#the rest of my day was spent figuring out how I would build an urban druid in pf 1e

[starlightcleric]

I did not manage to write today, but I managed to take a short walk, do laundry, pay some bills I've been sitting on for a while, and cook dinner! So overall executive functioning A- today.

[awkwxrdapple]

Sometimes - Javier Peña x Reader

“Sometimes, just sometimes, well alright maybe all of the time.” - Sometimes by Gerry Cinnamon (x)

Word Count: 2.5k 

Warnings: mentions of injury

A/N: What you have to know is that I am a sucker for “there was only one bed” style tropes. It’s just fluff and sleep related angst. With no back story, it just is what it is. This came to me while I was in the middle of my chem midterm so enjoy :) I’ve set it up for a second part I think, so we will see how it goes haha.

“Forgive me for asking, but are you ok?”

Javi exhaled smoke slowly. You weren’t expecting an honest answer, or any answer at all. You just had to ask. Watching him sit, slumped, on your sofa was worrying. The man looked exhausted. You were used to having him lounge lazily on your couch whenever he came round, but this time it was different. Before, he still had an air of confidence around him, whereas now he looked like he was ready to drop any minute.

After a few seconds of no reply you changed your question. 

“Are you sleeping?” 

“No.” 

The short, blunt answer startled you as you were still expecting to get nothing back from him. You were happy he was with you now, that he had come to your apartment. Something was clearly bothering him, and maybe a stranger wouldn’t have been able to tell, but luckily for Javi, you weren’t a stranger. Far from it. 

“Do you try to sleep?” It was a stupid question, but one you needed to ask. You knew his habits, he could spend all night out in a bar or a brothel to avoid sleep if he wanted to. The latter being one that brought a nasty taste to your mouth. 

“Not any more.” As you had expected. 

“Javi, you need to try.” Your voice was soft. 

“I have tried.”

“Try again then.” 

The lights of the buildings of Bogotá were bright against the inky blackness of the night sky. Your curtains were still open showing the proof that it was late. You had been sitting in each other's company for a while.

Javi saw you looking up at the window, and instantly felt guilt at keeping you up too. Just because he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight, doesn’t mean that he has to stop you too. 

“I should go Y/N.” 

Bringing your attention back to Javi, he seemed to look even worse than he did a few minutes ago. There was no way you were going to let him out of your apartment to go and do God knows what until tomorrow morning when he would start the self-destructive cycle all over again. 

“No, I want you to stay. Please.” 

“Why? You need to go to sleep and I’m keeping you up.” Javi removed himself from your sofa and took steps towards your door. 

“Javi, look at me.” He did stop and brought his gaze to yours. “Would you sleep if you stayed here?”

Your question threw him slightly. It was something he had never considered as to him, that would be a huge imposition on you. But now you were the one to mention it, maybe it would work. He had nothing to lose in the sleep department. He either would, or he wouldn’t. Yet, he also had a lot else to lose. Staying here, in your apartment, knowing you were lying peacefully only a room away, had so many domestic connotations. That was a reason he had never considered staying at yours ever, because could he put himself through that? The magnetic pull he felt around you would be ever harder to resist if he said yes. 

As soon as he let himself slip just once, it would be harder the next time. And then all his worries of keeping you safe and out of his complicated, dangerous life would manifest into reality.

“You can sleep in my room and I will have the sofa. I really don’t mind.” 

Your eyes were pleading him to stay. 

“Thank you. But I can’t. But thank you.” 

Trying not to look at you again, Javi left your apartment before you could try any harder to convince him to stay. 

+  +  +

The next time Javi knocked on your apartment door, it was much later in the evening. You had even been lying in bed for the past half an hour reading. The knocking on your door had startled you considering the hour.

“Javi, what-” 

“Can I take you up on your offer?” He was leaning against the door frame in a way to hold himself up. His body language screamed of fatigue. You wondered how his day had gone. Had he been on a stakeout? Had it been dangerous? 

“What offer?” You were confused for a moment. 

“Sleep… here.” It almost pained him to admit he wanted the comfort and safety of your apartment. 

Your eyes widened when you finally realised what “offer” he was referring to and opened your door further to let him in. 

“I don’t want to bother you at all.” Javi started, wandering over to your couch. “You won’t even know I’m here, apart from the fact I’ll be on your couch.” He let himself fall heavily down onto the cushions. 

“Javi it’s fine don’t worry. You can have my bed if you want and I’ll sleep out here.” You walked to the linen cupboard to reach down a spare pillow and blanket.

Even before he entered your apartment he knew you would say this, and he had planned what he would say in return. There was no way he was going to have you give up your own bed. He was the one imposing on you. 

He hadn’t even consciously realised he was at your door until you had opened it to reveal you wearing pyjama shorts and a tank top. You found it hard to sleep sometimes in the Colombian heat. The amount of skin on show surprised Javi, making him even more aware of your presence. The thrill of the idea of running his hands over every part of your exposed skin was intoxicating. If he wasn’t so utterly exhausted he may have done. Soft. That’s the first word that came to mind upon seeing you in cozy clothing. 

“No, I’m fine here, honestly.” At least Javi had the strength to fight you on this. 

You considered him for a moment, weighing up your points for a good counter argument, but he had already made himself comfortable. Instead, you just handed him the pillow and blanket. 

“Thank you, hermosa.” Javi drawled lazily shoving the pillow underneath his dark hair. 

The nickname didn’t go unnoticed. Your Spanish was good enough to know what he had called you. You wanted to revel in it, allow yourself a small bit of joy that he used that word to address you. Until you remembered that you probably weren’t the first, or last, girl to be called that by Javier Peña. 

“Goodnight Javi.” You saw he had already closed his eyes. And for the first time in weeks you could finally describe him as peaceful. You were going to ask him about his day at work, to try and work out what had finally made him come to you, but by doing so now you would only disturb his peace. 

+   +   +

You woke suddenly, and surprised yourself by the blackness of your room. It still wasn’t morning yet. Your phone read 4:32. 

Remembering Javi was in your apartment, you had the urge to see if he was actually asleep. Was being here actually giving him any respite against his insomnia? 

Trying not to make any noise, you crept to your bedroom door and opened it as quietly as possible. From here you could see his figure lying still on the sofa. A thin sliver of light from in between the drawn curtains shed a small amount of light into the main room. You could tell from the slow and rhythmic rise and fall of his chest that he was in fact, asleep. 

Smiling to yourself you closed the door again and retreated back into the darkness.

+   +   +

Javi sleeping on your couch sometimes became routine very quickly. 

You had got used to leaving the pillow and blanket there every evening, as more often than not he would turn up to use it. You liked it, it was nice knowing where he was, and even nicer to know that when he needed someone, he came to you. 

When you offered him your spare key he was incredibly reluctant to take it. You wanted him to have it so he could come and go as he pleased at night. You knew staying at his own apartment wasn’t working for him, so you wanted to give him freedom in another safe space. 

Eventually, he did accept the key, and sometimes he did use it. Whether that be to leave and come back at night for something, or to let himself in if you had gone out for the evening. You would come back to find him passed out in your living room, the curtains still open giving the tranquil scene an urban backdrop. You would creep around him and close them silently, before retiring to your own bed. 

Amazingly, you found your sleep had improved too. Although some nights you were more aware of the man in your apartment with you. Knowing he was in the other room was soothing, but at the same time maddening. The fact that you were too good friends meant you could never offer your own bed to him, with you still in it. No matter how much you wanted to. So you just were content with knowing that you were helping a friend. Javi had started to look better even from the first night he had spent at yours, something that only got better with time. 

One night was very different though. 

You had just finished eating dinner at the little breakfast bar in your kitchen when Javi practically stumbled into your apartment. At first you thought he was drunk, but then it became apparent that something else ailed him. There was a horrible purple bruise on the side of his face. 

“Javi!” As soon as you saw him you ran towards him and helped him to sit down. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine.” 

“Well it’s obviously not.”

You cautiously brought the tips of your fingers to the afflicted skin. He winced as you touched it - just as you thought. It wasn’t fine. 

“What happened?” Your voice was almost a whisper. You knew what he did for a job, you knew it was dangerous, but only now were you seeing that with your own eyes. In all the time you’d known Javi, you had seen him get into a few scrapes but nothing as bad as this. The bruise covered from next to his right eye all the way down his cheek. 

“One of Escobar’s sicarios had a gun, which ran out of ammo, so he used it in another way.” 

You were still inspecting the damage. There was no obvious swelling so icing it wouldn’t do anything now. Rest is what he needed. 

“Please tell me you managed to get a few punches in too.”

“Unluckily for him, my gun was working perfectly.”

“Ah…” You wondered how the other guy managed to get so close.

Javi turned to look you dead in the eye. Your face was already so close to his and the close proximity almost winded you. You had always been fascinated by his dark brown eyes. You hadn’t known anyone to have eyes as dark but still so lovely to look at, because they were so warm, and comforting. Yet, there was something else that was there too. Something that may be considered wary or even haunted. What had Javi witnessed as part of his job? 

Neither of you had said anything for a few moments, however neither of you had made a move to shift away from each other.  

“Has work been a lot like this recently?” He could still hear your whisper even though you could barely hear yourself. 

“Yeah it’s been… difficult lately.” 

“You are so brave and strong though Javi.” He winced at your words. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.” 

“I don’t, not from you. You’re just wrong.” 

“No I’m not. You are, even if you don’t believe it.” You allowed your words to be flooded with determination. You hated that he thought this way about himself. 

Javi leant forwards and instinctively put his head in his hands. He winced again at the contact. The affection you felt for him in that moment was overwhelming. 

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“Not really, I feel more dizzy than anything.”

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“No I don’t. Cause for one, this was an unauthorised stakeout.”

“Javi.” 

“Y/N please, just let me rest.” 

Putting everything else aside and prioritising Javi’s well-being you found yourself saying, “Come and lie down on my bed.” The couch was no place for someone injured. 

You briefly saw a flash of worry cross his face. Was the thought of lying on your bed so bad? 

You helped him up and he leant on you on the way into your bedroom. He kicked off his shoes at the door and you allowed him to lie on his back. 

“You know you shouldn’t be left alone.” 

“I know, that’s why I came here, because I know you would watch out for me.” 

You were now lying on your side next to him, and upon hearing that you felt a blush creep into your cheeks. You would always watch out for him. You were glad he knew that. 

“You should rest.” You moved to get up but a strong arm caught your arm. 

“Stay please.” 

“I was only going to get the blanket to sleep on the floor in here.”

“No I mean, stay here. Please.” His hand was still wrapped around your forearm. 

“Ok.” You agreed, and settled back onto the bed, bringing the sheets up over the both of you. 

“Goodnight Javi.” You said softly, for what felt like the millionth time recently. That in itself was soothing. 

“Goodnight Y/N.” 

Every cell in your body was on fire as you could feel his body heat radiating through your bed. You wanted to reach out and have some physical contact with him. Nevertheless, you knew he needed rest, and you were only friends, so there were boundaries. You rolled over to give him space and willed yourself to sleep. 

+   +   +

The first thing you thought when you woke up was how warm you were. Not an uncomfortable heat, just nice warmth. 

Javi’s arm was around you. 

Sometime through the night he had moved so his chest was up against your back. The muscles of his arm were strong and solid. You wondered if he had moved consciously, or unconsciously. You couldn’t decide which was better. He was definitely still asleep though, as the rhythm of his breathing was even and shallow. 

You, consciously, snuggled back into his embrace, and could feel yourself dozing off again until you were startled by movements from him. Javi’s arm tightened around you even more and he moved so his face was nestled into your neck, you could feel his nose lightly touching your skin. 

You couldn’t help but grin. You thought about all the times he had slept in your apartment but not in your room with you - it was a waste. You’d both been missing out on this. Maybe in Colombia this was the closest feeling to home you both of you would get. 

Masterlist 

[half-bakedboy]

Pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz Rated: General Summary: “I’ve recently found myself with a lot of time on my hands and since you don’t seem to have enough to romance someone,” Buck began, settling his drink on the table, “I think it only makes sense for someone to romance you.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh and shot back, “Yeah, and how are you going to find someone willing to put in that effort?”

“Oh, you’re lookin’ at him.”

Or… Eddie gets the romance he deserves in the form of fluff-filled dates with Buck.

For @911fluffweek - day three: Getting together // Dancing

(read chapter three on ao3 or start from the beginning)

Their second date—or third date as Buck would have absolutely corrected him—was spent much more casually than the first. There were no reservations made or romantic gestures under the stars, but that didn’t mean it was any less perfect. Buck had chosen the place once again, still not allowing Eddie to do any of the planning because it was apparently Buck’s ‘job this early in their relationship’. Eddie blushed at the words and hoped that his team didn’t notice his bright red face when he got off of the phone. 

They hadn’t yet defined exactly what they were, but Eddie knew one thing; he had never been happier. He went to work with a smile on his face, came home after his long shifts excited to see his son and to talk to Buck, and even on his days off, the grin seemed almost permanent on his face. Everyone could see it; the one-eighteen, Carla, Christopher, his abuela who had insisted this ‘Buck character’ come over for dinner as soon as possible. He was so incredibly grateful for the life he was building in L.A. and the man sitting across from him had almost everything to do with it. 

“Alright, if you had to choose between country and classic rock, which would you choose?” Buck asked, narrowing his glassy eyes at Eddie as if concerned for the answer. Eddie shrugged his shoulders and took a long sip of his beer. “You would choose Keith Urban and Toby Keith over The Stones and Pink Floyd? Seriously?” 

Eddie let out a loud laugh and said, “I was born and raised in Texas, Buck. I barely even heard The Rolling Stones when I was a kid because my dad was too busy acclimating me to the supreme talent of Garth Brooks.” His defense was met with a wave of Buck’s hand as he downed the rest of his drink and motioned for the bartender to grab him another. 

“You can’t dance to country music—And no,” Buck said just as Eddie opened his mouth to refute his accusation, “line dancing does not and will never count!” Eddie laughed again and since he was soaking in his newfound joy, he reached out a hand to Buck who easily laced their fingers together. 

“Like you’re such an expert on dancing.” Eddie scoffed and gestured toward the decently crowded floor beside them. “I don’t see you out there breaking in these new kicks.” He kicked a foot out in an attempt to scuff up Buck’s shoes but Buck gasped and caught Eddie’s foot between his, holding it there easily so Eddie couldn’t do any damage. Buck was weirdly protective of his shoes, Eddie noted.  

“I can absolutely kill it on the dance floor, but,” Buck gulped down a few sips of the beer the bartender slid over to him, “I’m entirely too buzzed for that now.” 

“Oh, sure, likely excuse,” Eddie said with an expert roll of his eyes. The band of the night came back on stage and they both turned to listen to them introduce themselves once more before they started their next song. Eddie concentrated on the quick beat and figured he could work with it. “Well, I’m going to get out there but since you’re too buzzed for that…” Eddie tossed Buck’s own words back at him and he gaped in response. 

“Wait, what? No, you can’t—” Eddie stood up at Buck’s stuttering and backed to the dance floor, gesturing for Buck to follow him with a simple pull of his fingers. He knew Buck wouldn’t say no. Eddie watched him take a deep breath and down the rest of his beer as if gathering his courage before he shuffled over and grabbed Eddie’s hands in his. 

Eddie pulled him closer and started moving to the music, swaying himself and Buck expertly to the beat. Buck’s mouth stayed open and gaping the entire time as if he couldn’t believe that Eddie had any sense of rhythm in him and Eddie was absolutely elated by that. Not many people knew he could dance and the sheer surprise in their eyes when Eddie showed them always made him a little giddy. No one expected a Texan country boy to know how to move his hips no matter how fluent in Spanish he was. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Buck exclaimed when Eddie pushed him out and twirled him back in, catching him easily. Eddie raised his eyebrows in question as Buck wrapped his arms around Eddie’s neck tightly and stared into his eyes with astonishment. “You can dance, too? You’re not allowed to be this perfect, Eddie, it’s really not fair.” Eddie threw his head back in laughter, clapping his hands together when the song ended and smiled widely when Buck leaned into his side as if nothing could pull them apart. 

“Look who’s talking,” Eddie shot back punctuating the words with a wink. Buck shook his head and smiled down at the floor before narrowing his eyes at Eddie and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Alright, MJ,” Buck began, shaking out his hands and jumping up and down as if preparing for a marathon. Eddie’s joy bubbled up in his stomach and boiled out of his mouth in a giggle he didn’t have time to be embarrassed about, and he beckoned Buck closer again. “When did you learn you had moves?” Eddie thought about the question for a moment and a fond memory flashed to the front of his mind. 

“When I was five, my abuelo decided that since I was steady enough on my feet, it was time I learned to dance. It wasn’t unusual in my family for the men to know how to dance just as well as the women. It’s a skill that was passed from generation to generation,” Eddie explained. He pressed a kiss to Buck’s cheek gently as he slid his hands up Buck’s back, pressing at his shoulders so they were chest to chest, moving with the steady beat.

“I don’t think it’s that kind of place, Eddie,” Buck whispered against his ear, a ghost of a laugh huffing against the skin there. He shivered, momentarily surprised at the kind of man Buck had reduced him to with his presence alone and pulled away enough to grip Buck’s hips and hold him at arm’s length. “I mean, we don’t have to go that far,” Buck complained about the distance with a perfect pout settling on his lips. 

Eddie laughed and teased, “It’s usually the third date when I allow a man to get his hands all over me.” Buck’s eyes widened in intrigue before a smirk erased his frown. He slotted his hand in one of Eddie’s, wrapping the other around his waist and nudging Eddie to rest his on Buck’s shoulder. There was no need for them to be that close, but Eddie wasn’t about to be the one to pull away. 

“Well, lucky for me, this is date numero tres,” Buck said in what Eddie could only describe as a horrible attempt at Spanish pronunciation. 

“It’s date numero dos and you know it, Buck,” Eddie corrected. When he noticed the familiar song was almost over, he moved his arm to slide up Buck’s back again so he could dip his dance partner for the length of the drawn-out end note, pulling him back up only when the song finished and applause erupted around them. 

“It’s unfair that you keep out romancing me on these dates,” Buck mentioned when the music slowed down. 

It gave them the chance to just sway in each other’s arms and enjoy each other’s company. Eddie had his arms wrapped around Buck’s neck, his fingers laced behind Buck’s head so that he could pull him in for another kiss if he wanted to. Buck’s were wrapped around his waist and rubbing soothing circles onto his back, tracing letters Eddie couldn’t quite place onto the fabric of his sweat-damp shirt. Eddie didn’t care that they probably looked ridiculously lost in each other, their gazes never straying even when the slow song ended and another quick-paced jam echoed through the bar. Neither of them wanted to be anywhere besides each other’s arms but knew it wasn’t possible to stay there forever. 

“Come home with me?” Eddie whispered and his heart skipped a beat when Buck said yes. 

--------------------

Eddie hadn’t planned it. In fact, he had to beg his abuela to keep Christopher overnight because it wasn’t the original plan. She said yes, which was all Eddie cared about, but unfortunately, her yes came with an exception that Eddie ignored in favor of turning his phone on silent and tackling Buck into his bed. 

That exception was a knock at his bedroom door at seven in the morning even though he was wrapped peacefully in the blankets and covered by Buck. 

“Oh no,” he muttered, eyes widening with sudden awakeness when he heard his son shouting for him on the other side of the door. He smacked Buck, who was apparently the heaviest sleeper Eddie had ever known, and when he finally opened his eyes, Eddie threw his shirt directly at his face. 

“What the—” Christopher knocked again and Buck matched Eddie’s panic with even wider eyes filled with not only fear but sympathy. That little bit of understanding was enough for Eddie’s shoulders to relax and his mind to clear. 

“We’ll be right out, Christopher. Say goodbye to abuela and let her know I’ll call her later,” Eddie called. Buck apparently heard the ‘we’ and froze where he stood with his pants around his thighs. 

“You just said—” Eddie nodded and walked up to Buck, holding his face in his hands gently and swiping his thumbs along the light redness underneath his eyes. They hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before and neither of them would have chosen to be awake so early in the morning after a night at the bar and in bed. 

“We had a sleepover. We went out dancing last night and we were both really tired so we decided to have a sleepover so that you didn’t get hurt on your drive home. He’s eight, Buck. A sleepover is just a sleepover,” Eddie explained. He let Buck process the plan for a moment.  He could just as easily slide out the bedroom window without Christopher knowing he was ever there or Eddie could go distract his son enough for Buck to sneak out the front door only to never see him again like Eddie was entirely too familiar with. 

Instead, Buck asked, “Does he like French toast?” Eddie kissed him as hard as he could with as much passion thrown into it as he did the night before when they didn’t care about anything besides how they felt wrapped in each other. Buck kissed him back and Eddie could feel the smile on his lips even as he pulled away. 

“Yeah, he’ll eat just about anything with syrup,” Eddie noted. 

Buck nodded and finished tugging on his pants, but made a face of disgust as he sniffed his shirt.  He tossed it at Eddie and one whiff had him walking over to his dresser and rummaging through to find something that might fit Buck. Warm arms wrapped around Eddie’s bare waist and Buck pressed a few gentle kisses to the back of Eddie’s shoulder before resting his chin on top of it. Eddie turned and pressed a clean shirt into Buck’s chest, kissing him one last time because he could. 

“We’ll grab showers after we eat, yeah?” It was almost as if Buck was asking permission to stay longer and Eddie would be hard-pressed to say no. He nodded and, after tossing on his own shirt, grabbed Buck’s hand and led him to the kitchen. 

Christopher was waiting patiently in his chair and when he saw who Eddie pulled behind him, he shouted, “Buck!” Buck pulled Christopher into an awkwardly angled hug and kissed the top of his head as his own greeting. 

“And your dad!” Eddie chimed in after the two had separated. Christopher rolled his eyes and Buck gestured between the father and son because they both knew there was no other person he had learned that reaction from. 

“Hi, Dad, I missed you,” Christopher said with a cheeky grin on his face. Eddie knew there was just as much truth to it as there was a tease so he wasn’t about to call him out on it, not when he held his arms up for Eddie to hug him, too. 

“I missed you, too, kid. Buck, here, has offered to make us some French toast this morning. How does that sound?” Christopher nodded excitedly and peered up at Buck. 

“Can I help?” He asked. Buck sent Eddie a pleading gaze and he immediately knew he could never say no to either of them. 

“Be good. I’ll throw on some music while you two make me food,” Eddie suggested, walking to the living room. He turned on the TV and played one of the classic rock music stations for Buck’s benefit. The loud cheer he heard from the kitchen indicated he had made the right choice and he turned up the volume just a little before making his way back to his boys. 

His boys, Eddie thought fondly. He liked the sound of that. 

“I see you’ve decided to play good music this morning,” Buck commented with a wide grin in Eddie’s direction. Christopher erupted into giggles, not quite understanding what Buck meant, but knowing he was definitely making fun of his dad. 

“Carla and Tia Pepa told me that dad’s taste in music means he’s actually an old man,” Christopher stated as he assisted Buck in mixing the eggs together in the bowl from the chair he was standing on. Buck had one protective arm wrapped around him and the sight made Eddie’s heart absolutely burst.  

“Oh, is that so? I’m gonna have to have a talk with them,” Eddie threatened, but there was no heat in it. He was sure they had said it to his face before anyway. He leaned over Christopher’s shoulder to see his little hand being guided by Buck’s to dip each piece of bread into the batter before dropping them on the griddle. Buck moved them into place with the spatula, careful that Christopher was far enough away from the heat before his eyes left the kid for even a moment. 

“Chris, you think you can man the French toast while I dance with your dad?” Buck asked, handing over the spatula. Christopher took it like it was the holy grail and Buck helped him to sit on his chair before he moved away, redirecting his attention to Eddie.

“You wanna be schooled again, Buckley? We already proved I was the better dancer last night,” he challenged, avoiding Buck’s batter-coated hands by dipping his shoulder and bending his knees, undulating his body in a move he knew would probably regret later. 

“I was not in my best state, Diaz, and you know what they say about dancing?” Buck began, wiggling his arms in some motion that could have been considered a dance move, but mostly looked like he had lost control of his limbs. “The person with the best partner wins,” he finished just as he picked Christopher up from the chair and twirled him around the room. 

Eddie softened immediately. People were so careful with Christopher all the time, tiptoeing around him and hesitating before letting him do anything a normal eight-year-old could do with no problem. But not Buck. Buck let him stand in the chair to help him cook breakfast and was twirling him around the kitchen wildly, gauging his comfortability by the laughter falling from his lips. 

“Dance with us, Daddy!” Christopher yelled, reaching an arm out toward Eddie while keeping the other securely wrapped around Buck’s neck. Eddie took advantage of his socked feet and slid across the tile floor, straight into the waiting arms of his son and the man he was definitely falling in love with. 

It wasn’t until the French toast started burning that they settled their laughter in favor of sitting around the table to drown what they could salvage from their breakfast in syrup. Eddie held Buck’s hand under the table and they shared soft smiles and teasing winks with each other as Christopher told them all about his night with Abuela. It felt like the family Eddie had tried so hard to push away and to Buck’s credit, no part of Eddie wanted to run. In fact, he wanted to stay right there as long as he could. 

[mshermia]

Full Circle - Webpril 01: Field Trip

summary: Peter and MJ are less interested in the field trip and a little more invested in spending time with each other. Someone, who's not spending any time with MJ at all is Tony, very much to his annoyance...

read on AO3

#

Nothing could ever even compete with the way Peter's stomach would flip when he would swing through the urban canyon that was Manhattan. Sure, Queens was awesome, it was his home after all, and there came a special sense of accomplishment with protecting one's home. 

But there was absolutely nothing like swinging from one skyscraper to the next.

Now, it had been forever since Spider-Man had been seen in Manhattan. Not since that day he had climbed onto that spaceship. He hadn't gone out there patrolling for a while after that final battle. When he had put his suit back on for the first time, it had seemed more important than ever to stick to his own neighborhood.

But patrol was not why Peter was back in Manhattan.

He craned his neck, eyes narrowed as he looked up to the very top of the MetLife Building. The name pulled an uncomfortable cringe on his face. It wasn't right. Years ago, the Stark letters had stood up there, only to be replaced by the Avengers symbol after the invasion of New York.

A cold shiver ran down Peter's neck and his entire back spasmed at the sensation. Aliens. The purple grape man. He shook his head. All that was in the past. 

"Hey, you okay?" MJ's hand slipped into his, hidden by their jackets from the rest of the group.

Peter forced his lips into a smile. Well, it honestly came easy whenever he looked at her. His skin broke out in goosebumps once again, in a good way though. In a way that matched the crazy rhythm, the butterflies in his stomach were dancing to.

MJ squinted up at the very top of the building herself now. "You ever been up there? When this was still Stark's?" She kept her voice low. It hadn't taken her long to figure out just how far she had to drop her voice for her words to stay just between her and Peter's enhanced-hearing.

"Long time ago," Peter nodded. "A few parties and tests in the lab before he sold it."

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, Penis."

Peter stumbled to the side as Flash push himself past them, right between him and MJ. With a heavy sigh, he stopped right in front of them, hands perched on his hip like he was supposed to be the center of attention.

"Actually, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results," Peter hisses through his teeth.

"Well, you would know, Penis, wouldn't you."

Peter's eyes flickered close in resignation, his arms tightly crossed in front of him.

"Get lost, Flash." MJ stepped back next to Peter and pushed him to the other side of the group.

"That's so sad," Flash laughed. "Look at you all whipped, Parker!"

"Just ignore him," MJ mumbled, eyes now on Mr. Harrington who was handing out lanyards to every student.

Peter nodded, eyes on his feet. It was embarrassing, always had been. It was way worse though with MJ right there to witness it. 

"Dude, I'm so psyched!" Ned had been first in line to get his lanyard, excitedly waving it in Peter's face. "How close do you think they'll let us get to it? You think we get to touch it? I mean at least the... the exterior... wall... thingy?"

Some of the tension fell off Peter. His lips slowly pulled back into a genuine smile at Ned's excitement. "Not the way you're buzzing, man... you'll have to be careful not to trigger a fission reaction."

Ned's face morphed into a mask of serious consideration. "That would kind of defeat the clean energy aspect."

Peter laughed. "Exactly!"

"But..." Ned's fingers were drumming against his chin like he was preparing for his full transmission to mad-scientist. "...it would get me Tony Stark's attention though for sure!"

"Ha," Peter barked. "Yeah, but not the kind of attention you're looking for, dude."

Ned grinned at him before he stormed back to the front of the line. Peter however decided to hang back after Mr. Harrington handed the last two lanyards out to him and MJ.

They walked into the lobby side by side though MJ didn't reach for his hand again. Instead, she was craning her head along with everyone else, looking at the oversized window fronts that were projecting different things from facts about the building's layout from floor 1 to 70, the different companies renting office space as well as the event plan for the next few months. When the Tower was still owned by Stark Industries they had had information on all kinds of things that were happening in SI buildings all over the planet projected there, all the way up to the tall ceiling of the entrance area.

"You ever seen one?" 

Peter glanced at her. "An arc?"

"Yeah." Her eyes were now following the lines of the interior design along the columns to the exquisite marble floor.

"I have. Not this one though," he shrugged. "They had one at the Compound upstate."

It had been where Peter had spent most of his real intern days, long after the Tower had been sold, after Toomes but before the purple grape man.

"Not this one? No parties next to the big bulb of energy then," she smirked.

Peter shook his head, glancing over at her. "Nah. Most of Tony's guests prefer the top floor to the basement."

That did get her attention. "The top floor, hm?"

She said it in a tone that made those butterflies in his stomach tumble excitedly. "Great view up there..." 

"Yeah, I bet." She held his gaze for a moment before a lady from the security team ushered them through the barrier.

The students in their group were bouncing excitedly, following behind the tour guide towards the line of elevators on the far side of the entrance area. 

"You know," MJ said, her tone as aloof as always. "I've always been more into architecture than energy technology. Structural engineering, that kind of thing."

Peter kept his eyes on the group, his fingertips buzzing with a new kind of excitement. "You love clean energy."

"I love to use it, but it's not like I necessarily want to build the things that generate it..."

Peter chanced another glance at her, MJ's eyes waiting to meet his. They were halfway across the room when Peter decided to hell with it, he'd just go for it. One hand on MJ's arm, he held her back for a couple of steps, letting the gap between the two of them and the group expand before he pushed her to the left, heading straight for another corridor that forked off and led to a single elevator.

They kept their heads low as they stole around the corner out of sight. The corridor was empty like it always had been even when this had been Mr. Stark's personal elevator. The doors opened right away as Peter pressed the call button and they both slipped into the waiting elevator car.

MJ shot a glance over her shoulder then grinned at Peter as the doors closed behind them. "You know, if they arrest us for this..."

"Can't arrest us for something they didn't outright ban us from, can they?"

One hand clutching her heart, MJ beamed up at him. "Peter Parker, I'm so proud. I bet they'll change the procedure from now on and move the lecture on which sections are off-limits to before they hand out these." She gave the lanyard around his neck a little flick.

Peter barked out a laugh. "Proud of how you're corrupting my pure innocent soul?"

She stepped a little closer to him. The hand that had just been resting on her heart came to lie on his cheek instead. "The circle is now complete." She leaned forward, her lips softly brushing against Peter's. "Student... master... someone becoming the other..."

The butterflies in his stomach, well... they were excited. Excited enough that a flush of heat was rising up to the very tip of his ears. His eyes were falling shut as he leaned against MJ, her lips warm and soft against his until his eyes flew back open. He leaned away from her just enough that MJ staggered forward a little, her eyes flickering open as well.

Peter studied her face, his mouth still gaping a little. "Did you just quote Star Wars to me?"

The confusion fell off her face. With an un-ladylike snort, she dipped her forehead against his shoulder. "Let's say it's your reward for the rule-breaking initiative." Her hand found his as she turned towards the elevator wall. "Let's do this." Her head spun back and forth a couple of times before Peter even caught on to what the problem was. "Wait, there's no control panel."

"Shit..." His heart sank. That tiny detail was going to ruin this for them. "No panel, it's voice-activated. Fuck, I forgot."

"So, you just say the floor and it gets you there. That's pretty cool." MJ looked up at the ceiling. "Level 70."

For a moment, they both froze in anticipation but the elevator didn't move an inch.

Peter rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. He was starting to sweat. This had been such a dumb idea. "You need clearance for it to work," he grimaced. "Shit, sorry. That was a bit anti-climactic."

Like he was taunting the universe, the doors of the elevator opened and both of them jumped in surprise.

"What up, Parker," Flash chimed up amused. "Trespassing, are we?"

"Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me," Peter hissed under his breath, clutching his heart.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Ned was right behind Flash and followed him into the elevator car.

"Nothing. We were just leaving."

"Eww, were you trying to sneak off to hook up with her?" Flash made a face, his upper lip curled up as he looked from Peter to MJ and back. "What a sleazy move."

A bead of sweat was running down the side of Peter's face, anxiety clawing its way under his skin.

"Don't be such a perv, Flash." MJ had her arms crossed, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"Whatever," Flash mumbled as the doors of the elevator shut again. He craned his neck looking around the car. "How does it move?"

"It's voice activated," both Ned and MJ groaned in union.

Peter squinted at Ned. "Wait, how did you even know where we went?"

"Saw you sneak off, didn't we... floor 70," Flash called out to the ceiling. When nothing happened, he pursed his lips. "Floor 70, please?"

Ned snorted, pulling a scowl onto Flash's face. "Well, I saw you. That one," he pointed at Flash, "just stalked me."

Eyes narrowed, Flash turned on Ned. "Maybe you should work on your sneaking skills if you don't want to be followed."

Ned waved him off. "You try it, Peter!" 

Excitement rang in Ned's voice, like Peter had the secret key to make this work. All it did was make his heart sink. It would have been bad enough to disappoint MJ, but Ned had just skipped out on the very thing he had been daydreaming of for years, seeing the arc, to follow them to a different adventure that Peter would not be able to deliver. Letting him down was even worse than embarrassing himself in front of Flash.

Peter pressed his eyes shut in resignation. There was no way the elevator would move. Without FRIDAY, he had no clearance. If it hadn't been for Flash and Ned, he might have made use of his web-shooters to steal up the elevator shaft with MJ... well, if it hadn't been for Flash... 

Still, he owed it to Ned to at least try. 

"Floor 70, please," Peter mumbled, resigned to the trip turning out to be the bust he had expected it to be.

His knees almost buckled underneath him as the elevator started to move.

"Woohoo!" Ned cheered, clapping him on the shoulder. "Dude, you did it!"

MJ grinned at him, only Flash looked a little pale around his nose. In all honesty, Peter didn't feel much better than Flash looked as the elevator was climbing higher and higher. This shouldn't have worked. He hadn't been in that building for, well 2 to 7 years, depending on who you'd ask. Tony had sold the Tower in 2016.

His head still a little fuzzy, Peter hesitated as the doors opened onto the top floor. He had almost expected them to crash some kind of function. That would have certainly explained why the elevator worked, but the entire floor was empty. It was almost eerie to see it like this when Peter had only ever experienced it lined with cocktail tables and packed with people in fine evening wear. 

"Shit, this is so cool," Ned mumbled, slowly advancing towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Manhattan. "You can basically look right into the Chrysler Building!"

Flash had walked up next to him and waved towards the other building like a little kid waving at all the other cars passing through the rear window of a car. "You know, my dad said he's gonna buy this whole thing one day. So, if you ever want to be invited to one of my parties..."

"Well, he's a little late for that. I doubt the Tower will go back on the market for the next few decades."

Peter's insides froze. For a moment, he was hoping that it was just an illusion, that maybe he was just having a stroke or a minor concussion from patrol he hadn't noticed before. But when he turned, there was no doubt. The man that stalked towards them, decked out in a three-piece suit, dark shades on his face, was no other than Tony Stark.

Both his friends and Flash had turned at once.

Ned looked like he was hyperventilating while his high-pitched whisper rang through the room. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod..."

"Oh. My. God," Peter groaned. "What are you doing here?"

Tony gasped, his face pulled into affronted shock. "Is that how you greet your favorite Avenger?"

One hand twisted in his hair, Peter could only stare at him. "I can't believe this is happening right now," he mumbled, staring straight at Tony.

"Okay, while Peter is still trying to reboot that genius brain of his." Tony pointed at Ned who's eyes were in danger of bulging out of his head. "Ted, I presume. Don't know this one," he mumbled as he pointed to Flash, but then his attention singled in on MJ. He strode right past Peter, an outstretched hand extended to her. "That means you must be MJ..." 

MJ's eyes were wide, shifting from Tony over to Peter and back. "Mr. Stark..."

"Call me Tony." The smile underneath his dark-tinted glasses was blindingly bright as she shook his nano-tech hand. That in itself left Peter at a loss for words. "I wish I could say I've heard a lot about you, but that would be a lie." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder a couple of times in Peter's direction. "You'd think he was guarding Fort Knox. Scratch that, it was easier to get in there than getting anything out of Peter when it comes to his new girlfriend."

"Oh god, please, stop talking!" Peter's face was hot, glowing like the surface of the sun. Even as he was hiding behind his hands he felt like he was illuminating the entire room.

"See, even now he's acting like this is all a big secret. Like I wouldn't notice how he rather spends his weekends in the city now than with dear old me, but I noticed and I do have his aunt's number. I mean, what does a guy have to do in order to be granted some time with their... well, intern. I only saved the universe, well, half of it. The lost half. You're welcome, by the way." He pointed at Ned and Flash as well. "You too, I guess."

Unaccustomed to Tony's rambling nature, MJ, Ned and Flash were sporting an identical look of opened-mouthed wonder, eyebrows slightly pulled together as they tried to follow Tony's chaotic monologue. 

"It's not like I don't still have about a million things to teach him. Lesson number one," he turned to Peter. "You never ever stop making out with a girl to point out a Star Wars reference. I didn't think anyone would have to be taught that!"

Peter's jaw popped open. "Oh my god, you were watching us this whole time?"

He waved a hand at Peter. "FRIDAY and I were quite amused, I'm not gonna lie, but-- hey, come on!"

One hand on Tony's upper arm, Peter pushed him toward the other side of the room. While the other three were rooted on their spots in stunned silence, Peter had no such reservation.

"What in holy hell do you think you're doing?"

"Would you calm down? You're the one who's sneaking off without thinking about the 5 gazillion cameras that are installed in this building."

"And how exactly do you still have access to all these cameras, huh? Did you bribe someone to spy on my field trip?"

"Yeah, talking about that field trip, you know you could have just told me your team wanted to see the arc and I could have—"

"Don't change the subject!"

Tony tilted his head a bit to the side. "I don't usually have to bribe anyone to access what's mine."

Even though his eyes were almost entirely hidden behind the dark-tinted glasses, Peter stared at him. But no matter how long he did, Tony did seem entirely serious. "You bought back the Tower."

It wasn't a question and Tony didn't bother to pretend like it was either.

Peter's shoulder's slumped in resignation. "When did this happen?"

Tony shrugged, suddenly suspiciously quiet. 

His nerves reaching an all-time high, Peter blew out a long breath. "Was this before or after my school's decathlon team happened to be invited to visit the arc?"

"Erm..." Tony pursed his lips, pretending to think. "I mean, I'm not sure about your little club's time table or anything like that so I wouldn't be entirely sure if—"

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Peter ran both hands through his hair, at a complete loss. "What the hell is going on with you?"

"Hey, it's not like you gave me much of a choice." Tony's finger was pointed at him, his eyebrows raised above the dark rims of his glasses, like Peter was in the know of what was going on.

"I have no idea what you're even talking about."

He huffed out an annoyed little breath. "Well, why is it that May got to meet your girlfriend and I'm still wondering if you made her up or not? And even that just because Pepper let something slip that May wasn't supposed to talk about when—"

"Okay, please..." Peter's arms and hands were stretched out, voice low like he was trying to calm a skittish animal. "...please tell me, that you didn't buy back the Tower just so you could meet MJ."

Tony crossed his arms in front of himself. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, Underoos."

"Oh god..." His head was hurting. 

"I did not. Pepper would skin me alive."

Peter wasn't quite sure if he meant for spending that kind of money or for meddling with Peter's love life in general. "Then why didn't you just tell me you bought it?"

His arms twitched with another shrug. "I thought it would be a fun surprise."

Peter glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his friends and Flash, but they were well out of sight. "Listen, I'm sorry I haven't made it out to the cabin that often. It's not... it's not like I don't want to come out, it's just... it's the other side of town and—"

"And there's not enough room and you don't have a desk there to work at and the basement is too small and Morgan's up at what feels like dawn and has you grumpy in the mornings and the woods are creepy and you still don't like driving and what did I miss?"

Peter's head was bowed low. He had never said those things to Tony. Not out loud. He'd thought them for sure though.

"I know things haven't been ideal and with the Compound gone, well... this will be the better option."

Peter frowned, slowly looking back up at Tony. "The better option?"

"The lab in the Tower will be big enough that we can have like three desks each, easily. It's close enough for you to drop by whenever you want or go home in time so you, you know, don't miss a date or something. If you want to stay over there's no reason your room has to share a wall with Morgan's, the kitchen, or the living room, so no early wake-ups. No creepy trees outside your window and the subway station is just around the corner."

Peter's eyes were burning. Somehow... somehow this did sound a lot like he was the reason why Tony bought back that damn building after all.

With a swift motion, Tony took off his glasses, the expression on his face soft but sincere. "I miss you, kid. I'm not happy with how things have been going since they... well, since we've moved back to the cabin full time."

Peter moved his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn't like he hadn't missed Tony. He didn't even mind the cabin all that much, things had just been, well, different.

It wasn't just about where Tony lived now, that he was married with a kid. It wasn't that he had retired Iron Man, not really. 

Everything was just so different and for some reason, Tony of all people acted like nothing at all had changed between them. 

"Listen, Pete, I don't mean to—" He stopped himself, lowering his voice little further. "If I overstepped and you actually... well, if you actually just want your space and you want to cut back on the erm... internship, either way, that's perfectly fine and of course, we can figure out a new routine for the... neighborhood side project to—"

"I can't believe you bought the fucking Tower for me," Peter mumbled.

Tony tilted his head to the side. The corner of his mouth was pulled back into a soft smirk. "I invented fucking time travel for you, kid."

Peter's throat was dry, but he tried to swallow the growing lump anyway. "You did that because of the purple grape. Because of what he did to like 50% of the universe."

There was a beat of silence between them. Tony held his glance, staring at him unblinkingly. "Did I?"

Peter's lips parted, but there was nothing to say, his mind simply blank. "Tony... I... I'm not sure—"

"Alright now..." Without another moment of hesitation, Tony stepped a little closer, his arms pulling Peter into a tight hug. "We won't do that now. Not here. Not today," he whispered. One of his hands, the human one, was on the back of Peter's head when he quickly pressed a kiss against his temple. "I missed you, buddy."

Peter's fingers were clinging to Tony's back, his eyes pressed shut as he tried not to think about what Tony had said. Tried not to analyze what it meant if he had really done all of it just for him.

It took a few more mumbled words from Tony until he let go. His head held low, Peter ran the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes.

"You want this?" Tony held out his glasses for him to take. 

With a wet snort, Peter waved his hand away. "Yeah, 'cause that's not super obvious at all..."

Tony shrugged, the smirk on his lips deepening. Just before he pushed his glasses back onto his face, Peter caught a glimpse of the glassy brown eyes, a little red probably not unlike his own. With an overly heavy sigh, Tony wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. „Come on, buddy... I think at least one of your friends is dying to see that technological marvel in my basement.”

Peter scrunched up his nose, not even trying to pull away from him. “Can you at least try not to be weird?”

“I won’t make any promises.” 

"You could make up for it and let Ned touch the arc." He bit his lip, hiding a smile. "He really really wants to..."

"Why do you want to break that thing I just bought for you?"

Peter let his head drop against Tony's shoulder. "It's okay, I'll help you fix it."

#

This is the first time I've written something for this fandom that is *not* whump, so let me know, what you think!

I'll try to fill a bunch of these prompts, because I love running from my WIPs. Don't hate me for it ;) <3

[ororowrites]

Two Thousand Twelve (Yahya x Black OC)

 Sweet Thang Series  - Chapter One

Warnings: Language, sexual situations, substance use 

Word Count: 2,409

Los Angeles - 2012

Forty-five, forty six, forty seven, forty eight, forty nine, fifty! Candace finished up her last set of sit-ups, dusted off her leggings and grabbed her belongings. The gym served as her stress reliever, especially when her boyfriend was the cause of the stress. When she felt like she had worked up enough of a sweat, Candace returned to the off campus apartment she shared with her twin sister, Trinity. 

They were both in their Senior year at USC, far away from their home in Chicago, Illinois. Candace was majoring in Dramatic Arts while her twin sister was studying History and Education. They were both the apple of their parents’ eyes but Candace was the child who went above and beyond to make them proud. Her sister Trinity was more of a free spirit and though she had many academic successes, she did not care what their parents thought or about their constant pressure. Trinity and Candace had two older sisters, Freida and Talia and a younger brother, Anthony who was about to start his freshman year of college. The twins were in their last semester of college and while they looked forward to graduating, they did not look forward to splitting up for graduate school. Candace had dreams of attending Yale’s Drama School and her twin wanted to move back home for her next educational ventures. 

“I need to figure out what I’m going to do. At this rate, I can’t keep up with my tuition payments,” Candace complained, checking her bank statements. “Most of my money is going towards the car and insurance and I can’t get rid of that.

“Did you talk to someone in the financial aid office? They stay having attitudes in there but maybe they can help. I would say I’d help you....I’m broke as shit, though.” Trinity twirled her Ramen noodles around her fork and stuffed it in her mouth. “I’m surviving on Ramen noodles and faith.” 

“I wasn’t expecting your help, Trin.” Options began to pile up in Candace’s head and only one of them appeared to be the best choice. Maybe not the best choice to many but her pride kept her from asking her parents for more help. Anthony Jr. was a talented athlete and with them putting him through school, she didn’t want to bug them. Plus, she wanted the best for her brother. He deserved the world for all the hard work he put into his craft and turning his life around after a rough patch.

“Getting another job is probably your best bet,” Trinity suggested, shrugging her shoulders. 

--------

“Let me eat you out,” Maxwell whispered in Candace’s ear. 

If she rolled her eyes any harder, they’d fall out of her head. Why did she even agree to come out with him when his sheer presence irked her soul? Maxwell was Candace’s on and off again boyfriend and right now they were in an off phase. As usual, Candace ended up making herself available so Maxwell could apologize. 

“Why can’t you just watch the movie,” Candace ignored the twitch between her legs and kept her eyes on the movie screen. Agreeing to come to the drive-in was a poor decision. Everyone always ended up fucking at the drive-in. 

“Come on, baby. I’m trying to apologize.”

“There’s a such thing as saying ‘I’m sorry’.” Maxwell’s verbal advances turned into physical ones as he pressed his lips to her neck. 

“For a man that claims he knows me sure doesn’t get a clue.”

Even though she was slightly turned on and would do anything to take her mind off her latest concern, Candace was distracted. 

“Aight then. What’s up? What’s on that pretty mind of yours,” Maxwell questioned, his golds glistening as he smiled. 

Candace pulled at the drawstrings on her sweatshirt, “I don’t think I’ll be finishing school this semester.” 

One thing Maxwell didn’t have to worry about was money when it came to school. He was a future NFL prospect and had a full-ride scholarship. “Damn, baby. Can’t you call your parents for help?”

“Ant is graduating this year. They’ve supported us all this time and I’ve been doing good paying my tuition this year. As soon as my hours got cut at work, shit started getting out of hand,” Candace sighed, running her hands down her face. 

“Why didn’t I know this was going on?” 

Taking a deep breath, Candace thought about how many ways could say, Because you only think about yourself. “You’ve been too busy worrying about other things. I told you they were going to cut my hours.” 

“My bad. You know I stay busy with ball. I don’t remember you telling me that,” Maxwell replied, letting his hand rest on her thigh. “I would help you out if I could.” 

No you wouldn’t, Candace thought. But, she stayed silent to protect her peace. 

Maxwell’s hand crept across her lap and between her legs. She hated that she couldn’t control her sexual urge when it came to this man. The empty promises she made herself time and time again were getting ridiculous. Candace flinched when Maxwell’s cold fingers pushed her thin, cotton shorts to the side. Once again she was failing herself. Candace reached for the lighter and left over blunt that Maxwell had in the cup holder. 

“Relax,” Maxwell hummed, waiting until he felt Candace’s muscles relax before pushing a finger past her folds. He watched Candace close her eyes, letting the smoke pass through her lips. Hitched breaths filled the car, even with the loud action scene coming through the speakers. Letting herself go, she began to roll her hips into his hand.

As usual, he had her where he wanted her. Right in the palm of his hand. 

--------

San Francisco - 2012 

Yahya returned from his lunch break early, excited about new ideas he wanted to write down before they left him. His mind never stopped going and it often kept him up at night. Since graduating from Berkeley, he worked for the Mayor’s office as an Urban Planner. His passion for building up the urban core piqued his interest in architecture and his minor in social justice. When he landed the job with the Mayor’s office, he jumped into projects feet first. He had been a part of two major projects and was currently working on another one. 

“Mr. Abdul-Mateen,” the secretary said as Yahya walked through the glass doors and towards his office. “Mr. Reid would like to see you in his office.” 

Stefanie’s statement did not worry him. Her eyes always held a certain sadness, so Yahya didn’t see that sadness as a threat. Yahya walked down the long hall to Mr. Reid’s suite. The normally rambunctious man was sitting at his desk but facing the the window overlooking the city skyline. 

“Remember your first project, Yahya,” he asked, sensing a presence in his office. 

“Yeah, that proposal for the new school. That one public official was a pain in our ass but the proposal finally went through at the last minute,” Yahya recalled, smiling at the memory of his first success on the job. 

“Yeah, Mr. Ryan is a total hard ass for no reason. But you should be proud.” 

Sensing a shift in the conversation, Yahya cut right to the chase. “Mr. Reid, what’s this about?”

“Um....why don’t you come take a seat,” the director motioned to the chair in front of his desk. With the way he was looking, this could not be good news. 

Yahya had been let go. Even after all his hard work and fresh ideas, the city needed to make budget cuts and his job was one of the first on the list. Their reasoning? They had too many Urban Planners and could only afford to pay two of them and those two just so happened to be recent graduates that would get lower pay. His world felt like it had fallen apart in the ten minutes he spent in Mr. Reid’s office. What was he supposed to do now? There was no plan B when he was very calculated about his life decisions since childhood. Yahya knew what he wanted to do, which school he wanted to attend and which career path he would take to get to his ultimate goal of having his own architecture firm. This put a dent in his plans, leaving him feeling helpless. 

When Yahya got home, he didn’t even think about calling his mother and father about the bad news. He wasn’t ready to accept the news himself, so he’d wait a couple of days. Instead, he called up his boys in Los Angeles and told them he was heading down for the weekend. 

Kevin and Damon were brothers and Yahya’s best friends since grade school in Louisiana. When Yahya and his family moved to Oakland in his 6th grade year, they all remained close. Summers were spent in Louisiana and Yahya was grateful his friends were at least in the same state now. Kevin was a celebrity trainer and Damon was currently in law school. They had both moved to Los Angeles shortly after high school. 

“What’s up, dude,” Kevin exclaimed, clasping Yahya’s hand and roughly patting him on the back. “Long time, no see. You ain’t been down here in a minute.” 

“Shit, been busy, bro. Wassup Damon,” Yahya greeted the other brother and stepped inside their apartment. “Damn, the place is nice. Glad to see ya’ll asses finally got a couch and tv stand.” 

“Shut the hell up. Always talkin’ shit,” Damon groaned. “Want anything to drink? Water, soda...or a drank drank?” 

“You got anything dark? I’ll take some of that.” 

“Long day, man? You look like you been through it,” Kevin added, joining Yahya in the living room. He flipped the television to Sports Center.

“Long day? How about a long week. They worked my ass. I may put in for some vacation time here soon. I need a break,” Yahya lied. He would keep this layoff a secret until he had a plan on where he wanted to go next. 

“I hear you,” Kevin agreed. 

The crew watched sports highlights and reminisced on their childhood for a couple of hours. It was late but the night was still young for them and they didn’t want to be stuck inside on a Friday night in Los Angeles. They hit the town, settling on a strip club downtown. 

“Glad I got paid today because I’m about to go crazy up in this bitch. I heard this place has the best looking strippers and I’m tryna make someone’s daughter rich tonight,” Damon yelled over the music. Beautiful women seemed to be everywhere they turned. The strippers, the bartenders and a few women there for bachelorette parties or just there out of curiosity. 

“Just as long as you have enough left for your half of the rent, nigga. I’m not covering your half again this month,” Kevin eyed a dancer on the stage twirling down the pole with her legs in a split. “Damn.”

Yahya was distracted. Even with all the good distractions in front of him, he couldn’t stop thinking about losing his job. The entire six hour drive to Los Angeles, he tried to think of a plan B or if he needed to move and try to get an urban planning position in a different city. 

“Whoa, shit! Sorry,” a woman groaned, grabbing onto Yahya’s shoulder trying to catch her footing. “These niggas don’t know how to say excuse me around here. Sorry I ran into you.” 

“Oh, you’re good. You okay,” Yahya caught the brown beauty before she could hit the floor. 

“Yeah, first night back at this place. Gotta get used to the rude ass men in here. Thanks for catching me. Enjoy the rest of your night,” she quickly pushed through the crowd and disappeared. 

Yahya turned back to his boys to find them shaking their heads. “What?” 

“You just gone let shawty walk away like that? Did you see how that ass was sittin’? How those titties were sittin’? Honey was bad as fuck and you let her walk away,” Kevin sucked his teeth. 

“Unlike you, I’m a gentleman. Plus, she was in a rush. She’s working.” 

“Man, whatever, lets go find somewhere to sit and order some liquid courage. I’m trying to get fucked up tonight.” 

The trio settled on a table in the middle of the club after ordering their first round of drinks. They spent a little more money than they wanted but Yahya finally loosened up and started to have a good time. The next morning, he’d probably regret all the alcohol he was consuming to numb his pain. Too much liquor meant making silly decisions; like paying for a private dance in the famous Dream room. 

Yahya took a seat on the leather sofa and waited on a dancer. He had opted for the Friday night surprise, instead of asking one of the dancers on the floor for private time. The door opened and the woman who had run into him earlier that night closed the door behind her. 

“Oh, you again,” she said with a grin. 

“You act like that’s a problem,” Yahya laughed, licking his lips. His eyes were low from all the alcohol he had consumed that night. “Maybe this time I can catch your name, sweetheart.”

“A dancer never tells anyone her real name. I go by Cakes.” She stood in front of Yahya’s long legs, placing her hands on his knees. Anywhere by 112 started playing over the speakers. “This is one of my favorites.” 

“Mine too.” 

Candace tried to shake whatever connection she was having with this random man at the club. It was her first night back in two years and the first rule of Dynasty was to not fall for these randoms in the the club. They didn’t see you as anything else but a hoe in the strip club. Besides, things were on the upside with Maxwell.. at least for the time being. The only reason she had come back to Dynasty was to get enough money to pay up her tuition and put funds into her savings account for her moves after graduation. That was it. Candace had no room to be greedy because this was one secret she did not want getting back to her parents. 

Rolling her body, Candace kept her eyes on the customer, dragging her hips to the seductive beat.  

Maybe the long drive down to LA would be worth it. 

Tags: @just-peachee​ @blackburnbook​ @emjayewrites​ @chaneajoyyy​ @kumkaniudaku​

Want a tag? Please let me know and I’ll add you to my taglist for this series.

[faefictions]

Lonely People | Ch 5

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Word Count: 1,904

 Y/n spent the entire weekend dreading Monday morning. Class already wasn’t an event to look forward to, but after her conversation with Jace, she didn’t want to have to look Harrison in the eye. Of course, if things went down with him like they had with Jace, it wouldn’t have been that bad. She had only known him for a couple weeks, and they weren’t that close anyway. But they were going to be forced together for this project so she had to find some way to avoid the situation altogether. And that was how she came up with the worst plan she had ever made. She decided to just make him not like her. 

In hindsight, she should have known that that wasn’t going to work how she wanted it. You can’t force someone to not have feelings, just like you can’t force those feelings into existence. But that wouldn’t have stopped her from trying anyway. Her goal was to make him hate her just enough that he wouldn’t have a crush on her, but not so much that he couldn’t stand working with her. Her grade still mattered to her, whether she wanted to admit it or not. 

When she got into the building on Monday morning, she took a deep breath and braced herself. She knew it wasn’t like he was about to make a move on her, but she had to be proactive. When she walked into the class, just one minute before the bell, she glanced up to see Harrison already at the desk, two coffees sitting in front of him. 

He smiled up at her and offered her one of the coffees when she approached him. She kindly took it from the desk and took a sip. 

“There a reason for this?” she asked, gesturing towards the cup. 

“Didn’t want you to be late again,” he chuckled, trying to lighten her seemingly dim mood. 

“Oh, uh, thanks, I guess,” she replied trying her best to not show her appreciation. 

“Wait, what if I had stopped for coffee anyway?”

“Well I guess I didn’t think that far ahead,” he replied, the small smile almost disappearing from his face. She decided to take that as a win for now. 

Mr. Sullivan dismissed both the classes early so they could either prepare for their shoots, head into the studio, or take their shoots elsewhere. 

Y/n and Harrison made their way back to her apartment to get the clothes they had left there from the previous class. The walk was filled with an awkward silence, one that neither of them had the guts to break. Jace had gotten into both of their heads, so any hope for a normal conversation was out the door. 

When they reached the apartment, Harrison didn’t light up like he usually did when he saw Jace. He gave him a begrudged smile and followed y/n into her room to help her gather whatever she needed for their photoshoot. She noticed his awkward shift of character around Jace, but didn’t say anything. She knew exactly why he was acting that way. She wasn’t initially sure if Jace had confronted Harrison too, but she had her suspicions. She tried to not be upset about it, but it irked her beyond belief. Jace had no right to interfere with her love life, or lack thereof. That was her decision. 

“You ok?” Harrison asked, snapping y/n out of her little trance. She realized that she had been standing in the middle of the room, blankly staring at the closet for a few seconds too long. 

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks turning red with embarrassment. 

She reached into her closet and pulled out two of the outfits that they had chosen the week before. She let Harrison decide which one they would focus on for the day. She was happy with his choice: a deep blue sweater and some white pants. He had also picked out a watch and simple gold chain to go with the outfit as well. 

They had mutually agreed to spend as little time in the studio as possible. Everyone seemed to be centering their projects on artificial lighting and indoor set-ups. Y/n, of course, had to think outside of the box. So she decided to have only one photo in the studio, and the rest would use as much natural light as possible and be taken in an urban setting. Harrison loved the idea, and the examples she was showing him were amazing enough to seal the deal officially. 

Y/n left Harrison in her bedroom to change while she grabbed some more of her personal equipment from the main room. There was a corner next to the television that she had convinced Sierra and Jace to let her store some of her excess stands and bags in. It wasn’t too much, she just didn’t want it cluttering her room. 

By the time she was all packed up and ready to go, Harrison was coming out of her room to show her the outfit. She mentally noted all the minor adjustments she wanted to make before she started taking photos, and headed out the door. 

She had to admit that the walk to their first location was excruciatingly awkward. The silence between them felt heavy, but neither of them wanted to comment on it. Being around Harrison was proving to be more difficult than she thought it would be. 

As they reached their destination, the silence was only filled by her occasional instructions for him. She had to admit, he was good at what he did. She barely had to fix each pose that he would do. It was a relief to know that her professor truly had paired her with someone who knew what they were doing. 

“So, do you have any plans for Autumn break?” Harrison eventually asked as y/n was checking the shots on her camera. He was getting sick of the silence. He couldn’t figure out why it was happening in the first place. Had he said something, done something? 

“You mean Thanksgiving break?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Fall break was in October,” she tried to hide her giggle. 

“You know what I meant.”

“Can’t pass up the opportunity to make fun of you,” she tried to keep a straight face. This was a little easier than she thought. 

“Are you going to answer the question, or are you too busy poking fun?” he tried not to smile. 

“I don’t know. Sierra and Jace usually make me trade off going home with them for holidays, but I’m not really enjoying that.”

“And why don’t you just go home?”

“This is home.”

Her demeanor completely changed with the answer, Harrison could tell he had struck a chord within her and asking anything further would be a bad idea. 

“So, uhm, do you have any plans?”

“No, I don’t thinking flying back to England for a week is worth the money. And I’m pretty sure Sierra is making Tom come home with her for the holiday.”

“Wait really?”

“Yeah, I think it’s a bit much, but they’re in puppy love, he’s really excited.”

That was great news for y/n. It was Sierra’s turn to take her back home, and if she was taking Tom with her instead, she had an excuse to get out of it. 

The conversation ended when y/n stated that she had gotten the shots she was looking for. The walk back to her apartment was almost as awkward as the walk there. The silence was still thick between them, but it didn’t feel as dreadful as before. 

___

That night, as y/n was beginning to chose and edit some of the photos from the day, she heard Sierra and Jace quietly arguing in the kitchen. It wasn’t a rare occasion to hear any of the 3 roommates arguing with another, especially in the last few months. Ever since the incident with Jace, their relationships had all been tested, but as far as y/n knew that was all over. So out of pure curiosity, she came out of her room and silently approached the kitchen, hoping to eavesdrop before they spotted her. 

That hope went out the door when she heard Jace sigh and ask her to come around the corner. She never got the whole sneaky thing down.

“What’s going on?” she asked, looking between her roommates to their frustrated expressions. 

Neither of them wanted to tell her, which was made obvious when they both hit the other’s arm, trying to pass the responsibility over. 

“Is this about Thanksgiving?” y/n asked, slightly amused at their childlike avoidance. 

“How’d you know?” Jace asked. 

Y/n ignored the question and instead turned to Sierra. “Heard you’re taking Tom home with you this year.”

Sierra seemed ashamed to have been caught, but y/n just laughed at her. 

“No worries, I can stay home for break. Really give you some alone time,” she gave her an over-exaggerated wink, but neither of her roommates found it amusing. 

“Don’t be an idiot, y/n, you can come to my place,” Jace said, furrowing his brow. 

“As sweet as the offer is, I really must insist that I stay home,” she stated, a slight sarcastic lift in her tone. “I appreciate the thought of you guys letting me come home with you, but you both must know how much I hate it by now.”

“Since when do you hate it?” Sierra asked, the offense more present in her voice than she was hoping. 

“Si, your parents ask way too many questions. They’re sweet and all, but I don’t think I can sit through another speed round of personal questions.”

“And what about Jace’s family?”

“I think we all know how adamant Jace’s mom is about me just marrying her son already. Holidays with either of you just mean a week of avoiding your parents, it’s exhausting.”

Jace chuckled at her, but Sierra wasn’t so amused. “You can’t just stay here on your own,” she fought, crossing her arms. 

“Actually, Si, believe it or not, I’m a big girl. I think I can handle a week on my own,” she said in a mocking tone as she made her way around the counter to grab a glass from a cabinet. 

“See, I told you,” Jace teased Sierra, making her turn red. 

“But, y/n..”

“I know, I said I hated being here alone, but that was like a month after we moved in. I’m fine with it now, I promise,” she reassured her friend. She rested her hands on Sierra’s shoulders and gave her a reassuring look, which just caused her to roll her eyes with a smile. 

“Fine, but I’m telling Tom to make Harrison come check on you.”

“Or you could not do that,” y/n replied, sudden annoyance present in her tone. 

“Just so I know you’re not dead. We both know you’re terrible at replying to texts… and calls… and literally any other form of communication.”

“I promise I’ll reply to anything you send, just don’t make your boyfriend’s little friend babysit me.”

“I thought we liked Harrison.”

“And I thought I was old enough to not need a babysitter.”

“Ok, fine, but if you ghost me, I’m making Tom call him.”

“Ok, deal,” y/n rolled her eyes and turned so she could fill her glass with water and return to her room to edit her photos in peace. 

Tags: 

@embrace-themagic @fanficparker @baconlover001 @chloe-geoghegan1 @chonisberonica @heartbeats-wildly @saturn-aka-six  @ghostofdrfluke @calum-hoodwinked-me @peterplanet @mischiefmanaged49 @bucky-newtlock @johnsambrosemcclaren @r3ader @lizzyosterfield​ @nicotine-sunshine820​ @hrryhllnd​ @itsjusttor​ @ciannemar83​ @emistrash​ @happyharrison​ @hiding-behindmy-glasses​ @thenoddingbunny-blog​ @wolvesofthewinter​ @ccchloeee-666​ @softholand​ @cosmic-mint-tea​ @suemesabby @wholeheartedlymendes​

[thecassadilla]

Pining for the Fjords

Word Count: 5,736/AO3 Link

Pairing: Kristanna

Summary: Kristoff Bjorgman has the ability to bring the dead back to life with the touch of a finger - and only a few rules. After joining forces with a private detective, Kristoff finds himself in a difficult position when he brings his childhood sweetheart, Anna, back from the dead.

The only condition is that they can never touch each other, or else Anna will die, again - but this time, it will be permanent.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! Despite feeling quite burned out, I somehow managed to write another fic (I have no self-control). This is a Pushing Daisies!AU. If you haven’t watched the show, I highly recommend it - and if you live in the United States (and possibly elsewhere, but I don’t know for sure), it’s free on cwseed! I can provide a link for anyone who is interested! Pushing Daisies is one of my favorite shows - it’s morbid, grotesque, and mysterious, but also sickly sweet and fairytale-esque. And the visuals and aesthetics are stunning. It’s also from 2007, which is where I’m convinced I left my brain. This fic draws heavily from the source material, but you don’t have to be familiar with it to understand this fic. Will this be continued? I have no idea. I don’t make decisions lol. I hope you enjoy it!

(As a disclaimer/trigger warning, death is spoken about *a lot* in this fic and there is a temporary major character death. If the thought of any of that makes you uncomfortable, I would advise you not to read this fic.)

Pining for the Fjords - a euphemism for death. “Used to describe a dead person or animal as a way of convincing somebody that the corpse is not, in fact, dead,” Urban Dictionary.

Kristoff Bjorgman had a gift. It wasn’t a gift that was nicely packaged with a bow on top, and was rather quite morbid - he could touch someone who had died and bring them back to life. As simple as it sounded, there were terms and conditions that went along with this gift. The first was that he could bring the deceased back to life for one minute only, or someone else would die as a consequence. An eye for an eye, so to speak. The second was that, if he allowed the person he touched to remain alive, he could never touch them again. Or else they would die, again - but this time it would be forever.

He learned about this arrangement the hard way; as a young child, he hadn’t been exposed to death. At the age of ten, while running in a field with his beloved dog, he would learn about death, and subsequently, his gift, the hard way. For, his dog, Sven, would run into the middle of the street and be struck by a semi-truck before his very own eyes.

He would race over to the side of his now-deceased dog, and gently rest a hand on the side of his limp body, only for the dog to become reanimated and jump off the ground. In that moment, he was unaware of the consequences of bringing Sven back to life - not too far away, a squirrel would die in place of Sven. 

He returned home that afternoon, with Sven in tow, happily trotting beside him. Across the street from his home lived a pair of sisters; he would often play with the younger of the two, a girl named Anna. In the grand scheme of things, his gift seemed insignificant, for he had fallen in love with Anna. She, herself, was a gift to Kristoff - curious, imaginative, fun, and fearless - and they spent many hours enjoying each other’s company. 

As he watched her play with her father on her family’s lawn from his kitchen window, tragedy would strike for the second time that day. His mother, who had a knack for baking pies, would collapse on the kitchen floor, mere inches from him. Suddenly, his newfound gift would once again prove itself useful. He would slowly approach her body and crouch down next to it, hesitantly touching his index finger to his arm. Immediately, she would gasp for air and rise off the ground, completely unaware of what had happened. 

Unfortunately, the clock continued to tick away, and once sixty seconds had passed, the first caveat of Kristoff’s gift would make itself known. He watched in silent horror as Anna’s father collapsed on the grass across the street, in front of his helpless friend. An eye for an eye; one life in exchange for another. 

The second caveat of Kristoff’s gift would make itself known later that evening; his mother tucked him into bed, and upon placing a goodnight kiss to his forehead, would fall to the floor once again. Only this time, she could not be brought back. And thus he learned that he could never touch a resurrected life, or they would die permanently. It meant he could never pet Sven again. It meant that his mother and Anna’s father became unwitting, and unfortunate, consequences of his gift.

At their respective parent’s funerals, happening just mere feet from each other, Kristoff and Anna, overcome with grief and puppy love, would have their first and only kiss.

Immediately following his mother’s funeral, officials from the state would collect Kristoff and take him away from his life, while Anna would remain in the house across the street from his, with her mother and sister. Kristoff would avoid any and all social attachments, fearing what he’d do if someone else he loved died.

Little did he know, fifteen years later, his life would be turned upside down yet again. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the age of twenty-five, Kristoff would find himself in the midst of an unusual business arrangement. Now the owner of a run-down, failing musical instrument shop, and lonely as ever, a chance encounter with a private detective would change his life once again. 

Though Kristoff managed to keep his deep secret to himself for nearly a decade and a half, luck would find him in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the alley behind his shop, as he was throwing out garbage, a man would practically fall from the sky - technically, from the roof of the building - and hit his head on the edge of the dumpster. As luck would have it, the dead man would brush against Kristoff and return to life. Unfortunately for the now undead man, he wouldn’t get to live much longer, as Kristoff was constantly reminded of the two caveats to his gift. Unwilling to have a random person in proximity die, with another simple touch the undead man was once again dead. Unfortunately for Kristoff, there was another man on the roof who witnessed the entire thing - Private Detective Olaf Olson.

“So, how long have you been a necromancer?” The detective asked, once they reconvened inside Kristoff’s empty shop.

Kristoff anxiously rubbed the palms of his hands along the sides of his pants and shook his head. “I’m not a necromancer - at least, I don’t think I am. Is that what I am? Oh god.”

Olaf narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been able to raise the dead?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, my whole life?”

“And nobody ever thought to have you tested? Or send you off to the circus?”

“Nobody else knows - except you. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Mhmm,” Olaf agreed, sucking in his lower lip and giving Kristoff a scrutinizing glare. He motioned around the shop. “How’s business around here, boss?”

“Um, it’s fine,” he answered, nervously.

“Doesn’t seem to be too busy.”

“I mean, it’s not but...it’s fine.”

Olaf raised a hand to his face. “Well, the good news is that I have a business proposal for you.”

Kristoff’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Yeah?”

“You see, everyday in this city, dead people turn up. Sometimes, these people are murdered without an idea as to who killed them. And when this happens, there’s usually a reward for figuring out who the killer is - a big reward. I get us in to see the body, you take advantage of your party trick, and we split the reward fifty-fifty.”

And so, they did. It was easy, albeit dirty, money. The arrangement itself was rather simple; Olaf was made aware of the terms and conditions, and normally the “transactions” went smoothly. The two men were awarded privacy in the morgue, so long as the coroner was paid off, and Kristoff would set his watch for sixty seconds, ask the deceased who killed them, and then promptly return them to being dead. For a few months, it worked really well, and Kristoff was able to keep his struggling business afloat. He was able to justify it all because it brought justice to the bad people of the world. Until the winter morning that everything got flipped on its head. 

It was a quiet day in January, and Kristoff was sitting in his apartment, which was situated above his shop. The television was on in the background as he lounged on the couch with a bowl of cereal, his dog Sven on the floor a few feet away. Suddenly, the tone of the news program changed to alert its viewers of breaking news.

“The body of a young woman has been found in a snow bank directly outside of a popular ski resort,” the news reporter announced. “While her name is being withheld at this time, it has been confirmed that she was traveling alone at the time of her death. Officials are still unsure if foul play was involved, or if this was some kind of tragic accident.”

Kristoff’s attention was immediately drawn to the unnamed dead woman. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he had an icy, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach about her. And sure enough, later that day, all of his fears would be confirmed. 

It was nearing mid-afternoon when Olaf walked into his empty shop. He was sitting on a stool behind a counter, when the other man walked up and placed a folded newspaper on the counter.

“How’s it going, pal?”

“It’s going,” Kristoff answered, glancing down at the paper. 

“You've been keeping up with the news?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “It’s all about that dead girl.”

“Cops think she was murdered - no idea who did it, though. Autopsy said she was suffocated, so she was already dead when they put her in the snow. Big reward.”

“Yeah?” He asked, feigning aloofness.

Olaf narrowed his eyes. “Are you playing stupid?”

“No, why would you think that?”

“Because I just told you that the dead girl was probably murdered and that there was a lot of money to find her killer, and you’re the only one who can find out who that bastard is.”

Kristoff stared blankly at the other man.

“The clock is ticking. They’re hauling her body to the cemetery today.”

“So soon?”

“No friends, one family member. No point in letting her fester. Are you in or not?”

“Do I have a choice?” Kristoff asked drily.

“Good answer. Now let’s get moving, we have a long drive and you need to change your clothes.”

He glanced down at his outfit before standing up and walking around the counter. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“A small town called Arendelle.”

He swallowed, unsure if he heard the detective correctly. “Arendelle?”

“Yeah, are you familiar with it?” Olaf asked, picking his newspaper up off of the counter, folding it up, and tucking it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. 

Kristoff nodded. “I grew up there. Until I was ten.”

“Well, I hope you’re ready to go back.”

“Do you…?” he started, then trailed off. He was almost afraid to ask.

The other man looked at him pointedly. “Do I what?”

“Her name,” he spit out. “Do you know her name?”

“Anna Andersen.” He pronounced the first “A” in her name incorrectly; pronouncing it like the “a” in “apple” instead of like the “a” in “alms.”

“Anna,” he whispered, correcting the other man’s pronunciation.

The detective cocked an eyebrow. “You know her?”

“She lived across the street from me,” he answered, simply. It wasn’t enough to convince the other man.

“Seems like she was more than just a neighbor.”

“I haven’t seen her since I was ten,” he shrugged, though a profuse blush was spreading across his cheeks.

“Mmhmm,” Olaf acknowledged, though he remained unconvinced. “Well, we better get moving. 

And the next thing Kristoff knew, they were on the road. He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up driving, though he was grateful for the distraction. His mind was spinning; he couldn’t believe that she was gone, forever, and worse, that he was going to be forced to have one measly minute with her when he selfishly wanted more. He wasn’t even sure if she’d remember him after so much time had passed - perhaps if she didn’t, it would make it easier on him. And then there was the other problem - should he mention that he’s the reason her father died?

His heart started palpitating as they drove past the cheerfully colored “Welcome to Arendelle” sign, and it only worsened as they pulled up in front of the funeral home. It was so loud that he was positive that Olaf could hear it. 

He was overcome with a wave of nausea as he stood unmoving by the car, staring up at the looming building. It wasn’t until Olaf, now a few feet ahead, cleared his throat and motioned for him to follow. He did, shoving his hands into his pockets. He watched as the detective handed the funeral director a wad of cash, and the two men were led to a room at the end of the hallway.

“Would you mind if I did this one alone?” Kristoff asked, once the funeral director was out of earshot. They hadn’t entered the room yet, and were standing in front of the still-closed door. “Because I knew her?”

“What could you possibly have to say to her that you can’t say in front of me?” Olaf shot back, obviously offended by Kristoff’s proposal. “We’re here to find out who killed her.”

“I know, but she was my friend,” he begged, a few beads of sweat starting to gather by his hairline. “I could use the closure.”

“Fine,” Olaf grumbled. “But you better ask who killed her first.”

“I will.”

“And remember, you have one minute. Not a second longer.” His tone was stern, and he raised a finger as a warning.

“I know the rules,” Kristoff assured him. “Wait in the car?”

Olaf muttered something under his breath, but willingly walked away from the situation. Kristoff held his breath and pushed open the door to the room; it was small, and in the center was a shiny white casket. He hesitantly approached it, trying to gain his composure. The entire thing was surreal; he felt like this was some kind of twisted dream. Acknowledging the fact that he didn’t have much time, he opened the casket and looked down.

She looked ethereal; just like he remembered, but obviously much older. She was wearing an off-white lace dress, her hair parted down the center and each half was neatly draped over her shoulders. Bile rose in his throat as he stared at her, unsure if he could do it. Though it would bring her killer to justice, he was also being selfish.

After another moment or two of looking at her, he decided it was time. He set the timer on his watch, slowly brought his trembling hand to her face, and delicately tapped her cheek with his index finger before taking a step back. She sucked in a breath of air and her eyes flew open. And then she jumped out of the casket.

“I’ll kill you!” She yelled, grabbing the first thing she could - which just so happened to be a candelabra off the fireplace next to the coffin.

“Anna, stop!” He begged, bringing his hands up to his face to protect it in case she decided to throw the candelabra at him. “It’s me - Kristoff - from across the street.”

The look of anger that had shrouded her face quickly faded away and a look of relief washed over her instead. Her hand went limp and the candelabra fell to the floor. “Kristoff.”

She took a few steps toward him with her arms reached forward, prepared to pull him into a hug. He stepped backwards, eventually colliding with the wall. “You can’t touch me,” he warned. 

“Oh.” Her arms fell to her sides and she glanced over at the coffin. “That’s mine isn’t it?”

He swallowed. “Yes. Do you know what happened?”

“I mean, I was hoping that it was all a dream. That I wasn’t suffocated to death with a pillow.”

“You were,” he frowned. “I’m really sorry.”

She blinked a few times, placing a hand on the edge of the casket, but she didn’t say anything.

So, he spoke again. The clock was ticking. “While there’s a lot I’m sure we both want to say, we have less than a minute. So, I have to ask - do you know who killed you, Anna?”

She shook her head, her eyes cast downward. “I don’t - I was sleeping. I didn’t wake up until the pillow was over my face. I’m sorry.”

Kristoff exhaled harshly, feeling defeated. They wouldn’t be able to bring her killer to justice. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“How much time do I have left?”

He glanced down at his watch. “Forty seconds, give or take.”

She gave him a sad smile. “That’s not enough, I have so much to say. All those years, I wondered what happened to you. You just disappeared. I kept hoping that you would come back, but...you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I -” he was trying to find the words, but it was difficult. He had so much that he wanted to say. None of this was fair. “The state took me away and sold the house.”

“Well, since I don’t have much time left, I just want you to know that I missed you a lot. And I never stopped thinking about you.”

“I never stopped thinking about you, either,” he confessed. “Life just...wasn’t the same without you.”

“I wish things would’ve worked out differently,” she sighed. “My time is almost up, isn’t it?”

He took another look at his watch before nodding solemnly. Twenty-five seconds.

“I’m glad that you were the last person I got to see before...you know.” She huffed a nervous laugh. “Um, if it’s not too much, could you tell my sister that I’m sorry? And that I love her?”

“Of course,” he promised, though he wasn’t sure if Elsa would be keen to visitors. 

“And I hope this isn’t too forward, considering we haven’t seen each other in so long, but I want you to know that I always had feelings for you, and they never went away.”

“Me too,” he said, quickly, a blush creeping over his face. “I mean, my feelings for you never went away, either.”

“How does this work?” She asked. “You just touch me again, and that’s it?”

“Yeah,” he answered, wishing that it wouldn’t have to be this way.

She nodded once, inhaling deeply. “Okay.”

He took a slow step toward her. They had less than ten seconds left now. 

“You could kiss me,” she blurted out suddenly. “That probably sounds crazy but it would bookend everything. You would be my first kiss and my last kiss.”

His breath hitched in his throat, and he nodded, willing to grant her her dying wish. She closed her eyes, and he leaned down, ready to press his lips to hers and then promptly catch her limp body. But instead, he took a step backwards.

She opened her eyes and looked over at him. “What are you doing? Isn’t my minute up?”

Though he was grotesquely aware of the consequences, he had already made his decision. He didn’t want to live his life without her, as selfish as that was. “What if you didn’t have to die?”

“That would definitely be preferable,” she said, a look of relief washing over her features. 

“Okay, look, I’m not supposed to do this because there are grave consequences,” he said in one quick breath. “But I can’t just let you die, again.”

“What are the consequences?”

He closed his eyes, ashamed to admit the truth. “Someone else has to die in your place.”

Her face fell. “Oh.” 

“But it’s already too late,” he assured her, waving his hands rapidly. “I know it’s selfish of me, but I’m not ready to let you go.”

The corners of her lips quirked up slightly. “I’m not ready to let you go, either.”

“Great,” he huffed a sigh of relief. “We have a lot to talk about, though. And we have to get out of here.”

“I can’t just walk out of here,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’m supposed to be dead.”

He glanced rapidly around the room. “The casket. You have to get back inside.”

“Okay,” she agreed, climbing back in.

“Now, just lay really still,” he directed her. “I’m going to follow the hearse to the cemetery.”

She nodded, and he closed the lid. Wiping the sweat off of his brow, he hastily opened the door and raced out of the funeral home. As expected, Olaf was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, reading his newspaper.

“How did it go?” The detective asked, as soon as Kristoff hopped into the car.

“Uh, it went well.”

Olaf cocked his head. “Did you find out who killed her?”

“No, she didn’t know,” he answered, as he started the car.

“Of course not,” the detective groaned. “Did you get your closure, at least?”

He was staring at his rearview mirror, trying to catch the moment the hearse pulled away from the building. “Sort of.”

“Why aren’t you driving?”

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to go to the cemetery and see the burial.” 

Olaf narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, sorry. It shouldn’t take long.” 

“I knew I should’ve driven,” he sneered, unable to hide his annoyance.

A few moments later, the hearse was driving down the street and Kristoff was following closely behind. The cemetery was a short drive away, and because no one was going to be attending the burial, that in itself was going to be quick. He had to come up with a plan.

The two men sat in the car and watched as the casket was brought over to the plot of land where it was going to be buried. Finally, Kristoff got out of the car and walked over, just in time to see it get lowered a few feet into the ground. 

“Hey,” he said to the gravediggers, who turned their attention away from the shovels in their hands. He pointed towards the entrance of the cemetery. “There were some kids near the front. I think they were defacing one of the stones.”

The two men quickly dropped their shovels and raced toward the pickup truck parked a few feet away from Kristoff’s car. As soon as they drove off, he got onto the ground and opened the lid to the casket.

“Thanks for coming back,” Anna smiled.

“After all that, you thought I was going to just leave you here?”

“No,” she giggled. “I’m just really happy you came back.”

He smiled down at her. “Come on, we have to go.”

He wished he could help her out, but luckily, it wasn’t a difficult climb. As soon as she was back on the grass, he closed the lid to the casket. 

“My car is right over there,” he said, pointing at the old car. He still hadn’t decided how he was going to explain this to Olaf, but it didn’t matter at this point. It was already done.

She squinted at it. “Is someone in your car?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Olaf. He’s my...business partner?” What he also hadn’t thought of was that he was going to have to explain who Olaf was to her and the unorthodox partnership that they had arranged. He decided to cross that bridge when they came to it.

The two of them climbed into the car, Kristoff in the driver’s seat and Anna in the backseat. Upon hearing both doors close, the formerly distracted Olaf turned his attention to the new passenger, and then to Kristoff.

“Kristoff,” he said, a fake smile plastered across his face. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Anna,” she answered cheerfully.

The fake smile remained. “Why is the dead girl in your car and not in the ground?” 

“I needed closure,” Kristoff shrugged.

“Your closure was supposed to last sixty seconds.”

“To be fair,” Anna chimed in, “there is a lot of history here. A minute wasn’t long enough.”

Kristoff nodded along with her statement.

The detective was seething. “Does she know about the terms and conditions that came along with her newfound gift of life? That someone else died in her place?”

“She’s aware,” Anna answered, referring to herself in third person. “She’s not thrilled about it, but she’s extremely grateful that she’s alive.”

“And you both acknowledge that I could’ve been the one to die in her place, right?”

“That’s why I asked you to wait in the car,” Kristoff explained.

“You were planning on doing this all along?!”

“No! Yes? I don’t know, I wanted options!” He exclaimed, starting to feel a little flustered. “Look, it’s over. I’m going to start driving now, we all need to go home and sleep on this.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive back was a lot tamer than the few minutes they spent sitting in the cemetery. Olaf spent most of the drive muttering to himself, clearly upset that he could’ve been a casualty of Kristoff’s impulsivity. Once they reached the music shop, well past dark, Olaf parted ways without saying a word to either of them, and Kristoff brought Anna upstairs to his apartment. As soon as they entered, Sven perked his head up.

“Oh, you have a dog!” She exclaimed, rushing over to him and immediately dropping to her knees. “He looks just like Sven.”

“That is Sven,” he said, dropping his keys on the small table by the front door.

“You saved him, too?”

“He was the first,” Kristoff explained. “That’s how I…found out about all of this.”

“I see,” she said, smothering the dog with pets and kisses. “You can’t touch him either?”

He stood on the opposite side of the room, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “No. But, um, we kind of have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, we do,” she agreed, looking over at him. “So I can’t touch you at all, right?”

He shook his head. “No. Even the slightest touch would mean that you die permanently.”

“No hugs?”

“No hugs,” he answered.

“But what if you need a hug?” She looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“I haven’t hugged anyone in years, I think I’ll be okay.”

“Fine, what if I need a hug?”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry?” Was all that he could offer.

“And that means no kisses, too, right?”

He shook his head again, suddenly aware that the tips of his ears were burning. “No kisses.”

“Darn,” she said, softly, gently stroking Sven’s fur.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” he promised. “It’ll take a little getting used to, but I’d love the company. Or, you can leave. It’s your second chance at life and you can live it however you want to.”

“Don’t be silly,” she cooed. “I don’t want to leave. The last time I had the desire to leave somewhere, I literally died.” She annunciated each syllable in the world “literally” as if to stress the importance of its meaning. 

“I just don’t want you to think that you’re obligated to stay,” he offered, shrugging his shoulders. “You can have my bed until we can figure out some kind of a sleeping arrangement.”

“I wish sharing was an option,” she said absently, continuing to focus on the dog. “But you don’t have to give up your bed for me.”

“I insist,” he said. He walked over to the couch and plopped down on it. “I’m so tired, I’m just going to stay right here.”

“You’re still wearing your suit,” she pointed out.

“Don’t care. I know you don’t have a change of clothes with you, so feel free to wear something of mine.”

“You want me to go through your drawers?”

“Don’t know what you’d be comf…” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed, unable to finish the sentence.

Anna couldn’t help but smile at him; he certainly didn’t look comfortable laying on the couch like that, but she could only imagine how drained he felt.

But an hour later, she, too, would feel incredibly drained. She had yet to change out of the dress she was supposed to be buried in, and was sitting on the edge of Kristoff’s bed, watching television. The entire situation was difficult for her to wrap her head around, and it didn’t help that nearly every station was covering her story. She was grateful that Elsa had chosen a photo to release where she didn’t quite look like herself; a photo from when she was nineteen and had dyed her hair blonde. She was glad that it had been five years and the blonde was gone and she hoped that the world wouldn’t recognize her as the “dead girl” if she went out into it. 

She had never expected to see her own face on television in such a morbid, dismal way. Dubbed a “lonely tourist,” a part of her regretted ever venturing out to that ski resort in the first place. She wished she would’ve been content with the life she was living; just her and Elsa, in their childhood home. Reading books and tending to her garden, but always craving something more. She wondered how Elsa had been coping with all of this; she never ventured out of the house, due to her rampant fear of social situations. Anna was practically her caretaker, and now she’d have no one. She wished she could see her sister again. She wished she’d never left in the first place. 

Snapping out of her daydream and turning her attention back to the TV, the news reporters were now talking about how her murderer was still on the lam, and the large reward for information pertaining to the case. Upon hearing about the reward, she had a flashback to the viewing room; one of the first things that Kristoff had asked her was if she knew who murdered her. Was he out for the reward money? And the man in his car, Olaf, his “business partner.” What type of business were they running? Suddenly feeling very restless and alone, she turned off the television and went back into the living room.

She perched herself on the coffee table, a safe distance from the couch, and grabbed the remote. Gently, she poked Kristoff’s arm with it.

“Kristoff?” She whispered.

“Huh?” He stirred, his eyes barely opening. He wiped at his mouth and sat up slightly. “Is something wrong?”

“Not really,” she lied, but then decided honesty was more valuable. “Well, maybe a little. They were talking about me on TV.”

“What were they saying?”

“They’re calling me a ‘lonely tourist.’ They’re not wrong, but it’s weird.”

He was now wide awake, focusing solely on her. “I can only imagine.”

“Apparently there’s a big reward for finding the person who murdered me.”

The color drained from his face when she said that. “Yeah?”

She inhaled deeply. “You said Olaf was your business partner. What kind of business do you two run?”

“I have the music shop right downstairs,” he admitted, though it was a half-truth. That wasn't what she was asking.

“And Olaf?”

“He’s a private detective.”

“I guess I should just come out and say it,” she said, slightly frustrated at his hesitance. “Was I an opportunity for monetary gain?”

His eyebrows furrowed together. “Pardon?”

“The reward money. In that first minute, you made it a point to ask me who killed me. Was it for the reward money?”

“No!” He insisted. “It was for justice. I mean, the only reason I found out that it was you was because of Olaf and the reward. I had already agreed to go before he told me that it was you.”

“So, your business is to go to funerals, wake the dead, find out who killed them, and collect the reward money?”

“Yeah,” he answered sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Are you mad at me?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to be mad when I’m sitting here in front of you and I should be six feet under.”

“I swear, I only go in with good intentions. To see justice be served. Killers behind bars. The reward money is a bonus; it’s how I keep the music shop in business.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

“Don’t be - it’s a little shady. The entire thing was Olaf’s idea. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he saw me accidentally bring a man back to life and then immediately re-dead him. If he hadn’t seen me, I’d just be a guy with an ability that no one else knows about.”

“And I’d be in the ground,” she added.

He huffed out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.” 

“Part of me wishes that I’d never gone to that stupid ski resort. Why did I have to hate my life? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied with the life I had?”

He paused briefly before responding. “I think it’s natural for us to want to try new things.”

“I feel bad for my poor sister. She barely functioned when I was home, and she warned me about leaving, and now she thinks that I’m dead.” She buried her face in her hands.

“What about your mother?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

She pulled her hands away from her face and ran her fingers through her hair. “You wouldn’t have known. Please don’t think that I’m not happy to be here, because I really am thrilled to be alive and with you, and I’m not taking any of this for granted. It just feels so...strange. Confusing.”

He nodded in agreement. “It will be an adjustment for both of us. There’s still a lot we have to talk about.” The truth about her father was one of the things that he knew he’d have to bring up eventually, though he was absolutely dreading the thought of it.

“I’m sorry for waking you up. I just needed someone to talk to.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, laying back against the couch. “But you should try to get some sleep. It was kind of a crazy day for you.”

She placed her hands flat on her thighs for a minute before standing up. “Thank you again for rescuing me, today.”

“Of course,” he smiled. “And Anna? I just want you to know that I’d make the same decision again in a heartbeat. No doubt in my mind.”

“Thank you,” she blushed. “Goodnight, Kristoff.”

“Goodnight.”

And so she retreated to his bedroom, keeping her dress on and laying on top of his sheets. She still felt a bit restless, and so she turned to face the wall on the left side of the bed, lifted up her left arm and pressed her palm flatly against it.

Just on the other side of the wall, Kristoff had turned to face the inside of the couch. Unable to sleep and unaware that Anna was doing the same, he raised his right arm and placed his hand against the wall.

Unbeknownst to either of them, without the wall as a barrier of protection, their hands would be touching.

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

It’s Nice (Carter Hart Imagine)

This was written AND edited in a hypomanic blur so like. I’m pretty sure there are real words involved, but I make no promises.

Rating: T

Pairing: Carter Hart/Reader

Words: 3429

Warnings: food, pet(s), talk of children

Requested: yes / no

Summary: Just an average evening with Carter, except not really average at all.

The meal plan the nutritionist had made is indisputably for a professional athlete, with the number of calories and sheer mass of protein it calls for. It had taken some trial and error, but you’d figured out a way to adjust it to fit your own needs in a way that didn’t mean twice the cooking. You’re probably the only reason Carter even kind of sticks to it, because he’s inclined to make whatever’s easiest (or just order out, if he’s especially tired), so having you around to cook for the two of you keeps him more or less on track.

Right now, you’re finishing up dinner. All you have to do is let the chicken simmer and occasionally spoon some sauce onto it from the pan to make sure it doesn’t dry out. Most of your attention is focused on the other pan, where you’re just cooking some chicken to use over the next few days, to save time and make sure it doesn’t spoil. Dinner had been a bit of a mess tonight, honestly. You’d used the last lemon yesterday, so it was lucky you had a (questionably old) bottle of lemon juice in the fridge to replace it. The recipe called for half-and-half, which you never have in the house, so you’d just substituted milk and used the meal plan to justify it. You’d forgotten the tongs were all in the dishwasher, so now you’re doing your best to flip and handle the chicken with a spoon. And to top it off, you’re cat-sitting for your friend, and Harri hasn’t given you one moment of rest since you first brought out the meat. You’ve spent the better part of 45 minutes pushing her away from the raw-- and then cooked-- chicken breasts every five seconds.

“Ma’am,” you scold, pushing her away yet again, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.” You have no idea where the habit of calling pets “sir” and “ma’am” came from, but you’ve done it for quite a while. It usually makes people laugh when they hear it, so it’s not a habit you’re trying to break. Finally, you deem the last batch of chicken done, so you push Harri back again, grabbing the skillet by the handle and moving it closer to the plate on the counter to hopefully minimize spillage.

“Holy fuck!” you don’t-quite-shout, literally jumping a bit in surprise. You would swing around to confront the person who’d grabbed you from behind, but they’re holding fast. Carter is holding fast. He’s pretty much the only person who can sneak up on you, despite being objectively large for a human. When you first started dating, he would laugh when he managed to surprise you; now he just smiles into your neck and gently sways the two of you side-to-side. Leaving the spoon in the pan, you use your now-free hand to smack one of his forearms.

“Maybe don’t sneak up on me when I have a hot pan in my hands, next time,” you say, trying to sound annoyed and definitely not succeeding. Yes, he should absolutely be more mindful of danger when he surprises you, but also consider: he’s adorable and you love him.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, genuine at first, before you can feel his smile turn to a smirk against your skin and hear his voice gain a mischievous edge, “Guess I’ll have you make it up to you somehow.” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it. You kick backward at his ankle.

“Let me finish dinner, you menace,” you say, craning your neck so you can kiss him hello despite your words. Once he’s gotten his kiss he backs off, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. You would’ve gotten reprimanded for that when you were a kid, but this is your apartment, both of yours, so you can sit on the counter all you want. Take that, mom.

“How was your day?” he asks. You start telling him a bit about it, just a summary, saving the details for the dinner table. It’s odd being certain that he’s actually listening, actually cares about what you have to say. It’s nice.

The pre-cooked chicken covered and safely tucked in the fridge, you separate tonight’s food onto two plates, his significantly more full than yours. He hops off the counter and takes his plate, walking around the counter with you. You sit across from each other at the small wooden table, eating as you talk about your days in more detail. It’s not quite pre-season yet, still the tail-end of conditioning camp. That means he has more time to spend with you, but less to do during the day, which translates to less to talk about at dinner. Luckily, you’ve gotten pretty good at keeping the conversation going; asking both leading and specific questions to get more information out of him. You don’t really need to know any of it, but you like listening to him talk and knowing what’s going on in his life. Plus, taking an interest in his life always makes him happy.

Once you’ve both finished eating, he takes your plate with his own and brings them to the sink. It doesn’t bother you that you’re the chef of the relationship, because he carries his weight around the house in other ways. You cook, he does the dishes, you do the laundry, he cleans the bathroom and floors, and so on. There’s a balance here that you haven’t experienced before. It’s nice. 

It’s your turn to sit on the counter, continuing to chat while he rinses the dishes and loads them into the dishwasher, gathering the pots and pans from cooking and doing the same with them. With that taken care of, you hop off the counter and walk with him into the living room. You settle down on the couch, feet up on the ottoman, and he situates himself so he can lean into your side with his too-long legs taking up the third cushion. You’ve been bingeing a new series on Hulu, so you click your way through the requisite settings until you can press play on the correct episode.

Usually, you tend to be a bit restless. Sitting through an entire episode of a show used to be an impossible task, and you’d get up every five minutes to clean something or set something up or fix something. But with Carter snuggled up into you, hand on your outstretched thigh, breathing steady, sitting still for an hour seems like nothing. You’d sit still ‘til the end of eternity so long as Carter was close.

Plus the part where Harri is curled up on your shins, which doesn’t seem comfortable (but she’s a cat so who knows), and you’re pretty sure its a federal offense to disturb a sleeping animal.

    You watch two episodes, mindful of your self-imposed bedtime. The two of you make comments throughout, half of it critiquing certain aspects of the plot or composition, the other half just going “WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK?” and commenting on how hot Karl Urban is. You’ve never had a relationship, intimate or otherwise, where you didn’t have to hold in your thoughts and reactions. It’s nice.

    The second episode ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, but you join forces to talk yourselves out of watching another. The next will probably end on a cliffhanger too, ‘cause that’s how they keep you watching, so there’s really no point in watching any more right now. If you give in, you’ll most likely end up staying up way too late watching “just one more” and regretting it in the morning. Eventually, you resolutely turn the TV off and shove Carter off you. He whines and groans but heaves himself off the couch to follow you toward the bedroom.

    You brush your teeth before washing and moisturizing your face. Unfortunately you don’t have a double vanity, so most of the time is spent hip-checking each other out of the way and playfully trash talking around toothbrushes and Carter accidentally spitting toothpaste on your hand. Which isn’t unfortunate at all, really, because it’s lighthearted and domestic and fun. Plus, the limited space means he has to stay close by your side, radiating heat better than any furnace and casually brushing against you here and there. Or at least he has an excuse to. So he’ll bump your hips together to push you out of the way, even though he doesn’t really need the sink at the moment, a foamy grin on his face; then casually brush your shoulders together ten seconds later, smile gone gentle and fond. When you two had first started dating, every touch would feel thrillingly electric; now it just feels warm and safe. You’d take more than some spitty toothpaste to the hand for this.

    “We’re supposed to be calming down, not getting riled up,” you scold him as you continue to harass each other, but you’re smiling too much to really sound peeved. Carter puts one hand on your waist-- thumb stretching upward enough to be suggestive-- and cups your jaw with the other, and you just cleaned that, come on.

    “Oh, I’ll rile you up,” he purrs, shuffling further into your space and stroking his thumb along your ribcage. His tone makes something twist in your stomach, his usually light eyes dark and his gaze heavy when you meet it. Maybe dating the most gorgeous man in the world has some downsides. Like him seducing you in the bathroom when you literally just washed up.

    “You’re such a fuck boy,” you force out, reaching up to playfully push him away by the face.

    “Hey!” he objects, though he does step back and remove his hands, “I’m a himbo, if anything!” No matter how much you regret teaching him that word, it’s still funny as fuck to hear, and you break out laughing. He laughs with you for a minute, and you’re basically doubled over with it as he weakly attempts to assert that “it’s not funny, I’m serious” around giggles. Once you can finally breathe again and have wiped the tears from your eyes, he steps back into your space to press a kiss to your lips, lingering for a few breathless moments. Finally, he exhales, minty-fresh air fanning over your lips. You let out the breath you were holding too, lips tingling, temptation building as you open your eyes and take in the look of raw want on his face.

    Just as you’re about to succumb to the pull in your stomach, he moves away. Tease. Well, not really, ‘cause you had rebuffed his advances already, so he was really just respecting your boundaries. But he didn’t have to be so goddamn sexy all the time, okay? Hell, when you first met, you’d thought he was just an adorable little sweetheart, not anticipating how he could apparently flip a switch to become the most alluring (beguiling, tempting, bewitching, captivating…) man you’d ever encountered. So of course, 99% of his charm was being cute and lovable; except when he had you (at least mostly) alone and turned into a fucking incubus. Or maybe you’re a little biased, what with being in love with him, and all. Anyway.

    Back in the bedroom proper, you change into your usual sleepwear, taking a bit longer than you would when you lived alone with how much time you’re spending blatantly staring at Carter. Hey, he’s your boyfriend, you’re allowed to appreciate him, okay? And you’re totally allowed to stare at his ass in those tight boxer-briefs as he leads the way through to the living room. Dating privileges.

    It’s routine now, to go make a cup of tea before returning and curling up in your chair to continue reading your latest book. Meanwhile, Carter stretches out on the couch with his phone and laptop, checking out whatever videos or memos the team and staff have suggested (or “suggested”) and skimming any new stats. Everyone says you shouldn’t look at any type of screen before bed, but it never seems to keep him from falling asleep, so you don’t bother him about it.

You’d almost forgotten about Harri until she jumps into your lap, curling up in a position that can’t be comfortable, purring despite it. She purrs like a motorboat, vibrating against your legs and making enough noise to distract you from reading. Luckily for her, it’s cute rather than annoying. You scratch behind her ears and down her spine, in response to which she somehow manages to purr even louder. When you look up, Carter has shifted so he can watch you, a small smile on his face.

“What?” you ask, catching his contagious smile. He just smiles wider.

“We should get a pet,” he says. It’s kind of a big deal.

Living together is one thing; you can always move out if things go south, no harm no foul. But bringing a living being into the situation is a serious commitment, and you both knew it. Saying you should get a pet together is saying he sees a future with you, and is sure enough about it that he’s willing to bet another life on it.

“So I can take care of it and you get to be the cool dad who gives it treats whenever you’re home?” you ask, mostly rhetorically. He knows you’re okay with being the primary caretaker, you knew that would be the case going into this relationship, and you don’t begrudge him the limitations of his job. The question has always been whether he could handle being away from a pet as often as he has to. If he could handle not having a straight month home outside the summer, coming home from a game exhausted and still needing to be an involved pet parent, potentially missing milestones, not being there for first steps or words or-- okay, maybe getting a pet is really just a way of preparing for a child. Maybe the two of you have discussed that a pet would be the next step, and this is him saying he’s ready for a trial run, and though you’ve always been the one who’s ready to commit, you’re maybe a little more nervous than you’ve let on.

“Y/N,” he says, shifting again so he’s sitting upright facing you, looking you dead in the eye, “I’m ready to be the best dad I can. If you’re not ready-- for a pet-- that’s okay.” He’s so sincere, brows furrowed and mouth turned in a half-smile, “We can wait, if that’s what you need. I’ll wait as long as you need.” You’re not sure how to respond to such consideration, not sure how to process the fact that you’re not afraid when he stands and walks toward you, that you feel safe even as he looms above you because it’s Carter and you know he’d never hurt you. Not like “know”, where you try to convince yourself he wouldn’t but can’t quite get there, but actually know, 100%, that he wouldn’t. And not only that he wouldn’t hurt you, but that he’ll actually protect you, and care for you, and keep you safe. That you’re not on your own anymore. It’s nice.

“But,” he says, carefully kneeling in front of your chair and giving Harri a pet before continuing, “I’m ready when you are.” Okay. That’s. This is. Okay.

Maybe you’re not ready. But maybe you’ll never be ready. Maybe no one is ever ready to get a pet or have kids or commit wholly to another person. But maybe you just have to do it. It’s never the right time, but if there’s no perfect moment, that means it’s always the perfect moment. You can make it the right time. You want to.

“Dog or cat?” you ask, letting a smile break out on your face in tandem with his. He kneels up and leans over Harri to kiss you, slow and sweet but still distinctly excited. You’re really going to do this.

You debate the merits of Cat vs. Dog for a bit, before returning to your respective reading. Around 10:30, you return your book to the table and nudge Harri off of you, ruffling Carter’s hair as you pass by into the kitchen to get a glass of water. On your way back through to the bedroom, you haul him off the couch despite his protests and pull him along to bed. One of the unsung benefits of dating a millionaire athlete? He insisted on a bed that might actually be made of magic and fairy tears. Something far out of your solo price range.

The both of you plug in your phones and double-check your alarms for tomorrow morning, checking any last messages and shooting out any final responses. You climb into bed first, lying on your back just a smidge right from the middle. Carter follows, crawling under the covers to curl up against your left side. His head is a solid weight on your chest and he whines when you reach over to cut off the lamp on the bedside table. If he doesn’t want to be jostled, he should learn to wait before cuddling.

You settle back into place, running your fingers through his hair to placate him. He just burrows in even closer, plastering your bodies together with a leg slung over your hip and arm around your waist. His hair is soft against your skin, smooth as it passes through your fingers. When you scratch his scalp a bit, he hums in contentment. Despite being so big, he always makes himself small here, like he spends so much time having to be a wall that he simply crumbles when he’s around you.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he wiggles against you, nudging his head against your hand. It had stilled against his scalp a while ago, but now you resume scratching and stroking. His pleased hum warms you through and through, making something in your chest swell happily. After what can be no more than thirty seconds, he follows the hum with an indignant noise that you’re not quite sure how to explain, but definitely understand. You sigh.

“Alright, alright,” you concede, taking another deep breath. He always loves when you do this; god only knows why. It always makes you feel vaguely embarrassed but mostly appreciated, and you’re not sure why you always put up this token resistance, but that’s the way it goes. Honestly, it’s probably out of simple habit at this point. Maybe a little bit because you were raised to be a tad too humble, and this feels show-off-ish, despite being a performance for an audience of one.

Another intent inhale, and you start to sing. Carter never cares what you sing, he just likes to hear your voice as he falls asleep sometimes. Occasionally, he’ll have a request, if he’s gotten obsessed with a new song. Once in a while, usually after a tough loss or a hard day, he’ll ask you to sing something comforting (usually a few somethings comforting, since it tends to be more difficult for him to fall asleep those days). Tonight he just wants to hear you, to know you’re there with him, to know you love him enough to sing contrary to your reservations just because it makes him happy. Tonight, you want him to know how you love him so much more than that, so much more than you can express in word or deed, to know that you’re ready when he is.

Gin Wigmore isn’t exactly known for love songs, but she really hit it out of the park with Don’t Stop, as far as you’re concerned. You’re doing a softer rendition, not bothering to attempt her signature rasp, letting the words almost run together rather than cutting them harshly like her. It’s more a serenade than anything, something rounded and smooth to help the both of you sleep. You could do this forever, you think; spend every evening of the rest of your life with Carter, eating and talking and bumping hips at the sink and falling asleep surrounded by the warmth of his body. You want to do this forever. To be the one he comes home to and for that to be a good thing. As his breathing evens out to the sound of your voice and his fingertips go lax against your ribcage, you’re starting to think you just might get it.

[fishdavidson]

Dream Journal 2019-11-05: A Creepy Story Within A Story

Uncomfortable dreams are my favorite dreams to write about, because the built-in conflict tends to make things more narrative driven.

Dream Fragments

Starting off with the only non-creepy bit of dreaming, I am in some Australian hotel room attempting to navigate a polyamorous relationship. There was no actual polyamory involved "on-screen" but my subconscious spent the entirety of the segment screaming "THIS IS A POLYAMOROUS SITUATION; JUST ACT CASUAL." Whether I succeeded is up for debate, because I have no memory of anything significant happening.

The Main Dream: Retelling Creepypastas

I'm sitting in the shadow of a building downtown with one of my coworkers and her daughter. Judging from the adjacent buildings, I think I'm behind my town's Visitor Center. The daughter, whom I shall call L for privacy reasons, was listening to a scary story podcast while the three of us hung out and enjoyed the weather.

L asks if I like scary stories, and I'm like "Heck yeah!" She asks if I've heard of whatever podcast she's listening to, and although I don't remember its name right now, I am definitely familiar with it. "That show has two of the only scary stories that have legitimately given me anxiety," I say. L gives me a knowing smile.

"What are they about?" my coworker asks.

"Do you want me to tell her, or should you?" L asks me.

"You should probably do it," I say, and the perspective gets hazy as L begins to retell the stories. In the original dream, these two stories were told simultaneously and the perspective constantly shifted. Sometimes I was the main character, sometimes I was an observer to the main character, and sometimes I was just sitting on the loading dock listening to the story. But in the interest of clarity, I'm going to separate the stories and fix the perspective as if I was the main character since that was the most common POV in the dream.

Creepypasta No. 1 - Ill-Advised Words

Urban legends tell of a story that is so captivating, all those who hear it become stricken with wanderlust to find something else in the world that is as beautiful as this story. Word on the street is that someone found a few pages of that story tucked away in a book in our local library. Other people have found a similar pages elsewhere in the world, and they have been posted on the internet for people to read and hopefully find the rest of the missing pages so the story makes sense.

I know the girl that found the most recent pages. She gathered a group of us together in person to be the first people to read the missing pages along with what had already been posted. She found all of the missing pages, which bumped the length of the complete story up to about 10 pages. She started reading the story aloud from the beginning, and by the time she read the first new page, her eyes went glassy.

The other people I was with began walking in a straight line. I was overcome with emotion as well, and followed them. The words were so beautiful that it was clear to me that nothing could ever be its equal. Everything else in my life would be compared to that story and be found lacking. The overpowering awe from the words turned into something else: a compulsion to walk to the ocean.

For the record, the ocean is nowhere near my current location in the dream. This does not matter. We walk for days without ceasing. We must get to the ocean. Nothing else matters. Some of our number collapse from exhaustion. Another runs to a stream and drinks from it for so long that they forget how to breathe and suffocate in the water.

The rest of us reach the ocean. But we are not survivors. The story is like that parasite that infects crickets, driving them to water where they will drown so the parasitic larva can spread and breed. We are the crickets, and the only thing left for us to do is drown.

Creepypasta No. 2 - Devil's Drops

I run with a group of college students who study obscure topics. All of them are relatively wealthy and educated, and their goal is to bring the Silicon Valley startup mentality to things like spirituality and mysticism. Our startup incubator is a posh cabin surrounded by a cedar forest. Some of the guys found an old book that they believe contains the secret to practicing real magic. Not like Houdini or Copperfield illusions, but something older that involves manipulating unseen energies.

The guys aren't sure what they've found, but it certainly seems like it might be the precursor to practicing real magic. We aren't afraid of superstitions in ancient texts, so we throw ourselves into the work of translating ancient rituals into procedures that could easily reproduced and empirically quantified. Our best lead so far came from a book on demonology, and this sounds to an awake Fish Davidson like a surefire way to make something bad happen. Hubris makes sure we overlook these potential failure points on the road to commercializing magic.

We are practicing every day in a room with comfortable couches and big windows. One of our group makes a breakthrough during a practice session, and he has figured out how to make one side of a coin appear to be perfectly smooth. We make progress quickly after that, though the effects we are able to consistently achieve affect only very small areas. The largest area we can affect so far is about the size of an orange.

But this progress is not enough.

Another of our group does a deep dive back into our demonology books and finds a ritual that we previously wrote off as being purely superstitious. It's supposed to summon a demon or devil that can grant us power of higher understanding. With refined metal and extremely accurate measurements, we don't need to resort to human sacrifices to accomplish this ritual. Our most ambitious member, whom I shall call Chris, performs the ritual by himself.

Using a square of white plastic with an intricate etching of a circular pattern on it, Chris begins pouring a blue liquid into the center of the circle, one drop at a time. The fluid reaches the edge of the circle and stops as though it hit an invisible wall. Chris hears the voice of a powerful being beyond the veil appear outside. We all drop to the ground, because the ritual indicates that we are not to make eye contact with the devil lest our souls be taken from us. When Chris tells us that the voice has stopped, he has learned the secret to harvesting arcane knowledge that is beyond our mortal understanding. The creature that was summoned told Chris that it wants to help increase Chris's magical ability.

In hindsight, this is obviously a trap. But asleep Fish Davidson and all the other startup crew think this is a great opportunity. Chris teaches all of us the ritual he used to gain his understanding. We hear the voice that Chris did, and duck to make sure that none of us met the creature's eyes. Untold stores of knowledge are now within our grasp!

We hear tantalizing clues of knowledge in whispers just at the edge of our hearing, but there are so many individual voices that it is impossible to pick out anything of substance. The creature has fulfilled its promise to give us all the knowledge we could ever want, but it comes at us too fast for us to make sense of it. Instead of a gift, this is now something that is driving us mad. There is no more silence; only constant whispering. We can't sleep because of the tantalizing hints at more knowledge. This firehose of information is more than our mortal minds can bear.

The voice of the creature interrupts the din of the whispers just as we are reaching our breaking point. "I can make the whispers stop," it says. "You just have to post my summoning ritual on all of your social media platforms and convince someone else to summon me."

I am too weak to resist. The instructions go up on Facebook and Instagram and Tumblr. Please follow the instructions. Make the voices stop.

Please.

--------------------

Header Image is “Pain and Anguish” by Gary H

[eva-nine-has-a-sonic-rifle]

this was a lovely thing to wake up to *sigh*

So, apparently sir-adamus thinks they got the whole of the Lost Fable figured out, huh?

Let’s see about that.

I am breaking down an Anon ask sent to them that I cannot directly reply to because they blocked me, and because adamus is, well, really fucking stupid and I trust their judgement exactly 0% when it comes to anything related to Oz.

They’re a goddamn Yang stan, and if you don’t know my feelings on those, well, you probably can connect the dots.

Where do we begin?

“(and honestly equating Salem to Oz’s abuser when her backstory is filled with abuse - first from her father, and then the gods who screwed her over because she had the audacity to be halfway intelligent, and thus smarter than them, when she naturally reacted poorly to them refusing to help her and telling her to get over it when anyone with even the barest amount of basic empathy can see why she wouldn’t give up on bringing Ozma back, having been abused her whole life and thus never developing adequate coping strategies for grief -”

Salem was not “smarter” than the gods, if anything she’s pretty damn selfish. In her defense, she is traumatized and naive because of her isolation. But that doesn’t exactly excuse her nearly sparking a second divine war that would wipe out the rest of humanity just because she was told no and had to resort to tricking the God of Darkness. And yeah, anyone with the barest amount of empathy (which you seem to have for anyone except Ozma... funny thing, that) WOULD see why she’s so dead-set on bringing him back. But guess what the audience has that the gods don’t?

HER BACKSTORY.

Without it, she’s a vanilla human to them demanding they bring back one person who died of natural causes. The gods, for all their faults, are not omnipotent and they are NOT the audience like you seem to believe. They are not privy to Salem’s backstory. Is immortality a cruel punishment? Yes, duh. But they don’t understand WHY it’s the worst punishment for Salem.

“...it’s honestly kinda gross, especially when Ozpin himself is guilty of abusing people, taking advantage of the trust he demands of them while never extending any trust himself)”

I mean, she is his abuser. Manipulating, killing, and hunting down your lover/ex-lover is abusive. If anything, it sounds familiar... like some other character did all this and THEY also had a childhood filled with abuse...

Except he doesn’t have the excuse of falling into a pool of evil that strips you of your morals and makes you a monster hellbent on destruction. And Ozpin has trusted people. 1. He trusted his inner circle with a good deal of information i.e. the maidens and the relics. 2. he trusted Pyrrha with information of the maidens and their existence. 3. he trusted RWBYJNR with knowledge of his own nature of reincarnation. So... he has actually extended trust, but you’re calling him being rightfully careful with whom he trusts with information and not preventing those who are mad with it from leaving “abusive”. Ladies and gentlemen I think we see the perpetuation of a double standard here.

“Oz honestly comes out of episode 3 looking less sympathetic than Salem”

We’d get to the point a lot faster if you just said you hate Ozpin and are unwilling to give him any credit to the point you’re willing to bend over backwards for the literal villain of the show.

“because yeah, Salem’s more actively malicious but her backstory explains how she got there, Oz’s backstory is someone who started off somewhat halfway decent but turned out to be a spineless coward who runs off at the first sign of trouble”

It’s really telling, you know, when you call a victim of verbal abuse who has come straight out of being dragged through his backstory where he was abused by his ex-wife a “spineless coward”. Also, if we’re using that logic, guess who else is a spineless coward?

Your precious Blake Belladonna.

“and lies to everyone about everything all the time often when it hurts his case to do so and even his reasons for doing so are lies (he claims “oh it’s because people betray me and i can’t trust them” when the backstory shows he never trusted Salem and was lying to her from the moment they met again - and for stupid reasons, like she was hiding parts of herself because she was afraid he’d judge her, he was hiding things because… god said she’s a bad person now and god knows best)”

He’s lied a total of 3 times that we know of, which is hardly “all the time” and you’re blatantly ignoring that we have SEEN examples of people betraying him. Lionheart ring a bell? Raven? And with Salem, she wasn’t honest with him either, in fact, she’s WORSE because she outright lied to his face about how the world ended and he didn’t find out until Jinn’s vision. And when he did tell Salem the truth? Guess what happened? He found out his wife wanted to mass-enslave or mass-genocide Humanity 2.0 and replace them with their children. He’s been dead for gods-know-how-long and he was RIGHT to mistrust her.

“also he built Beacon - one of the housing places for the Relics she’s after and a building filled with meatshields to put between Salem and the Relic - in the image of the tower she was locked away in. and that’s just sick”

Meatshields ≠ a bunch of heavily-armed college-age people who went to a combat school for 4 years. Also what else are you gonna do with it? leave it out in the wilderness, where Grimm would congregate and give away its location? Under an urban area, where civilians are? In Atlas, where they’d all be in one place and thus more accessible? And forgive him if he doesn’t exactly feel a lot of respect for the woman who abused him for thousands of years.

Bonus -

“I hope you didn’t forget all the lives Ozpin destroyed during his past incarnations, like the first one and the ones he spent drinking and secluded

oh yeah the poor fuckers who woke up one day trapped in their own minds and forced to watch as the invading entity destroyed their lives, unable to do anything about it

what a swell guy”

What makes you say that? When OSCAR PINE can overpower Ozpin’s control at his most desperate? That is explicit evidence that the hosts can reassert control if they so wish. Fuck off.

[bygosscarmine]

LOVE SHIFTS SHAPE

Sky High: Magenta x Ethan, post-canon

a multi-chapter reunion story, in continuity with Love, Unspoken

Magenta is dreading the reunion in a mild "I'm in a successful band that has nothing to do with my powers" sort of a way, but she looks forward to seeing the friends she's kept up with at the party.

Then, for a second she doesn't recognize Ethan in his adult form, and things long forgotten (like her break-up with Zach) feel all too relevant again.

Chapter One: For A Limited Time Only

Coming down into Baltimore, Magenta stared from the plane at the citylights glinting off the water. Cars ran through the urban landscape in their binary directions, mapping its arteries in red and white cells. It had been some time since she’d flown into this airport, even longer since she’d done it alone. Strange how that made her on edge. The jolts of landing from a flight usually gave her a thrill, but today it felt just like being shoved around in a crowd after a long day.

The airplane finally stopped moving, and soon the passengers heard the bing of permission to remove their seatbelts. Magenta hadn't flown business class, since she couldn't exactly write off a trip home, so she had to wait for the many rows ahead of her to clear. Even when it was almost her turn to leave the plane, she was forced to lean uncomfortably on the back of her seat, stooped, as the people in front of her wrestled large bags from overhead bins.

She turned her cellphone back on while she waited and saw a message directed at her in the messaging group with her high school friends. When's your flight arrive?

Just now, she replied.

Someone asked, When will you leave?

Day after the party.

It felt weird to not to be going home--but not all bad. It was one less thing to dread, though she'd get a lecture from her mother eventually. She was dreading the reunion enough.

The rental car kiosk was thankfully not over-run at this time of night, so she got a car without too much delay and drove to her hotel. In the pull-through lane in front of the lobby, she handed over her car with luggage to a valet, taking only the disreputably worn-in messenger bag with her wallet and phone that had accompanied her into the plane cabin as well. As she walked into the lobby a middle-aged man with the distinctive style of a traveling businessperson was complaining to a clerk, though he spared a moment's attention to giving her a critical look.

Apparently women in smokey eye-makeup and torn jeans didn't fit his image of the Royana establishment.

"Yeah," he said, in that exasperated tone conveying he felt he was being really patient, "I really feel like I should get an upgrade, every other location I've been to has a free shuttle from the airport."

"I'll see what I can do, sir," said the junior clerk, while glancing into the side-office.

The senior staff-member who emerged at this moment saw Magenta and said, "Ah! Ms. Notani. Welcome. We have your Premier Suite ready for you. Just give me a moment to activate your key."

"Certainly," said Magenta. "And please upgrade this gentleman's suite as one of my guests. Thank you."

The man looked flabbergasted (and not necessarily pleased) but Magenta just took her key-card and headed toward the elevators.

She was only in a split second of the advertisement featuring Kitt, the frontwoman of her band The Wastelanders, but the members all had Ambassador status with this hotel. It was nice; if she had to stay in a hotel in her own hometown, it was at least a ritzy one. Her luggage was brought up only moments after she arrived, with a complimentary cheeseboard from room service. It had been a while since she'd given cheese a hard look, but with reunion looming old memories were being dredged from the deeps. There had been a few months in school when pranking her with cheese had been a thing. She'd found it in her locker, left on her usual seats in class, and even (she suspected some of the meaner upperclassman of this one) written over her gym shirt with the kind that sprayed from a can.

Well, she couldn't let them get into her head already. She ate some of the goat feta on the rosemary crackers, and put the rest in the fridge.

She spent the next day pretending to catch up on her correspondence. Somehow she kept getting sidetracked into checking into one of the particularly dumb games on her phone instead. She gave up around three in the afternoon, and started to get ready though it was four hours before the event started. And she wasn’t getting dressed in something that required several hours to dress, either. The coded phrase for the reunion had been business casual, but Magenta didn’t believe in this barren subset of style and owned nothing resembling it. She’d be wearing some of the cigarette jeans the stylist for their tour had talked her into buying which ended up too tight for a night of jumping around on stage, and a blouse she’d picked up before her flight. It looked too dressy for her, so she figured it would work.

She zipped herself into the boots Kitt called "Maj's wingmen" and confronted herself in the mirror. “Am I going to have to get a warm-up drink?” she asked herself. “No, if I’m buzzed when I show up they’ll assume rock star cliches about me.”

It seemed ridiculous she was anxious. It wasn't like this was a group of strangers. Layla would be there. They regularly hung out when Magenta was in town—moreso now Layla lived with Warren, who had a decent living room for video game nights. Dorm apartments were only almost big enough to live in.

She struck out for the hotel bar, but ordered an espresso macchiato instead of liquor. A different kind of buzz would have to do.

There had been debate among the reunion committee, apparently, about having it in the Sky High gym. But aside from the fact that their first dance in the gym had been crashed by a villain, and afterward never felt quite the same to them again, there was the issue of getting a group of adults onto a shuttle in a timely manner. So instead the party was being held at a banquet hall. Because there were some security-risk people in their number, like Stronghold, it was a banquet hall in a government building where they could hire a few bouncers and be fairly assured that any intruder would at least be seen entering, and hopefully heard.

It also meant approaching the place felt a little like walking up to a bank. It looked fancy but not particularly welcoming.

Once she'd followed a couple she didn't recognize from behind to the actual banquet room, though, the crowd was a little less overpolished. Stronghold himself was apparently watching the entrance like a hawk. He bounded over to shake Magenta’s hand with a big grin, and then decide they should hug instead. He was wearing one of the signature Stronghold-color sweatshirts (where did he get those? Were they special made? She had never wondered about this until now) and carpenter jeans that surely were no longer being sold in stores.

“It’s so good to see you. How have you been? A band, right? You’re in a pretty big band! How is that?”

This kind of clueless greeting would be more annoying if Will weren't so incredibly sincere. He was owning that he hadn't been paying close attention, but that now, in this moment, he was interested in hearing more. She knew they'd be cut off before she said anything significant, but that he'd remember anything she did manage to say.

"Yeah, we've been touring most of this year. Feel like we're really building a good fanbase that shares a lot with each other, not just people who come to our concerts, now."

"That's awesome. Must feel great to kind of connect people. Oh, hey, have you talked to Freya? She's just back from teaching violin in Poland! As a cover for her other work, of course. You guys should talk!"

Magenta felt like this was the kind of tenuous connection neither she nor Freya would value the way Will thought they might, but she didn't resist. When reintroduced by Will, it became clear that he had heard about as much from Freya of her life as he had from Magenta. Magenta recognized her as the ice-power girl who had been held back to their grade after the second half of her sophomore year had been dedicated to recovering from a concussion and reconstructive surgery after a particularly poorly thought-out gym activity. Though Freya was a classical musician working as a superhero and Magenta was just a rock bassist, after a few awkward exchanges they discovered a shared a passion for the same fantasy thriller TV shows. They talked vampire casting aesthetics until Freya's old best friend arrived and pulled her away to get drinks.

Magenta both wanted a drink and wanted to not get tipsy around people so soon. Why was Layla not here yet? She was usually timely. Maybe she had tried to convince Warren to come--a losing proposition. There were few things Warren hated more than school functions, and one of those things was making nice at a stilted party. This was both of those things. Love blinded people, so Layla still tried to talk him into stuff he didn't want. As far as Magenta could tell, Warren got his way when he cared about something enough, but a lot of the time he was happy to do whatever Layla cared about.

Magenta had always really gotten Warren's antisocial bit. She'd just never had the balls to go hard-mode with it the way he did.

As she was trying to judge what circle it would pain her least to linger her way into when she heard an unfamiliar voice behind her say, "Hey Maj, how's it going?"

For a second (later she couldn't say why) she looked into the smiling face without recognition. Finally, though, logic suggested that a black young man in this somewhat white-washed crowd could only be one person. This took a split-second only, then she was ashamed. It was the overall expression of his face that confounded her most--by graduation he'd been already considerably taller and socially graceful. This man, though, had self-awareness.

"Hey!" she said, as if she hadn't missed her beat. "Please tell me the rumors are true and the cash bar isn't too far from here."

"I think it's true, but I cannot confirm," Ethan said, "I don't drink anywhere there are so many supers all together."

"That seems wise," she said.

[ginnyzero]

A Reason Why I’m Indie

Traditional publishing isn’t for everybody. And I’ve seen attitudes that if you don’t conform to word counts and genre conventions and all the rules, then you’re never going to get anywhere in publishing/as a traditionally published author. So, I guess you should suck it up and do it. Then, I’m proudly never going to get anywhere.

Before we go any further, I want to make a disclaimer. Agents do hard jobs. They became agents (most of them) because they love books and reading and want to see authors succeed. They don’t get PAID unless an author succeeds. They are as invested in an author’s book as much as the author is. Or, at least, the good ones are. (Yes, there are a few bad apples that you must be aware of.)

BUT

Agents can’t sell your book if there is no one in their contacts/on their list that will buy it for reasons.

And these reasons may not have anything to do with your writing quality, your world building, your storytelling or your creativity. These reasons have everything to do with the publishing world and the little arbitrary writing rules that they impose on well, everything. I’m squeezing my hands together so hard right now my knuckles are turning white because these rules make me angry.

It takes a lot to make me angry. I get frustrated sometimes fairly easily. But angry?

Well, bullshit makes me angry.

I have spent time going through the querying process. I have helped and watched my best friend, writing bff, collaborator and editor go through her querying process. And I have comforted and I have encouraged and I was there for her last night when she figured out that her book was being rejected not because of writing quality and or bad story or because she had unicorns.

Instead, it was being rejected because someone in the last four years decided that the themes of the types of stories she tells belong and only belong to a certain age group category younger than what she writes. And if she wants to write the type of stories she wants to write, the type of stories that she loves and she needed at the YA age level, she would have to change essentially everything about her story that she adores to get it traditionally published.

Or self-publish.

And as we know, self-publishing closes a lot of doors.

All because, she isn’t writing the “correct” theme for the “correct” age group.

And this pisses me off. (My friend is devastated because the book series she’s lovingly crafted and all her other ideas now won’t supposedly work for traditional publishing all without her knowing because someone instituted new rules. She's been in limbo for months over this.)

Because these things aren’t written down anywhere. And if they are, they’re in weird little articles that aren’t being taught in schools because probably the teachers themselves don’t know them. Or, they were things decided in the last half a decade and no one decided to you know, spread the word in such a way that authors querying would hear it.

Or maybe, just maybe, restricting themes to a genre or an age level is such extreme limiting and inappropriate bullshit it needs to be burned in a fire.

-Takes a deep breathe- See. Angry.

There are certain themes and certain plot structures/character constructions that defined or launched each genre. Romance being the most heavily structured in the traditional publishing world (and a lot of indies following the same rules/structure.)

Science Fiction (as we know it) was born out of the Cold War and the space race and the feeling of alienation and how is having world destroying weapons going to guide us as a species. It was a lot of “humans versus alien invaders” ID4 type of storytelling. Shelley’s Frankenstein started it. And there were different views of it in the beginning, Asimov delved into the perils of robotics and space flight. Herbert talked about ecological scifi. Heinlein tended to go political and then time traveling sexual hijinks. Star Trek was Horatio Hornblower IN SPACE.

Fantasy, especially high and epic fantasy, was born of the retelling of old legends, myths and religions and the triumph of the goodness of mankind in the hero's journey. Star Wars and stories like it (Andre Norton, Anne McCaffery’s Pern) merged the two into science fantasy (my favorite.) Urban fantasy became Sherlock Holmes solves/fights crime with vampires, werewolves and the rest of the fantasy kitchen sink.

Just some examples here.

Much of the science fiction I’ve seen on the shelves still follows the formulas of Asimov and Heinlein and Orson Scott Card. The lone soldier against the terrible aliens must fight to save humanity. (In some instances, these are still the top authors hogging all the shelf space, add Herbert and Bova and Brian Sanderson the successor of Robert Jordan and LE Modesitt. And…….. yeah.)

And it’s boring. It’s tiresome. It’s time for a change. Our culture is changing and the media on our shelves isn’t. Tumblr is full of posts about how Earth is Space Australia and aliens that are simultaneously fascinated and accepting of the oddities of humans because their culture isn’t like that! We adopt strange little vacuum robots as easily as we bond to small furry creatures that OMG OMG it could KILL US. (And some not so furry creatures.) We have different types of friends. We do stupid shit for the fun of it. It’s funny. It’s heartwarming. It’s different.

People don’t want angry patriarchal werewolves anymore. They want more than dwarves that just love mining and speak in bad Scottish accents. (Best one I saw was Australian accents actually.) Readers are tired of gratuitous rape. They’re tired of abusive and bad relationships being portrayed as good. Toxic masculinity is getting old as is misogyny. Princesses no longer want to be rescued by dragons, they want to be protected by dragons from being forced into marriages they don’t want. Why must readers go through a sewer when they open a book to escape?

No. Not a lot of these new ideas have conflict or plot. But that’s not really up to the idea thinkers on Tumblr, that’s up to us the writers to see what the idea makers are looking for and come up with plots to fit those settings (if we like those ideas/settings.)

I doubt you’ll find it on bookshelves.

Fantasy has fallen into the grim dark crap sack worlds looking for the next GRRM. Storytelling that hasn’t advanced past trying to emulate Tolkien. Authors that emulate Lackey and McCaffery in the style of romantic fantasy being passed over for grim dark fantasy with assassins and the hot “urban fantasy.”

And understandably, Urban Fantasy is pretty new. LKH and Jim Butcher and other writers like Kim Harrison, Seanan Mcguire and Patty Briggs have been instrumental in making urban fantasy a ‘big deal.’ And I’ve read a lot of urban fantasy and finally I had to give up. I couldn’t take it anymore. Because it was all the same thing in different trappings. And I’m down for the same thing in different trappings to an extent. I really am. I’d just hope that at some point we can have more than Urban Fantasy mysteries. But no one is selling them on traditional shelves because publishers decided that Urban Fantasy people SOLVE CRIME is what the genre is.

This kills innovation coming to publishing houses. We see it in movies as well as books, new ideas, good ideas, are being passed over for the rehash of something from 20 to 30 years ago. (Think closer to 60 for some scifi, more for fantasy.) Because publishers have "genre rules" and are risk adverse because 'what if it doesn't sell?'

There are writers out there that are willing to turn themselves into pretzels to make their story fit a certain word count, a certain genre theme or follow these arbitrary rules to “get their foot in the door” and then they are told and believe that “once they are established” they can “break/bend the rules.”

It’s a lie. It’s a tasty lie. It’s so good of a lie you want to believe it. You want to delude yourself that “if I pretend I’m a man, get my book under 80,000 words, follow the exact conventions of my genre, that one day I’ll get big enough to break all of the rules and innovate my genre.”

That’s when you’ve sold your soul to the devil. You’ve stripped yourself of all your self-respect in order to chase that dream of the “traditional publishing deal.”

Indie is pushing back at traditional in good ways and in bad ways. Traditional with either adapt or continue its pushing back and rigidly holding onto the genre structures it has to its own downfall. The readers will decide on what they want to see/read. That, as an indie author is no longer my problem and completely out of my control.

My problem remains with the fact that traditional publishing houses, and agents aren’t being open and honest about their expectations for these genres that they’re pushing onto shelves. Get together. Form a consensus. Get that information out to authors by putting it on agent websites/blogs. Don’t expect newbies to just know it.

We’ve had enough dream crushing. Being rejected is difficult enough. There are enough gates to go through and hoops to jump. Don’t make lack of information that “everybody knows” yet another one. It's about doing the right thing. Anyone can write a fiction book. Anyone. There is no degree necessary. So, do the right thing, the moral thing and be clear about expectations for what you represent and the "rules" of the genre on your website where querying authors can find it.

(There is going to be writer blaming going on here. Writers/Authors aren't at fault. They can't know this if they aren't told it. You can't just "know things" out of thin air. If there is an expectation, then state the expectation clearly and where it's easily found. As agents, as publishers, putting the information out there that will get you the material you want to read and can sell to publishing houses to make it to stores is on you, not the writer. /soapbox)

Now, if you’re a lucky sod and not like me and does write in the box and naturally writes inside the box. Then, you know what, I’m happy for you. Honestly, my life as an author would be so much easier if I could write “X the werewolf solves crime and saves the world.”

I can’t. It’s not in me.

My job as a writer is to put out the best story that I believe in as a person. A story that is true to me, my feelings, my life journey and what I want to see on shelves/would want to read. If that story has too many genres mixed up, doesn’t follow genre conventions, is too long, isn’t the right “theme” or focuses on the wrong thing for the wrong age group, then, fine, it’s probably never going to be traditionally published. I can deal with that.

I’ll self-publish. I’ll continue to self-publish. I’ll be indie despite the reputation that comes with being indie. I’ll do the work to get my books out there to the world and appreciate the few readers I have and support my indie friends even if it's just with a "you can do it. Hang in there. I'm rooting for all of you." Because, it's all I can do and can control.

I still reserve the right to be mad. Cause that's my friend.

[keepseaveyweird]

okay i really want you to write a fic vaguely based off of your experience at urban air and then like one of the guys pulls you aside and is like "oh daniel/corbyn has a crush on you" and she is like ?? and then they end up giving her tickets to the upcoming concert and then daniel/corbyn sees her and is like !! and the rest of the guys are like "YES OMG"

a/n: I loved this omg this was such a good idea

You weren’t excited for your opening shift, it was always slow in the mornings and meant mostly cleaning and checking for safety. But that particular morning, as the sun was still on the rise and the adults made their daily commute to better-paying jobs, you couldn’t help but notice the load of cars already in the parking lot. The building lined with girls of all ages as they chatted amongst one another. Some gave you dirty looks as you walked in, some asked if you could sneak them in and you had never been more confused, and you’d never seen your boss look so annoyed.

“What’s going on?” you asked your boss who was sitting the front desk with your coworkers.

“We have a band coming in today for a radio show, some have been here since last night,” she told you, rolling her eyes and walking away.

You turned to your coworker who was laughing at her, “what band? Why did no one tell me? It’s only my third shift, is it going to be busy?”

He chuckled, “I have no idea, they’re upstairs right now. They’re our age though and seem cool. It’ll probably be crazy so I’ll trade you laser-tag for your zip-line shift?” He offered.

You wrapped your arms around him, thankful he could put you out of your potential misery, “oh my gosh you’re the best!”

It was about ten minutes later, Urban Air still hadn’t opened but you were setting up the system for laser-tag, in the dark as the neon lights glowed around you. You heard running around, laughing and yelling getting nearer and nearer. Suddenly, five boys rushed by the corridor, only for them to back track two seconds later and approach you.

“There’s laser tag?” the curly-haired boy yelled, “oh hell yeah,” grabbing a vest, he put it over himself and strapped in. The four boys followed as you grabbed the little remote that set up teams.

“Are you guys the band that all the girls are out there for?” you asked with a chuckle.

“Yup, sorry if we cause any problems, they get kind of…. Rambunctious sometimes,” the boy with blue eyes told you with a shy smile.

You smiled back, subconsciously, unknowing, almost like a instinct. You couldn’t help but think he was attractive, that all of them were actually.

“Don’t apologize,” you chuckled, “it’s not a problem. Okay there’s five which means uneven teams so who’s going to be the team of two?”

After much discussion, name-calling and fights, they managed to figure it out and you managed to catch the brunette’s name; Daniel. You told them the rules, how the game works and what to do once inside, but somehow the six of you ended up in a discussion about random things. Your town, your job, the tour bus, and you came to really like these boys, or Daniel who was doing most of the talking. Soon though, you had to usher them into the game room, as a line had formed since the doors had opened while in deep conversation.

They came out, Daniel, the blonde and the curly-haired boys pouting. The tall one and the boy with rosy cheeks walked out, smiles on their faces as they did a quick handshake, victorious. Loudly, as the three accused the others of cheating, they put away their vests and thanked you as they scurried out and upstairs to avoid fans. But not the blonde boy, who stuck around for a second as the next group prepared themselves.

“I need to tell you something,” he told, making you raise your brows, “Daniel couldn’t stop talking about you while we were in there, I know it’s crazy cause we just met you but he really likes you and I have an idea.”

You couldn’t help the butterflies that erupted in your stomach when the words left his mouth. And with each word following, excitement bubbled through your body as he unravelled his plan, “I’m Corbyn, by the way,” he smiled with a hug before rushing off.

It was hours later, you had gotten home from work and immediately started getting ready. Corbyn had given you his number to let him know when you got to the venue, to let you in and get you a front row seat. So when you arrived at the back door, knocking suspiciously, he answered with a smile, leading you to his dressing room as he devised, yet, another plan.

“Wait until our friend Eben gets off the stage before heading to your seat, Daniel watches from the side stage and will be able to see you. We want to surprise him, throw him through a loop, really rattle him up,” Corbyn explained as he fixed his hair in the mirror.

“Okay, but why?” you asked with a chuckle, sitting on the couch behind him.

“Because it will be funny, duh,” he scoffed, “okay yeah it’ll be funny to catch him off guard but I’ve never seen him like that before. So talkative and so outspoken, if you knew him as well as we did, you could just see it in his eyes. I know it sounds crazy and stupid because you’ve just met but I think this could turn out amazing.”

“Well,” you smiled, thinking about his reaction once he locked eyes with you in the crowd, “let’s hope that’s the case.”

Eben walked off the stage, the lights turned off and roadies started setting up for the other five to perform. As sneakily, nonchalantly as you could, you made your way to your seat. It was in the middle, not front and center as that was too obvious, but off the left where Daniel would open up with their song.

Suddenly the lights shut off, the crowd erupted in screams, in cheers as they chanted their names, and the music began to boom. The opening notes of Trust Fund Baby began, and the silhouette of Daniel appeared on his platform; the moment of truth.

“I don’t wanna girl who gets a car for her sweet sixteen, or spends a stack of dollar bills on limousine. I want a girl who takes the bus and who wears -” suddenly he stopped as his eyes met yours. A smile stretched across his face as he realized he needed to keep singing. So he did, he caught back up to the music, finding his place again as he strutted across the stage. Soon the rest of the boys were out, all giving him a pat on the back, as they smiled at you and gave you a small wave as they continued.

The concert was amazing, with each song, each beat, each lyric and chord that was performed, Daniel spent his time in front of you, whether he meant to or not. And after, when the arena was quiet and the fans had gone home, he walked out into the sea of chairs and took a seat next to where you waited for him to come out.

“You know for having front row, you sure didn’t know any of the words,” he laughed.

It was true, you didn’t know the words, had only discovered them that day as they played laser-tag and you worked.

“I was just… caught up in the moment,” you fibbed with a smile, “okay so I had a little help from your friends, but I’ll learn them, promise.”

You held up your pinky finger, out of habit as it was something you always did with friends and family, and Daniel clasped his own with yours immediately. You had always thought people were crazy when they said they felt electricity with their significant others, thought it was a metaphor people made up to describe the emotional feelings they had. But as a jolt of lighting ran through your body at the small point of contact, you knew what they meant, knew exactly what that feeling was. Because Daniel was electric, full of life and energy and optimism, and this was only the beginning of beautiful relationship as the two of you sat there, alone in the crowd and talked about anything and everything.

“When does tour end?” you asked him as he walked you to your car in the empty parking lot, their manager yelling for him to hurry up as the tour buses were ready to head out for the next city.

“In a couple weeks,” he told you grabbing your hands, “I’m supposed to go to Coachella, but I was thinking….” he dragged on, “I could come back here, maybe take you out on a date?”

“I can’t believe you’d choose me over Coachella,” you laughed as he wrapped himself around you in a hug, “but yes, I’d love that.”

“I can’t wait,” he told you, kissing your cheek and beginning to walk away. But not before turning around and pointing at you with a smirk.

“I’m thinking laser-tag? So I can beat you?” he smiled.

“In your dreams, Seavey,” you yelled, watching him load himself into the tour bus and drive away, leaving you eager for the coming weeks.

[edwinxerathi]

Consumed

((A warning for mentions of gore. This is a story Edwin told in a story telling circle. I edited it to read better on here!))

Edwin moved to stand, walking to a central spot made for story telling. While he spoke he reached into his hip pouch. "Now, it's been awhile since I've told this one.. So I might have some of the details wrong." He threw the small ball he retrieved into the dirt and a dark smoke began to billow from it. "The docks of Southshore told me of an urban legend they saw from the coastline.. A horror they followed." He curled his fingers, using shadow magic to toy with the smoke and shape it as an intense gaze grew on his face from the pain of his magic. "All horrors of course, have an origin do they not? Let me tell you of the Ghost of Gilneas."

Edwin's fingers arose, closing in as if pinching the air. The smoke rose in front of him and it shaped into an armored man's silhouette. "The men always told me of this guard they watched in Gilneas." The figured began to patrol, a watchful gaze inspecting the listeners from the shadow. "He was quite the admirable guard, bravely defending his city." He smiled, fingers curling as a woman's figure entered the smoke. "Of course, pillars of society stand together.. He was madly in love with another respectable  guard." Red billowed into the smoke of the man's heart, throbbing into the open air to profess his love. "Every day he would speak to her in hopes that one day she may take him." He paused for a moment, a grin lifting his lips. "Eventually he made his interest clear, and professed his love to her." He spoke hopefully and his finger flicked to the side, the woman's silhouette vanishing. "She denied his undying love." The male's figure lowered in shame. "The anger that comes along in that shame, that strike to human emotions.. He fled his safe haven of a city."

The smoke blew open like a massive gate, the man desperately fleeing the land. "Irrational thoughts meant he was no longer able to return home." He chuckled, fingers pulling back as that smoke began to slam into a massive wall, sitting in front of the tiny smoke man. "But escaping safety is much easier than breaking in." The smoke man turned from the wall, and began to slowly roam away, it's head  lowered in shame. "He did what most lost souls do, he wandered.. Far.. So far. The deckhands swear he even visited Southshore at some point, failed to find his life there." Buildings made of that same dark smoke came and went around the man, his head lowering with each failed refuge.  "Eventually he moved further north... And we know what resides north of these lands." Edwin broke the tension briefly with a chuckle. "My homeland, of course. Good ol' Lordaeron." His joyous visage turned into a sinister smirk, his tone matching. "The good ol' home that caught a sweep of nasty grain.. Did they not?" The lone smoke man desperately sifted through a box, looking for whatever food he could get his hands on.. Those grains poured into his throat, consuming them just as quick as he found them. "The difference in the forsaken turning you.. And being plagued by yourself?" Edwin flicked all five of his fingers at the  smoke man, knocking off most of the man's body mass, leaving a withered, bare bones human. "You don't understand that you no longer reside among the living."

He got into character, speaking in a bolsterous, ominous voice. "All of Tirisfal heard the wails that came from the awaking man. He fled the sewers he had rested in, painfully shrieking as he wondered what had become of his body." The figure ran through several shadowy smoke trees, nothing distinct in sight. "Had I not eaten in this long? Will I survive? Were the only inquiries  the man held as he cried out, desperately searching for any scrap of food." The running became more frantic, before coming upon a lone barn-house. "In Tirisfal he found his salvation." The doors of the home opened up and a table of food resided inside.. How peculiar. "How could such a frail man deny a blessing of a life time? He ran to gorge on the meats the table offered." The figure nearly dove onto the table in a feverish rush for the food. "But that meat was much too rare.. He quickly scarfed down the pieces, but moved on. There were beautiful strawberries! Fresh from the orchard. He shoved them into his mouth feverishly.. But oh they tasted just like the iron from the nearby mine!" The figure by now was frantically looking around, Edwin's free hand  drawing a dagger from his belt. "Next he moved to the bread at the center.. So squishy.. Why is it gushing? The grain.. It's gone bad. That poor soul muttered to himself." He struck down his knife behind the smoke, blood pouring from the smoke man's  mouth as he screamed in horror. "I consumed flesh!" The mismatched food took it's real shape.. The much too rare meat of a dead man.. The squishy, bloody juices of his guts and the soaked loaf of his organs.. How deep into rigor mortis was this poor soul?

Edwin's fingers twisted to make the withered smoke do a desperate dance, bloody hands digging into his head. "He screamed loud.. Loud enough to wake the dead." Edwin smirked as the figure taking off running. "He spent years wandering those forests, looking for his lost love.. Looking for his home... And most importantly. Looking for his life." The tired, bloodied smoke man slowly stumbled through the shadowy woods. "When he found his home however." Edwin shook his head, a 'tsk-tsk' coming from his lips. "The walls had fallen” That one massive wall of smoke was now crumbled clouds of dust. “He found that his kindred were just like him." Hundreds of withered forms grew in the distance, wandering aimlessly about the lost country-side. Edwin spoke with great pain in his voice. "He chose not to leave those lands, living within the sewers of his blighted home." He grinned knowingly. "Some say he haunts Gilneas to this day." With that Edwin stepped back, a smile on his face as the smoke faded away with the withered man.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia: Chapter 19

My on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fan-fic!   Chapter 19, presented raw and unedited and featuring Shota Shinso! Chapters 0-18 (plus an interlude) can be found here

“Yow!  Look out and shout, listeners!  This is Present Mic and the time is 0630 on this beautiful Tuesday morning!  If you’ve got work today in Hosu City, better give yourself extra time, because there’s a Villain attack downtown that has everything all tied up!  Fortunately, new outlets on the scene are reporting that Ingenium and his sidekicks are on the case!  We’ll keep you updated when we know more.  But for now, here’s the latest hit from Jiro and the Jamming Wheys!”

Shota’s sleepy fingers prodded at his alarm clock until he found the volume button, lowering it to something less likely to jolt him out of bed.  He’d stayed up too late (again), reading through the various Hero News sites and watching videos of Heroes in action.  He always paid for it the next morning, but he always considered it worth it.

He threw back the covers and put both feet on the floor, blinking his eyes for a few moments as he adjusted to being awake.   Pro-Heroes stared back at him from every corner of the room, from the posters along every wall, to the statues and action figures that covered nearly every other available surface.  It had been a real challenge deciding what to bring to U.A. with him, but he’d somehow managed.  But maybe he’d trade a few things out the first time he went home.

As he set his phone to voice response mode as he started to get dressed.  “What’s the current Top Ten Hero Rankings?” he asked it, one of his pre-programmed searches.  While the Official Billboard rankings only came out biannually, there were plenty of other Hero-fans and communities out there using similar algorithms to track on a more regular basis.

A hologram popped up of the results:

1)     Deku

2)     Lemillion

3)     Shoto

4)     Ground Zero

5)     Nejire-chan and Suneater

6)     Ingenium

7)     Rodeo

8)     Gale Force

9)     Froppy

10) Red Riot and Real Steel

Most of those weren’t surprising.  Deku and Lemillion traded off spots fairly frequently and both had been working overtime in the advent of the Quirk Virus outbreak.  Shoto had pretty consistently held the Number Three spot for a number of years, though Ground Zero occasionally rose to the Number Three or Two spot for about a day or two before dropping down.  Ingenium had been pretty solidly Number Six for even longer.  

Neijire-chan and Suneater both worked at the same agency they’d founded with Lemillion after he’d gotten his Quirk back, and typically worked together still, even when his duties drew him apart from them.  Even without him, they’d racked up a number of impressive victories, rescues, and captures to their name.  Hero couples usually did.  His parents frequently worked together too and had similar results, her Quirk complimenting his quite nicely.  Even if they were largely Underground Heroes, operating below most people’s radar.

The only real surprise on the list was Rodeo, Mika Mineta’s mother.  After he fixed his tie and slipped on his jacket, Shota opened the article associated with the most recent list for more information.   She’d previously been hovering in the low to mid-teens, but it looked like a victory against the Villain group known as the Rustlers, she’d been propelled up several notches. It looked like the Villains had taken a bullet train hostage and she’d pulled off the rescue single handedly.

Unfortunately, there weren’t very many video clips of the rescue, just a couple of hastily taken and shaky cell phone videos.  There were more when the train had pulled in the station and she’d walked out with them all tied up, but those weren’t nearly as exciting.

On the other hand, a linked article showed that a newer Pro-Hero, Wreck-It, was rapidly rising in the ranks following his fight with Fullmetal last week, having hit Number Twenty-Seven already.  Most people were speculating he’d crack the teens by the end of the year.   Looking at the time, Shota saved a video of Wreck-It fighting Cy-Bug for later.  If he wanted breakfast, he’d have to go down now.

There was never enough time for the important stuff!

***

Shota came out of his room at the same time that Isamu Haimawari was coming out of his.  Tall and skinny, Haimawari had a good six inches or more on him. Shota gave him a wave.  “Morning, Haimawari!”

“Oh, morning, Shinso,” he said.  “You, ah, you look tired.”

Shota shrugged. “Stayed up too late again watching Hero videos.  I’d watch one, and then it just kept suggesting more!”

Haimawari laughed. “You do know that’s just what it does, right?  For the clicks and ads?”

“Yeah, well… they shouldn’t have so much cool stuff if they’re gonna do that!”

He laughed again as they headed for the stairs.  “If you say so, little dude.  Just don’t let Aizawa catch you napping.  I don’t think it’s be pretty.  He’s really scary.”  He held open the door to the stairwell for Shota.

“Oh, I don’t worry too much about that.   Uncle Shota’s not nearly as scary as he seems.”

Haimawari missed a step and began skidding down the stairs, only stopping himself by throwing out his hands and using his Quirk to brake himself.   He got uneasily back to his feet.  “’Uncle Shota’?” he asked, sounding as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying.  “How do you two have the same name?”

It took Shota a minute to remember that Haimawari hadn’t grown up with the rest of them.  It had only been a week, but he’d already gotten completely used to having him around.  “I’m named after him,” he explained.  “He’s my godfather.  He was my dad’s mentor, back in the day.  Helped get him into the Hero Course and everything.”

Haimawari tilted his head. “That’s a thing?”

“Oh yeah!” Shota said. “Lots of Pro-Heroes started off in the General Education Department but got to transfer to the Heroics Course after they made their mark in the Sports’ Festival!  It’s pretty much a U.A. tradition!  There’s the Negotiator, and the Safari Samurai, and Iron Blood, and Life Sewer, and…”

“Wow,” Haimawari said. “Too bad more schools don’t do something like that.  Dad applied to a Hero school too… but missed the exam.  He might have made it up after.  Course, if he did that, he probably never would have met Mom, so…” He shrugged.  “Guess things work out.”

“Your dad was gonna be a Hero?” he asked.  “Awww, man! You said he’s got the same Quirk as you, right?  Your Quirk is so cool!  I bet he could have made an awesome one!”

That got a smile out of Haimawari as they reached the bottom of the stairs and headed into the Common Room. “Yeah… well, guess it’s up to me then.”

“You’ll do great,” Shota said.  “I know it!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude,” Haimawari said.  

The Common Room was abuzz with activity, with most either eating breakfast, fixing their breakfast, or otherwise engaged.  Shota saw Toshi sitting with Takuma Sero and the Iida Twins on one of the sofas.  Sora Iida was sitting very close to Toshi, practically in his lap, while Takuma and Tensei Iida were sitting close, but not as close, though both looked rather relaxed with each other.  Everybody had already known about Sero and Tensei Iida, of course, since Kimiko Ojiro had blasted it to the farthest corners of the internet, but Toshi and Sora Iida was new.  Good for them, though.

“Haimawari!”  Chihiro Kaminari’s voice cut across the room, from where she was sitting with Mika Mineta.  “Your mom’s a music reporter, right?”

Haimawari looked over in their direction, maybe looking a little pale from the attention.  “Ah, yeah?” he said.

“Then get over here! You’ve got to have the inside scoop on these Double*Pop girls!” Kaminari said.

“Bunch of wannabes,” Haimawari said, looking disgusted for the first time since Shota had known him. “Hang on, let me get a Pop-Tart and I’ll give you the real gossip.”  

He gave Shota an apologetic grin.  “Sorry, I’ve gotta get in on this.  Just… come check on me in about fifteen to make sure they haven’t kidnapped me to have their way with me,”

“Oookay?” Shota said. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he’d still check up on him anyway.  He’d grab some cereal and then go join Asuka, Izumi, and Kirishima-Bakugo for some quick breakfast before class.

Hopefully the morning wouldn’t drag on too long.  He couldn’t wait to get back to the USJ!

***

“Go, Shinso!” Akaya Koda directed, pointing with one massive hand.  “My trees have grown strong, but they will not hold back rubble’s collapse for long!”

Back the USJ, they were continuing their Urban Rescue Training.  Yesterday, they’d been training with Doc Clock (she wasn’t very high in the Hero Rankings, but Aunt Eri was definitely one of the top Heroes in his book), and today they were working with All Might himself!  The former Number One Hero in Japan and the world! The Symbol of Peace!  And he was still teaching after all these years!   It was the coolest thing in the universe!

He was working with Akaya Koda, Takiyo Aoyama, Takuma Sero, and Izumi Todoroki.  The cityscape around them was in ruins, with numerous small fires and many of the buildings in states of significant collapse.  They’d already cleared three buildings and were on to a fourth.  Koda had used her Quirk to fast grow trees from seeds (decades of growth in seconds!), shaping their growth enough to reinforce a collapsed section of a building. But they wouldn’t hold forever. So they had to know how many people were inside to be rescued.

Shota took a deep breath and concentrated on his Quirk, sending out as high a pitch as he could manage, almost past the range of human hearing.  Invisible waves of sound penetrated the building, bouncing all around it, until they bounced back to him, painting a perfect picture in his mind. He could see every nook, cranny, door, pipe, light fixture, and “person” inside.

“Five people inside,” he said.  “Two on the ground floor, three on the third.”

He had spent a lot of time with Quirk Specialists and Quirk Counselors over the years.  His was a true, rare, once in a family line mutation, completely different from anything anyone else on either side of his family had.  They were still figuring out everything he could do.  He just knew he could make a lot of things happen with different sounds.  And every time he found something new, it meant it was a new way he could help people. But sonar was really useful here. Not that it didn’t have its drawbacks. There was the time he’d used it when Kimiko Ojiro was around…

“I can take Todoroki up,” Sero said, pointing to the third floor.  “I can get there, but I can’t get past the fires.  You up for that?”

Izumi nodded.  She looked a little tired; she’d been making lots of ice to fight the fires, only occasionally and carefully letting out little puffs of her own flames to balance herself out.  The silver pieces on her costume were flashing yellow. Shota knew they did something to help regulate her temperatures, but he didn’t know what the flashing meant.  He hoped she was okay.

“I can manage,” Izumi said. “Just get me close enough.”

“Guess that leaves us on the ground floor!” Shota said to Aoyama.

Aoyama shrugged, his glow bright and partially obscuring his features.  “I suppose they shall be grateful for the rescue,” he said.  

“Best hurry,” Koda said. “I shall do what I can to reinforce what I have already grown, but I fear providence shall not be with us for long.”

They moved.  With Todoroki on his back, Sero fired a strand of his Acid Tape upward, pulling them towards the third floor.  Shota sprinted inside, Aoyama hot on his heels and soon passing him.

He probably could have navigated with his Sonar—though the picture it had given him was fading fast from his mind—but Shota was grateful for Aoyama’s light.  With the power out in the ruined building, it cast a soft glow over everything.  

“You said there were deux,” Aoyama said.  “Where?”   He held up a hand and concentrated, focusing his light through the reflective armband he wore as part of his Support gear.  The armband focused the light into a powerful spotlight beam, which he traced over the dark corners of the room.

Shota pointed a little to the left of where Aoyama’s spotlight had fallen.  “One there… one further in the back.”

The ground began to shake and pieces of rubble fell from the ceiling.  Aoyama let out a frightened yelp and jumped to the side as one nearly fell on him.  “Then let us get them and get out as soon as possible,” he said.

Swiftly, they checked the first of the animatronics.  There was a fallen filing cabinet pinning its legs and the vital signs meters displaying on its chest told a story of a great many injuries.  Shota grabbed onto the cabinet and tried to lift it, grunting and straining with all his might, but it was too heavy.

Aoyama let out a sigh. “Allow me to show you how it is done.”   He pointed a hand at the filing cabinet and made some adjustment to his arm band.  A beam of light as wide as his fist shot out, striking the cabinet and slicing through it, splitting it into the portion that was over the animatronic’s legs and the portion that wasn’t.  The beam continued on and went into the wall behind it, leaving a smoking hole and red hot edges on the cabinet.

The lights on the animatronic lit up like a Christmas tree before shutting off completely.  Shota reached a hand towards it and pulled it back. The animatronic and the air around it was still hot from Aoyama’s laser beam.  No wonder it had…  died? Was that the right word for what had happened?

He knew Aoyama was powerful, but he also knew he mostly relied on his Support gear to control his Quirk.  Shota’s eyes went wide as he looked at his classmate.

“Non…” Aoyama said.  “I did not mean…   We… we must have been too late already!”  He gave his cape a flick.  “Let us see about the other one, Shinso.”

Shota was very sure that they hadn’t been too late and that it had been Aoyama’s fault.  But after seeing the horrified look on his French classmate’s face, he wasn’t going to push it.  Maybe he’d be a little nicer after that.

As they headed to the back room, the ground shook again and more of the ceiling began to fall.  A big piece of the ceiling fell near Aoyama, causing him to shriek and Shota to flinch at the noise of the crash.  More started to fall, but when Aoyama tried to move, he couldn’t!   His cape had been caught under the rubble that had nearly hit him.  And more was falling…

Shota screamed.  The air around the rippled with the sonic energy he had unleashed, forming a protective dome around both of them. Several more pieces of rubble fell from the ceiling, but they bounced off the dome.  Finally, it stopped and Shota could breathe again, coughing until his throat felt right again.  That had been longer than he typically used his Quirk for.  He was best in short bursts and could only keep it up as long as he could draw in enough air to make sound.

Aoyama looked at him with wide eyes.  “You saved me,” he said, his voice soft and quiet.  “Merci.”

“You’d have done the same!” Shota told him, even if part of him wondered if that wasn’t true.  “And they wouldn’t let us really get hurt, not during training!”

“Still…” Aoyama frowned and tugged at his cape, until it came away from the rubble with a long riiiiiip.  “A pity. My poor cape.”

Shota was going to tell him that he shouldn’t wear it, that very few Heroes wore them these days, exactly because of what had happened.  He even remembered reading about an American Support Gear and costume designer who had campaigned very hard for the international Hero community to outlaw capes in their entirety, though she had not been successful in that. Too many people thought they were too iconic to give up.  But Shota could quote a lot of statistics on why they were a bad idea…

“Aoyama!  Shinso!”  Koda’s voice rang out.  “The structure is becoming unstable!  You need to get out!”

Both turned and ran for the door.  Shota hated leaving the exercise incomplete…but it looked like they had no choice.

The second they hit daylight, the building finished collapsing, taking Koda’s trees with it. “Thank you for your sacrifice, my woody friends,” she said quietly.  “Rest well knowing the lessons I have learned here will mean it was not in vain.”  Her rocky features were tired and a little sad. Shota knew she took it hard whenever her plants were hurt, even in training.

“You two okay?” Sero asked. “You were in there a long time.” Soot covered his costume and he held his helmet in the crook of his arm, scrubbing at the faceplate with a cloth.

“And your cape is torn, Aoyama,” Izumi said.  She was letting flames dance over her fingertips, the blinking lights on the silver pieces of her costume fading from yellow to green.

“We just ran into un petit bit of trouble,” Aoyama said, putting on a proud grin.  But he only held it for a minute, Shota bet he was remembering that they’d all be reviewing the video later. “But… Shinso was quite good at getting us out of it.  Even if we did not complete the rescue.”

“An unfortunate truism of being a Hero,” All Might said, as he left the safe zone he’d been monitoring them from.  Shota had seen plenty of videos of him in his prime, but there was something captivating about the man he’d mostly known as Toshi’s grandfather.  He’d been a Hero longer than almost anyone; and Shota knew he was lucky to learn whatever he could from him.

“Sometimes,” All Might continued, “you cannot save everyone.  Sometimes… you will be pushed to your limits and it will still not be enough. We hold tremendous power and responsibility in our hands.  Our profession is an unforgiving one, one which demands perfection of us, when the slightest misstep or wrong choice can cost lives. But if you train your minds, bodies, and Quirks…  You can at least ensure those moments are as few and far between as possible.

“I think you all know where you can begin to improve, but that being said…  You are all showing great progress!  We will discuss the specifics later, but the other groups should be finishing up and Water Spout and Doc Clock will be wanting to continue your first aid lessons.  But know that I am very proud of all of you!  You are truly showing you know what it means to Go Beyond… Plus Ultra!”

Shota was pretty sure he’d never felt happier.  All Might believed in him!

***

“Remember, kids, playing by the rules is super manly!  If you see someone cheating, let them know that’s not fair!  And that’s what Red Riot Sayz!”

Shota turned down the volume on his computer while the ad between videos loaded.  Someone had uploaded a bunch of Public Service Announcements that Red Riot had done more than a decade ago and he just had to watch them all!  He wouldn’t be up too late if he did that…

“Shota, go to bed.”

He looked up from his computer to find Asuka, Izumi, Toshi, and Haimiwari in his room.  He must have been watching so intently he didn’t even hear them!

“Go to bed,” Asuka repeated.

“Sorry, dude,” Haimiwari said, an apologetic smile on his face.  “But you looked really tired this morning.  I had to call in the heavy artillery.”

“I’m only gonna watch a couple more,” Shota said.  And he was! Probably.  Sometimes they were just too tempting!

“Those’ll probably get taken down anyway,” Toshi said.  “That’s not an official video channel.”

They might?  Then he had to watch them all tonight!  He started to turn back towards his computer.

“Maybe not the best thing to say, Toshi, *chirp*” Asuka said.

“…Ooops?”

“Shota,” Izumi said.  “It is only Tuesday and you’ve already been tired both mornings this week.  This is not healthy for you or your future as a Hero.”

“Dad doesn’t sleep that much,” he tried.  

“But you are not your father,” Izumi continued.  “And besides… your godfather would tell you to rest whenever you are able.  We must insist you go to bed.”

Shota became uncomfortably aware of the four sets of eyes on him.  And of the fact that despite her soft voice, there was a firmness to Izumi’s words that meant he wasn’t going to win this argument.

“Okay,” he said, dejectedly, getting out of his chair.

“Turn the computer off,” Asuka said.

“And no using your phone either,” Izumi added.

They’d really thought of everything!  He was definitely trapped.  Well… one day without too many videos probably wouldn’t kill him.

He’d just have to watch even more tomorrow!

[timeclonemike]

Random Idea: “Portia” Spider-Man AU

I haven’t actually seen Into The Spiderverse myself, but I have read that it has started a trend towards people coming up with their own Spider-Man AUs. More specifically I read that there’s a lot of people lashing out against that for some reason, which I don’t get.

I also watched a walkthrough of the PS4 game, which actually motivated me to work on a completely different project.

I might as well state right now that I do not have an encyclopedic knowledge of Spider-Man in particular, or the Marvel multiverse in general, much less the exponentially greater possibilities that come from a huge fan base. To the best of my limited knowledge, I don’t think I’m treading on anyone’s toes, and if it turns out somebody had the same ideas before me and reads this, I promise I’m not trying to steal your thunder.

The Origin: Pyotr “Peter” Parker is second generation Russian-American living in the Big Apple. He’s a scientific prodigy, and he was well on his way to getting a scholarship that would launch him to dizzying academic and technical heights when his life was demolished; his mother, father, and uncle were all killed in some sort of crossfire between different mob families. His academic performance and social life were also casualties, first from grief, and later from the impotent rage burning inside him from seeing nothing at all happen to find and punish those who had done so much harm. The kid who was on a fast track to following in the footsteps of such scientific visionaries as Tony Stark, Hank Pym, and Oswald Octavius did the bare minimum of work needed to keep his teachers and Aunt May (his only living relative) off of his back; the rest of his days and much of his nights were spent in an angry haze of revenge-based daydreams and fantasies.

The Transformation: Peter does not remember exactly how, but one morning he woke up with a painfully swollen spider bite. After a day or so, the swelling went away, but it was replaced by other “symptoms” that were decidedly more permanent. In no particular order, he could stick to various surfaces, detect motion nearby, and found that his strength and agility were dramatically increased. Most dramatic of all, he could jump much, much farther than any human being had any business jumping. To an angsty, hormonal teenager who had fumed and raged inwardly as he watched the injustice perpetrated on his family go unpunished for years, it was like Christmas morning. (It was actually Arbor Day, but that’s not really important.) With barely enough sense to get gloves, a ski mask, and goggles to hide his identity, he set out to to do by himself what the police and the courts could not, or would not, do through proper channels.

The Defeat: Superpowers or not, a teenager is not a match for multiple, competing organized crime families. Peter was shot four times, twice in the left leg, once in the right shoulder, and one glancing blow to the skull that would have punched his clock if not for his Spider-Sense based reflexes. With a concussion, a leg that couldn’t support his weight, and a whole lot of lost blood, Peter was forced to back off to some place safe, call 911, and nearly collapse right after tossing his “costume” in the closest dumpster. Emergency surgery and a blood transfusion saved his life, and while his recovery was almost miraculously fast according to the doctors and nurses keeping an eye on him, he still had to convalesce.

The Lesson: The time spent in bed, with nothing to do but mull over his defeat, forces him to reconsider what he is doing and why. He was about ready to throw all his dreams of revenge out the window and move on with his life... when the assassins showed up. After all, gunshot wounds are reported to police, and not every officer who swears to uphold the law actually keeps that oath. The assassins try to smother Peter while he pretends to be asleep; for their trouble, they get kicked with the same amount of force that previously launched Peter across streets and up the sides of buildings. Fortunately for them, they are in a hospital already. With a paranoia that has nothing to do with his new danger-detector in his head, Pete leaves the hospital without being officially discharged, makes it home, and discovers that his Aunt May ended up taking out two home invaders... and instead of the invaders being carted off, Aunt May is the one being held on trumped up charges. Peter has the consequences of his actions thrust into his face, and he angsts over his irresponsibility for all of five minutes before he has an epiphany that few Spider-themed superheroes ever figure out: Not everything bad that happens is automatically his fault.

The Comeback: While only a few days older, Peter is now much wiser, and begins a methodical plan of attack. The forces arrayed against his family cover the city like a web, but he’s learned a lot about spiders recently. Between phone calls, letters, and Duck Duck Go, Peter maps out the people he has to fight. These include a hanging judge, an attorney general living beyond her apparent means, and a couple of cops who have some black marks on other people’s social media, if not their professional records. With a new, thematically different costume, some cheap smartphones, and gadgets put together from dollar store specials and dumpster diving, Peter starts collecting evidence of corruption and leaving flash drives and SD cards in the mailboxes of the people who seem to be trustworthy. The gears of justice start to grind, while the gears of corruption have sand thrown into them. (What actually happened is that Peter found the AG was in the mob’s pocket, kidnapped her, called her “handlers” and played back some carefully edited sound bites recorded from a rival family’s conversations. Her “execution” was interrupted, but her home and worldly possessions went up in flames at the same time. She suddenly has much larger problems than she did before.)

The Arch Enemy: Aunt May’s two counts of justified self defense are properly rendered as such by a court that does not have multiple actors in somebody’s pocket. Turns out a whole lot of internal affairs investigations have opened up, and a laundry list of cold cases have been opened, in addition to the conflicts already set in motion. What keeps May and Peter safe, though, is what happens to a mover and shaker way up in the food chain (known as “Hammerhead” to his subordinates because of his shark-like ferocity). Hammerhead gets a mysterious visit from a masked figure who kicks his ass three ways from Sunday, and who lets him know that he’s taking his time to make him suffer for killing the masked figure’s brother. Three bullets are put into Hammerhead with his own sidearm, but the bullet that would have gone in the man’s skull misses, apparently because his guys finally showed up to help him. Hammerhead falls for the ruse hook, line, sinker and compressed air tank, and all the resources dedicated to finding this spider-themed vigilante get aimed in different directions, including the ones that had been sent after this Pyotr Parker kid, since he’s an only child. (The guys sent after Parker don’t have much to say, because his kicks packed a wallop and also because nobody contradicts Hammerhead when he’s angry.) This lays the foundation of a mutual hatred that lasts for the next decade at least, and “The Hammerhead versus The Spider Man” becomes a popular topic of discussion and speculation in the criminal underworld, law enforcement, civilian social media, and the hero community.

The Method: Unlike many Spider-Men, Peter isn’t explicitly an out and out hero. The last time he had ambitions of heroism, rushing in like Iron Man or Thor or Daredevil, he ended up in the hospital. To the contrary, by imitating the methods of his criminal prey, he achieved results far beyond his most optimistic predictions. In that sense, his spider-motif resembles that of the Portia Jumping Spider, a genus of spider species that hunt and prey on other spiders. His powers reflect this, with his impressive jumping abilities. Also like the Portia spiders, Peter stalks his prey and studies their strengths and weaknesses before developing the perfect way to take them down. Sometimes this comes from capturing sensitive information and delivering it to those who can do the most damage with it. Sometimes this means a more immediate response, like a kick that can ruin somebody’s whole day plus the rest of the week. What really sets Peter apart, though, is the “criminal” empire that he is growing using the resources he steals from his targets. Granted, his “Drug Labs” are churning out generic insulin at affordable prices, but it’s the principle of the thing. Likewise, the sex workers and street walkers in Spider-Man’s “territory” have seen a massive drop in violence once he cornered a particularly belligerent john in an alley and mentioned that a lot of male spiders have their sex organ bitten off by the female.

The Gadgets: Unlike most, if not all, Spider-Men in the multiverse, Peter never came up with the idea of web-shooters or web fluid. He has a number of other tricks up his sleeve, sometimes literally, that fill the vacuum when it comes to mobility, combat, and controlling the combat environment. The most complex of these would have to be his costume, which also diverges dramatically from what other Spider Themed Heroes use, in that it is designed to blend in rather than stand out. The basic suit color scheme is a grey-green mixture that’s hard to see under low-light conditions, and Peter has a number of optional “urban ghillie suits” that can look like grey concrete, brick, rusted steel, or other patterns. He’s also been known to take his enemy’s clothing, but it’s not clear how much of this is intended to help him infiltrate them and turn them on each other and how much of it is just humiliating his defeated foes. His mask incorporates multiple vision enhancement devices, from light amplification to infra-red to sonar and radar, and these give him a multi-eyed appearance in keeping with the spider theme. Defensively and offensively, he has arm-mounted weapons that incorporate compressed air guns that can fire chemical darts at range, and provide a close-range electrical charge to incapacitate people in close combat. (In the early days he carried a literal dart gun and stun gun but kept losing them during fights.) Finally, he carries a small arsenal of counter-intelligence tools designed to let him eavesdrop on targets, clone their cell phones, break into secure areas without leaving signs of forced entry, and jam or intercept enemy communications. All of them are incorporated into his suit. He has ambitions of getting an Octavius Harness, since extra arms would complete the spider motif and also make him far more dangerous in combat, but he can’t afford it and he’s years away from learning how to jailbreak the safety features that Doctor Octavius put on his technology to keep it from being stolen.

The Cover: When he’s not making life interesting for the criminal underworld of New York City, Peter works as a photographer. He’s done contract work for the Daily Bugle, including the occasional shot of this Spider Man character, but most of his income is from people needing photographs of their belongings for insurance reasons. After all, this is a world where superheroes and supervillains go toe-to-toe at least twice a week. He’s done weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, graduations, family reunions, anniversaries, baby gender reveal parties, and more. He’s also done some stuff that would normally be within the purview of a private investigator, despite the legal risks, in order to make ends meet. His social circle is limited to a handful of people who still tolerated him when he was lashing out at the world as a teenager, which is basically a handful of former classmates that have moved on to college, trade school, or something else, especially Miles Morales (who also lost family at a young age), Felicia Hardy, and Eddie Brock. His dating life is non-existant despite multiple attempts by both Eddie and Miles to play matchmaker.

The Rogue’s Gallery: The Spider Man has a long standing antagonism with Hammerhead, but has occasionally faced off against other supervillains and even some superheroes. On the villain side, Peter has defeated an electricity controlling lunatic named Electro, some guy in a rocket assisted flight suit the press called the Vulture, the enigmatic and theatrical Mysterio, and some one or something called the Sand Man. Unfortunately, Peter beat the Sand Man by fusing him into glass, and was not able to pull off the same stunt twice. The former Sand Man, calling himself Vitreous, had to be stopped by the Avengers, and The Spider Man’s role in the creation of a much more dangerous villain is what got him on the radar of so many heroes in the first place. For the most part, he knows he’s outclassed and doesn’t really want to fight people who, in theory, have the same general goals, so he tends to run from these encounters. So far he’s managed to evade Iron Man, Hawkeye, and Oswald Octavius in his superhero alter ego of Doctor Octopus. His encounter with Loki resulted in Peter getting the upper hand in classic trickster legend style, earning the God of Mischief’s respect. In other cases, Peter has not been so lucky; while he managed to escape each time, he’s been almost crushed to death by Giant Man, beaten to a pulp by Captain America, and drop kicked into the East River by the Hulk as if he was some sort of football. He has technically never fought Dr. Strange, but was involved in a fracas between the Sorcerer Supreme, Deadpool, and Dr. Doom that resulted in the Eye of Agomotto being lost for five years; everyone involved has agreed to never speak of what happened again. Finally, there’s the matter of Sean Gargan, an aspiring superhero with Scorpion themed powers who has sworn to bring The Spider Man to justice after his father, Mac Gargan, was injured while The Spider Man was fighting Electro.