watch. “Five hours ago.” She had arrived back to her assigned BOQ and face planted into her mattress just as her roommate was leaving. She slept for about three hours before waking up to change and leave for the coffee shop.

“Five hours...are you telling me you worked from noon yesterday until six this morning and you still came?” Marie asked, incredulous.

Lucy shrugged. “I had to.” I needed to make sure you were still alive.

Marie’s expression softened. “Lucy…” She shook her head. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

“Bought lunch, go back to the barracks, cry in the shower for a bit then go back to work,” was Lucy’s immediate response. Aside from the crying in the shower part, it was a coping strategy that her father would have been proud of.

“That’s not healthy.”

“Probably not,” Lucy said. “But we won’t know now because you showed up.”

Marie grinned. “I did.” She rushed to make it in time. She had been sent home by her Captain and told to “sleep in a real bed for more than four hours, Alexander” because she had pulled more shifts than anyone in the company. When she arrived, she found her answering machine blinking with fourteen messages from Lucy. She listened to all of them, savouring the sound of Lucy’s voice, before jumping in the shower to scrub down.

Lucy opened her mouth to say something, but found it cut short by Marie’s yawn.

Marie blushed. “Sorry,” she apologised.

“Don’t be,” Lucy told her. A thoughtful look crossed her face. She glanced around the coffee shop. “I know that we said we’d have our date here, but what if we went back to your apartment instead?”

Marie blanched. “Luce, I’m not sure if that--”

“Just to sleep,” Lucy interrupted. “Honest.” She could feel her cheeks heating up. “I’m not ready for that yet.” Neither of them were. Both of them were running on fumes and they still had to unpack the Christmas Eve kiss.

Marie laced her fingers with Lucy’s. “Then that sounds perfect.” She smiled. Lucy held back on her urge to kiss her. She settled for squeezing her hand instead.

-

Lucy sighed the second her back hit the mattress. She let her eyes slip shut, only to open them moments later when she felt the bed dip next to her. She turned her head and smiled. Marie had changed into a pair of plaid boxers and a t-shirt. Lucy put her arm out and tugged Marie close.

Marie placed her head on Lucy’s chest. “I missed this,” she said. She had gotten used to sharing a bed with Lucy on a regular basis whenever she drove down from Fort Drum. After she left for Germany, Marie had found it hard to sleep without her.

“So did I.” Lucy craned her neck so she could look down at Marie. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Marie yawned and snuggled closer to Lucy. “So m’ch…”

Lucy felt Marie’s breath even out. She bit her lip and glanced at the ceiling. Then, she looked back down and placed a kiss against Marie’s forehead. She gently ran her free hand through Marie’s hair, enjoying the way it felt against her skin. Suddenly, she found herself having to blink back tears. She had come so close to never being able to do this again. To never seeing Marie again.

“I love you, Marie” she murmured. “I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it.” She knew that they still had to talk about Christmas Eve before she could say it again. Right now, though, saying it out loud even though Marie wasn’t awake to hear it brought a sense of relief that she hadn’t felt in years.

Lucy’s eyes slipped shut moments later. Unbeknownst to her, Marie wasn’t actually asleep. She had heard what Lucy said.

She placed her hand over Lucy’s heart. She felt the steady thrum of it against her palm and smiled.

“I love you too,” she whispered before joining Lucy in sleep.

[ryouverua]

Denouement of Katana

sorry the title was funnier in my head

Anyway, time to follow up on that morning encounter with Kaito!

BONUS SCENE WITH KAITO! BONUS SCENE WITH KAITO!!!!

Oh, and Maki’s there too! Obviously. T-Though is it bad that I missed the Chapter 2 training a little bit? They really have a great bro thing going on, whether you read it as platonic or not, and if it was just the two of them we could have gotten an unusual third character (like Rantaro with the Tsumugi/Kaede scene, or Gonta with Shuichi/Himiko)...

Ah well. Maybe we’ll get a fourth character instead!

i’ll die laughing if it’s kokichi that would be amazing

Is one even enough? I mean, not that we need to worry about that considering I have at least 5 of them at this point...

“Well you know, it’s a long, long story. First of all, I noticed these things called ‘Love Keys’ at the casino, but they were priced at 10 000 monocoins each, so I started what eventually snowballed into a gambling addiction. Then once I had all the Love Keys I wanted, I filled the void in my soul by buying as many items as I could from the Monomachine! Did you know this thing came out of a little capsule that could fit in my hand? Ha ha ha, what is even physics guys -”

Ooooh right, she doesn't use katanas. I kinda forgot about that...

I.... didn’t realize this was such a sore spot??? I thought it was just an aside relevant to that particular case, and also to rule out the idea of a katana being in her room 8′D

Maki seems to share the same school of thought as me. ‘Oh shit, I screwed up doing something that I’ve only ever tried the one time, with little-to-no practice beforehand. I AM NEVER GOING TO SO MUCH AS GLANCE AT ONE OF ~THAT~ AGAIN.”

  50 HOURS OF SHOUNEN SUPPORT LINES LATER -

I mean - it clearly does, at least a little bit??? I was going to say that I didn’t take her to be a big perfectionist, but thinking about that critically... well, that’s a bit silly, isn’t it?

I don’t know if any of you have ever read or listened to Atul Gawande - I haven’t read his book Being Mortal yet, but it’s on my list (not to mention something I’ve heard about a lot) and I was at least able to give his TedTalk a listen) - but I remember one of the most striking ideas I’d heard from him is about success vs failure rate. For most jobs, what happens when you fail? Think about sports teams, too - batting averages, scores vs shots taken - the differences are pretty big. Sure, mistakes happen in every day life on the job and there will be problems as a result, but most things you can fix things in the aftermath - but when you’re a doctor and you make a mistake, people can die. To err is human, but we don’t want doctors to err, right? We hold them to an incredibly high standard of perfection.

It’s weird to compare assassins to doctors (lol I mean they’re... literally the opposite), but with the context of her providing for the orphanage and the danger of a failed assassination attempt... well, yeah, your success vs failure rate is really, really important, and you have to hold yourself to that above-human level of perfection. Maki holds herself to a higher standard not because it was ingrained in her personality, but because a small margin of error is all she can allow herself to have before her, and the orphanage she (I think we can safely say) cares for are in danger.

Sorry, this was a bit off-topic... but hey, it’s always nice to take a windy path to try and understand someone better!

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

Aaw, and look at Shuichi trying to figure out how this whole ‘slowly developing friendship works’. He fell out of a locker and got dragged around by Kaede (also whacked at least once, if I remember correctly - a ‘whack of inspiration’), punched by Kaito before being dragged to do gruelling exercise without any warning - this type of slow-burn friendship is so pedestrian it’s probably looped back around to being shocking again.

You know, that actually explains why she was such a good investigator in Chapter 3. It was basically part of her talent, in a broader sense.

I can’t believe his thoughts immediately went to Tsumugi

I CAN’T BELIEVE HE WAS RIGHT

ISN’T IT GREAT SHUICHI

I swear I remember one of these either in the Monomachine or at the casino

God Maki you can’t just drop this kind of information and not tell me the audience where we can buy them - t-theoretically speaking, of course........

Wait, wouldn’t you just look like a con-goer on the move/going to their hotel or something?

Maki, darling... I’m like, 99% sure that’s why the target was there. W... Why is the fact that they were holding a cosplay event so surprising?

Oh, this might actually be a cultural thing now that I think about it... I think they have specially-sectioned areas for cosplay in a way that we don’t in North American/EU cons. Right? So I guess she would have stood out...

...... oOOOH MY GOD

OMFG

FML SHE’S CUTE ALSO IS THIS A REFERENCE I’M MISSING....

The combination of young girl/twintails/katana would definitely... cause heads to turn in that sort of setting... but damn, where was weapon’s check? Did she get past them??? I guess as long as she kept the scabbard on, she’d be able to get away with it but man they were sleeping on the job!

Maki how many weapons did you bring with you????

also is she not concerned about all the pictures taken of her??? I guess if she didn’t actually go through with the assassination it’s okay, but still -

LITERALLY. THE POINT OF WEAPONS CHECK.

Anxiously empathetic as always, huh Sweetcheeks...

Man, the way Kaito takes everything in a stride always cracks me up ~

SHUICHI NO THIS IS HOW YOU GET SHANKED

Man, I really do love her puffy face + hairplaying ‘anxious’ sprite. It’s cute and so expressive.

I wonder what would happen to her in that case? I guess if that’s the only leverage they have on her, they’d cut her off and possibly kill her? Or would they see if they could still use her? They do have the power to use her past kills as blackmail, so it’s possible...

Aaaaw, they’re so sensitive to her emotional needs and it makes me happy...

“WHAT IS THIS... EMPATHY... YOU KEEP DISPLAYING... I DO NOT... UNDERSTAND....”

Man, they really have come a long way. I’m guessing we won’t be getting third (fourth, really) party at this point, but I suppose the cosplaying!Maki illustrations were the fanservice for this segment!

GOD... SHUICHI, WHY MUST YOU DEATH FLAG YOUR FRIENDS SO VICIOUSLY, WITH ABSOLUTELY NO FORETHOUGHT... 

ilu but I don’t think you wear the shounen!protag dialogue quite as well as Kaito does

Whelp, the segment I thought would be Kaito-centric ended up being Maki-centric. I suppose that’s alright - the same thing happened with Kaede and Tsumugi, with Rantaro coming in to steal the spotlight (though those threats Tsumugi let loose still make me laugh). This isn’t the last extra scene, is it? I hope not!