#then?!’ like yes? clearly? it didn’t get here through fucking telekinesis. it didn’t blow out of my back garden; make a 90 degree turn

[fingertipsmp3]

Going to the corner shop at 9am always has me like ‘ah. This is why I don’t go out at this time’

[spaceskam]

prompt from @orlamcsupercool: malex and 5 for the sensory prompts! 5. Trying to walk on ice sensory prompts

ao3

“Alex.”

“No, go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere, will you just grab my hand?”

There were probably more than a few reasons why one should not agree to travel to Canada on an mission with an ex-boyfriend who happened to be able to obtain two fake passports with fake names within a day’s notice, but Michael was never known for being reasonable. A few whispered talks about a secret, small US embassy in Canada that was specifically there to track alien artifacts that were found in the country. It was much easier to obtain them when it was official government business worthy of an unlisted location.

Alex found that location though and they were going to sneak in, but first they had to handle the fact that they’d spent too much time together in an enclosed car. The first 20 hour of the drive had been fine. But then sharing a motel room has stirred up some thoughts and feelings that were the epitome of wrong place, wrong time. The rest of the drive had been awkward and uncomfortable because neither of them knew how to just say ‘I love you, trust me’. It was so much easier to just be assholes.

But now Alex was stuck, unable to walk on the ice that covered the ground within the half mile surrounding that secret embassy. His prosthetic had an air pocket which he noticed when they got out of the car, but he said he'd been fine and didn't need to fix it. Now they were walking on what was apparently an iced over lake in the dark and he couldn't take a step without risking falling to his face. It definitely presented a problem.

Which, you know, would've been a lot easier to handle if this wasn't the biggest fucking metaphor in the world.

"I know you're mad at me, but grab my hand," Michael told him, "Or let me use my TK to help you. Fucking let me help you for once."

"No!" Alex said, on the verge of tears now. Michael wasn't stupid enough to think it was all because of the fact he felt helpless on the ice. "I don't need your help!"

"Oh, you don't? So you want me to leave you here to get questioned by government officials by yourself?" Michael asked. Alex sniffled and nodded, his features lit only by the moon. He looked fucking gorgeous despite the stubborn crease in his brow and the tears in his eyes.

"Yes," Alex said sternly, "I would rather be fucking held as a POW than let you help me."

Michael sighed, raking frustrated hands through his hair. They were here on borrowed time, a 30 minute window during shift change where people were off their game. They were running out of time.

Stupidly, his mind went back to the night before spent in the motel. They'd been sitting on the floor, eating pizza and talking about life and feeling completely normal. Michael had been unable to stop smiling because it was such a novelty to steal a few hours where they could pretend they were just two guys. No abusive parents, no foster homes, no alien conspiracy, no secrets. Just two guys with pizza and a shared hatred of the ending of How I Met Your Mother.

It was the most they'd bonded in forever and Michael had felt himself fall in love with his man all over again. Which was awesome and exhilarating all the way up until Alex had gone in for a kiss, confident as ever, and Michael had rejected him. He only did that because he was determined not to let history repeat itself with them, but Alex had taken it as a final act of rejection and that it was sufficiently over forever and Michael had been fucking with his feelings. Which, honestly, was a fair conclusion given their history.

But still. It wasn't the case and Michael felt like he'd waited too long to explain. Now would particularly be a horrible time to try.

He checked his watch.

"Alex, we have less than 10 minutes. We need to go back to the car and go stay at a motel, we can come back tomorrow," Michael told him. Alex took a steadying breath.

"I came here to get that damn piece and I'm getting it tonight," he said stubbornly. Michael's eyes bulged out of his face.

"Alex, we are out of time," Michael said slowly, "We're going to get caught and then we're both fucked."

"I don't want to be alone with you for longer than I have to," Alex shot back. Michael ignored the way that stung.

"Fine, I'll sleep in the truck and leave you alone, just please. Please let me help you."

They stared at each other in debate for too long, wasting too many seconds.

Then Alex tried to take a step forward, focusing so hard, and yet he still lost his footing due to lack of sensation on his prosthetic leg. Michael caught him before he went down completely, holding him up. Alex stared at the ground between them.

"Let go," he whispered.

"I'm not letting go of you, Alex," Michael told him, softer than it needed to be and carrying more weight than it should. Alex's fingers dug into Michael's forearms and he shook his head.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asked quietly, his voice cracking. Michael held back the urge to pull him into a hug. They needed to get out of here.

"Can you please wait for the answer to that question until after I help you out of here? 'Cause I swear it's a good answer. I think you'll like it," he promised, looking away from Alex just long enough to make sure no one was anywhere near them. "Trust me just enough to get us out of here, okay? Military guys are people well known for packing a gun and I'm not trying to get shot for being on their property."

"I'm packing," Alex told him. Michael managed a smile.

"Yeah, I know you are," Michael said, rubbing his hand up and down his arm, "You wanna get on my back or do you have a better idea on how to get out of here?"

Alex looked up at him slowly, clearly hesitant to let him help. Eventually, though, he let Michael help him onto his back and then, with a little assistance from his telekinesis to keep them upright on the ice, he started running.

As he started running, he started brainstorming of ways to make Alex feel better about the situation. He knew Alex and he knew he hated feeling helpless, but he was coming up blank. It was just something they'd have to deal with.

They got to the truck and he let Alex take the driver's seat, hurriedly trying to get off the premises before anyone noticed how close they were. After Michael caught his breath, he turned to Alex who still had those angry, frustrated eyebrows in full force.

"Thank you," he said.

"I didn't fucking do anything," Alex said.

"Thank you for putting our safety over your pride," Michael told him, smiling slightly as his face relaxed just a little, "And, more importantly, I love you."

Alex seemed to freeze despite the fact he was still driving, his eyes going wide in shock.

"Even though you're a stubborn asshole who's pride is probably gonna get me killed one day, I love you," Michael went on, "I am actually extremely in love with you to the point that I want to keep my hands off of you until we talk about all the little details so that I don't fuck up again. Which is what I would've told you last night if you would've let me."

"I..."

"You're so fucking stubborn and infuriating, but you're strong and resilient I love you for it and I'm tired of not telling you," Michael said, leaning over the center console. He pressed a kiss to the side of Alex's head, holding the other side of his head with his hand. "That's why I'm doing this to you. My answer good enough?"

Alex sat there for a moment, opening and closing his mouth and his eyebrows doing all sorts of things as he tried to piece together what he was hearing.

“No,” Alex said eventually, “No, it is not good enough, you asshole!”

Michael grinned at that, grazing his nails against the side of his head that his hand was still holding. He tilted his head into the headrest.

“I love you.”

“You’re so fucked for leaving me thinking you hated me for a whole day!”

“I love you.”

“And you’re such an asshole for keeping that to yourself.”

“I love you.”

“God forbid we actually could’ve gotten caught and then I would’ve spent that whole time thinking you didn’t! You’re supposed to clear the air before the dangerous mission!”

“Alex,” Michael laughed, still gently scratching his scalp, “I love you. We’re not dead, we’re safe, and, if you want, I will spend the rest of the night in the motel fucking the anger out of you.”

Alex took his eyes away from the road just long enough to glare at him. Michael still smiled.

“I got you. I’m never gonna let you fall or get hurt or get caught, not if I can help it. Because I love you. So tomorrow night when we come back, let’s anticipate for you not being able to walk on the ice and work around it, okay?” he said. Alex nodded, blowing out a long breath from his nose.

“I’m so annoyed with you right now,” Alex said, “But fine. I trust you and you’re right.”

“And you love me,” Michael prodded. Alex rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the smile from his face.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “And I love you.”

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Orange Haze

[caepaecaesurae]

> Psii : Blow a fucking gasket (2/3)

Seeing as a crack skitters across his phone screen, it would be correct to say one has been blown sky high. Ampora thinks he is broken. It all makes sense now, and he scrolls up just to make sure. He thinks him incapable of telling him to shove off. He thinks he tolerates him due to outside influence, probably Kankri. He thinks Psii is so afraid because of what Ampora put him through… He thinks he is afraid of him at all- The crack skitters a little farther. How quickly Dualscar forgets who was afraid of whom on that fucking boat.

The slowly breaking phone goes through one more task before being thrown aside into Psii’s pile. Ampora may have blocked him but that’s a mere bump in the road towards pulling his coordinates. Look at that, how convenient, he’s on the roof. It won’t be long at all before Psii’s knuckles will meet an idiot’s jaw.

He doesn’t bother with hallways and doors, opening a window out to the crisp winter air and stepping out into the sky. Psionics will get him there far faster, and it’s not like he’s not sparking with them already. Not so much that he’ll give away his arrival, not until he’s much closer, so Ampora doesn’t think of running so quickly. Boots touch down on stone and thump a few steps forward, sparks arcing between horns now that he’s not focusing them. “How rude of you to scamper off so quickly, Ampora, after making such a guess.” His voice is sharp with anger, loud enough to be heard through a smile with far too many fangs. “Don’t you want to see what’s under that mask, to see if you’re correct or not?”

A crimson troll in a leather jacket and a magical amulet turned his head quickly at the sound of footsteps, and then froze absolutely dead still, his eyes quietly tracking the enraged psionic's progress.  ...was this how he died?  He'd learned at least one vital lesson from his friendship with another Captor, one that had started out less than brightly, and so his thumb shifted the fraction of an inch along his vaporiser, away from its button, but he didn't even dare lower the device away from its position halfway between his face and his knee.

Stock still, he was silent for a few seconds, watching the path of the sparks along Mituna's horns.  "... Howv rude of me," he repeated lamely.  A few pregnant seconds passed before he clearly and slowly enunciated his decision: "... No, I do not."

“Aww, that’s a pity,” the words have a stark contrast to that predatory grin, tone not changing an inch. “And here I was going to do you a favor and show you.”

"That's really not necessary, thank you," Cronus interrupted helpfully without moving.  Not even a blink.

“Oh no, I insist,” the sparks continue their arcing, and now that he’s gotten closer and closer, it’s easier to see they’re following the paths etched in his horns.

"No really, please, I don't wvant to trouble you,"  God he wanted to stand up.  Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Mituna, peripheral vision tracking the sparks along his horns.  The faint scent of ozone was starting to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  It was his absolute least favorite scent and experience.

“Whyever would it be a trouble? This fallacy should obviously be corrected. Can’t be having you think I’m trembling every time we speak.” That grin is getting less and less like a grin, and more like he’s considering tearing out Ampora’s throat with it. “How will we ever be friends like that.”

"... Shall I fetch Treasure for you then?"  Curveball, confuse, distract.  God Cronus needed to be anywhere but here, and had a sudden, sick sympathy for Ringleader and his Captor problems.  The line was delivered without a hint of motion, sounding completely serious, matter of fact, and conversational, as if discussing the weather.

Psii’s laugh is as awful as that not-grin is, amused in all the worst ways. “No, I do not need Treasure. I need you splattered all over this rooftop.” It’s like a lightswitch is flipped, the sharp smiles and laughing snapping directly into something more suited for a fight, boots finding purchase on the stone in preparation to launch himself Ampora-ward. But first, it’s his turn to throw a curveball, or rather one of his many hidden knives, to distract from the fact that he wants his fists on him.

The instant Psii said "splattered", Caesurae was in motion -- leaning suddenly forwards, planting his feet on the edge of the railing, and springing abruptly into flight downwards.  He needed to break line of sight and get somewhere enclosed, and that involved the courtyard, its bushes, and the hallways into the castle proper.  He just needed to make it down there.  The knife whiffed past him, and would find its way onto a parapet somewhere.  Psii had at least a second before Caesurae could reach ground level though.  This was unfortunate, due to telekinesis.

That knife would be missed, but later, when he was not so focused on his task. He had quite a few more after all, and Ampora was running. Fortunately, that second was all he needed to brace a foot on the rail where the other had just been, spreading out his psionics to aid in his ability to see and, of course, wrap around a fleeting ankle. He had said he wanted his blood on the roof, after all. Time to remedy that.

He isn’t quite concerned with Ampora remaining in one piece, so the tug on his ankle is not a gentle one, yanking him to a stop with a yelp before reversing his direction of travel back up towards where Psii waited. The landing wasn’t an easy one either, the grip throwing him bodily onto the stone, the psionic’s eyes following his path until that thump of contact made him release his hold. Yes, far better, a simple push off the rail and his charge was resumed, again closing the distance so he could get his claws and fists into Ampora’s flesh.

Cronus hit the castle hard enough to briefly stun, and wasted a precious second squirming in place before he managed to get his palm flat down and start levering up his shoulder.  By the time his head lifted, and his eyes refocused, Psii was far too close, and the abrupt rush of realisation on his face was magical, to a man in a spiteful enough mood.  He rolled hard, clumsily, trying to shield his face and get up into a crouch before the other troll was on him.  Somewhere far below, his vaporizer shattered against a walkway stone to the distant consternation of several chickens.

Lucky for Psii, he was, in fact, a man in spiteful enough of a mood to enjoy Ampora’s reaction, and that fang-filled grin of his spread dangerously for a moment. Ampora’s roll was successful but not unexpected, and easily compensated for with the right combination of twisting and skidding and a shower of sparks. That crouch catches his eye as well; of course, Ampora isn’t going to just lay there and take it, his poor ego would shatter irreparably. Which means, of course, that he has to help him get to that point. It takes practically no effort at all to rid Ampora of his metaphorical sword and shield; one snap of psionics shorts his sylladex, causing it to eject anything that could be used as a weapon along with everything else, while the other wraps around that blasted amulet and tears it from his neck, returning his color from Psii's brother’s to the familiar seadwelling violet that fits Dualscar's face so much better and is so much easier to smear across his knuckles.

Caesurae's sylladex had been chock full of random shit, and now so was the sky.  Cloaks, capes, garments silly and non, some partially-complete furniture, ornate musical instruments, a synthesizer, a shower curtain complete with rod, bottles of water and whiskey and beer, a few small knives and cloths, a few towels, a sandwich, a handful of stale cookies, little plastic bottles of strong-smelling herbal liquids, a few guns of the long and hand varieties, and enough jewelry and gold and tea and moon money to fill the air and overshadow the roof and start to rain down on the castle and its courtyard and at least one nearby street.

The Orphaner tensed visibly when the tingle of power touched his throat and yanked his caste back up to violet, a light dusting of color rising on his neck in patterns that weren't quite bruises but also didn't quite match the path the chain took as it snapped free of him, clasp breaking easily as if it had been designed for this.  His eyes were slightly wild when his attention snapped up to the cloud of belongings at the height of their arc -- and he spat a sudden curse when he realised the Crosshairs had been flung none-too-gently away.  Tendrils of white smoke phased into existence and abruptly launched themselves out from his back like frog's tongues, grabbing at the Two (2) copies of Ahab's Crosshairs that were headed out into the bay and across a nearby street respectively.  Apparently he could control the anomalous limbs, because they quickly started drawing the guns back towards him as he headrattled, backing away and trying to force himself properly up to his feet.

How curious. Psii wasn’t surprised at the sheer amount of junk in Ampora’s sylladex, the vast majority of it only registering in the back of his mind as something to brush aside as his path towards Ampora and their fall from the heights collided, but he obviously had some tricks up his sleeves. The Crosshairs themselves weren’t one, but the copy certainly was, perhaps some sort of decoy if this exact thing happened. The other were those tendrils, something he’d never seen before and an easy guess that they were part of Ampora’s godhood. Well, if he wished to arm himself with an extension of his mind, it seemed only fitting for him to do so against the might of the Psiioniic, the blue and red sparks wrapping around the weapons and determinedly attempting to keep them well away from Ampora’s trigger fingers.

Caesurae's teeth bared as the far-too-fragile guns were ringed in sparks, and sincerely hoped that Psii wasn't fool enough, or self-destructive enough, to snap them in half so very, very close to where they both happened to be standing.  He neither struggled against the grip nor let go of the guns, standing between them with his 'wings' stretched wide from one weapon to the other.  Tense with very wary concern, his fool mouth opened to speak again while the first and smallest of his belongings started to rain down across the castle roof.  "--Mituna, I don't knowv wvhat you think you're doing, but--"

The aura of sparks around Psii increases as his psionics rebuff Ampora’s possessions when they get in range, the tell tale chime of shattering glass punctuating successes. The roof’s gotten a touch more interesting now, and the thought of skipping Ampora over the shard littered stone is a tempting one for a moment. Not now, though, raw fists still hold the major appeal, an arm reeling back once he starts getting close. “Why don’t you stay fucking still and find out??” It’s spat out like an impulse answer that didn’t get cleared by every checkpoint. His focus is elsewhere, like finding out just how experienced Ampora was at keeping his tendrils doing what he wants while moving the rest of his body. That punch is aimed for his smug fucking face, and his grip on the guns began pulling them towards his direction. Not hard enough to break them of course, he wasn’t a moron, but enough to put pressure on Ampora to keep his weapons.

Caesurae's arms came up to shield his face, catching the punch on a bicep as he fell back another step -- and finally put his weight on his bad ankle, staggering visibly.  In a split-second decision he let go of one copy of the crosshairs, the three tendrils on that side darting back to press against the ground and stabilize him that way.  There was an impressive crash as very nice musical instruments started to rain across the battlements -- a guitar snapped in half here, a synthesizer cracked and badly dented there, deflecting off of this or that on their way to the ground below.  A shower curtain rod clanged into the edge of the roof and rebounded towards the water, trailing its slightly hole-ridden curtain behind it like a very eccentric flag cheering on gods-only-knew-who.

His fins pinning, Caesurae finally made a decision, surging forward (mostly through the miracle of flight -- why hadn't he realised that in time to keep hold of that copy of the crosshairs? Damn instincts) to try to shoulder the Psiionic to the ground.  The smoke tendrils apparently had a fair amount of stretch to them, still trying to maintain their grip on the Other crosshairs -- carefully -- while he tried to get Psii on the ground so he could do... something.  Run again??  He didn't even know.  It was time to work on instinct.

That grin is back, splitting Psii’s face in two with a jagged fang filled gash of a smile. It was a bit early for celebrations, but it certainly felt like a victory. Knuckles meet flesh for a moment before he jumps back, disengaging as Ampora’s leg gave out with a few steps, with the reward of a Crosshair’s firm in his psychic grip. And a second reward follows quickly, Ampora finally ceasing his stupid running and turning onto the offensive, kicking up quite the nostalgia. Yes, quite a bit was different, but Psii can’t help but think of the evening of his escape from Ampora’s ownership. Everything lining up perfectly, just as it is now, Ampora’s fury contrasting with Psii’s nigh giggly smugness. Back then, he had a table at the ready to defend himself, but the broad, sturdy stock of Ahab’s Crosshair’s is quite good enough.

His continued steps back almost seem like dance steps, that grin only getting wider, until the exact moment comes to crack the gun across Dualscar’s dual scars. He poured far more power into the strike that had given him them, but the table also wasn’t a potential nuke. Besides, it wasn’t the force that mattered, it was the poetry, the moment, the point he was making. He was not afraid, and never would be.

Dualscar saw it coming for just an instant, he had time to almost flinch, to start deflecting slightly away, and then got smacked in the face with the butt of his own gun. It was hard not to remember the evening of Psii's escape -- particularly since it had left him with a week-long concussion, a pair of gigantic facial scars, and a flinch reflex whenever things darted at his face too quickly.  More recently, godtiering had left him with the ability to subconsciously adjust reality to suit his expectations, intentional or otherwise, for better or for worse.  The two combined unfortunately, his dual scars splitting open as if they had just been made for the first time, his nose breaking, and a massive instant bruise starting to rise across most of his face.

The Orphaner deflected slightly in the direction of the blow, staggered to a knee, and blinked like a poleaxed steer.  His brow knit slightly, he swayed, and flumped face-down on the ground, his ephemeral grip on Ahab's Other Crosshairs weakening, before the tendrils evaporated into thin air completely.  A cloak drifted down from on high, flopping into a loose pile in a puddle of beer and broken glass.

That was not the reaction the psionic was expecting, steps continuing to dance backwards in anticipation of the fight continuing but slowing when Ampora’s knee strikes stone. He’s wary, and far from stupid enough to be tripped up by a ruse like this could be, the rifle finding a home hovering around his shoulders like a floating combination of a bat and a mounted cannon. It is not as if Ampora are not a dramatic line, and if this wasn’t the definition…

He winces as Ampora’s face meets stone as well, and ears perk slightly as his artillery count doubled. This isn’t an act. He wouldn’t give up his beauty so easily for this kind of trap, especially when he had nothing else to pull out. Even so, Psii hadn’t survived as long as he had by trusting his gut completely, especially when it takes next to nothing to grab an arm and flip the unconscious seadweller. Good lord, he didn’t think he hit him that hard, but his grin spreads again. It remains quite the good look on him.  The puddle of whiskey had probably even sanitised the gashes, and was starting to stain a thin violet.

While his initial desire for knuckles against jaw had not been fulfilled, this was an excellent substitute no matter what his adrenaline was saying. He lets the giggle that’s been trapped in his chest free finally, and slips out- ah, damn, that’s right, he left his phone on his pile. No matter, it’s not like he’ll forget what this looks like any time soon, and he needed to do a sketch of him anyway. How lovely it is when things work out.

The question of ‘now what’ had barely even started to form in his pan when one of Ampora’s various possessions finally landed, the distant sploosh making Psii’s ears perk with an idea. He could leave him up here, in the cold, to wake when he does, oooor. Or. Ampora, having regained his fishy bits, could go for a little winter swim while Psii goes through all of his stuff and decides what to take with him so Ampora will have to come get it. Or more likely, Kankri will frown at him on Ampora’s behalf until he handed it back over, but a troll could dream. He’s already keeping both Crosshairs, but there certainly had to be something else to make Ampora regret this more than he will when he wakes.

First things first, however. Someone needs to go for a dive.

Red and blue rings around Ampora, lifting him somewhat gracefully to trail after Psii as he makes his way to the water-side rail, leaning over and tilting his head slightly as he runs through calculations. He doesn’t want to kill Ampora, so just ragdoll tossing him over the side unfortunately won’t work, and water isn’t always as forgiving as it looks… but if he started him here, at this speed, and that angle… the only thing he should damage is his ego when he wakes in the middle of the bay, unless the cold or sea creatures get to him… Eh, good enough. The city waters were fairly safe, as such things go.  One more slice of nostalgia as he gives the unconscious seadweller a salute before letting go, leaning over again to watch his progress and the splash his body caused. Today is the best day ever.

He dribbled, he splooshed, and at least he wouldn't smell like a puddle of whiskey when he woke up.  For once.  A violet troll in a leather jacket flopped into the water, and started to sink into the relatively shallow depths, one burst of bubbles coming up to the surface and then falling still as he swapped over to his gills entirely.  He was in fact denser than water, by a fair bit, and quickly wound up on his side in the mud at the bottom.

The prince of the emerald basin forest had not been concerned when items had rained from the sky, although it had drawn his attention to the window, especially the larger crashes and clangs of falling instruments and furniture. The matter of seeing a familiar form, the sea dweller who had freed him, and returned the dead to his people, thrown from the castle wall and into the water was another matter entirely.

He could not call up clothes and armor with this fucking spell set on the place against his magic. So he struggled himself into a shirt, alarming his guards as he began to hasten out without his armor on, and losing time arguing with them over it.

It... Wasn't actually the worst nap Cronus had ever taken.

That bit of satisfaction obtained, Psii turns from the rail to examine the loot spread before him, boots crunching glass and bits of instruments as he walks towards the scattering- a step misses the grinding glass or the snapping wood and instead mildly crinkles, and he looks down at a slightly damp letter addressed to Fex. Oh ho, yes, this has potential, a mystery letter tucked away in a sylladex unsent? It could be anything, couldn’t it? It’s scooped up immediately and opened without a hesitation, reading the letter with glee… that fades quite quickly into frowns and sharply dives off a cliff into horror in a fashion reminiscent to the dive Ampora just took.

Every single victorious feeling of smugness evaporates in an instant, and his ears plummet to his shoulders. Is that why Ampora ran? So he wouldn’t get tortured by Psii? To escape a revenge he can’t properly think about without getting nauseous? He thought he didn’t want to face consequences again, that he didn’t want his face damaged, not… not this. Somewhere something has gone as wrong as it could, and he has only made it worse. Fuck. Fuck how does he fix this. How does he make him understand he wouldn’t do that-

> Narrative Perspective : Start being Mituna Captor.

You can do that, probably. And the rest of things. Step one. Okay, step one, Cronus waking up in ice cold winter water with no belongings is not helpful. Split step one into two steps, get belongings and get Cronus. Get Cronus is second, it’s not like he’s going to freeze or drown, and you can shove as many things in into your sylladex as you can see. Alright, start there, maybe things can get fixed later or something.

It’s nowhere close to everything, between bottles shattering and things fluttering off into the distance, but it’s as much as you can do for now. You might be able to get some later, once you’ve fished out Cronus and made sure he isn’t dead or something, but now is when step two becomes step one, and you head back to your mocking spot to fly down after him.

> Be the faerie prince

Prince Sunfall ran, sword belted to his hip, and the moment he stepped out of the embassy tower armour wrapped around him again. He was too late and the troll- bizarrely he recognized him as the gently spoken twin to Twoblade he’d seen just the once- went in after Caesurae, and took him from the water. He followed the path of their flight back where he could not follow and cursed softly.

Something white caught his eye and he approached across the wet rocks to gently tug a white cloak, magically clean despite the filth it was laying in, up and look at it. He glanced back the way the four horned troll had gone with his victim and his jaw set. He headed quickly back inside the building.

If luck was with him Twoblade would receive messages in time to- to do something about his people attacking the church representatives.

PART 1 : PART 3

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Orange Haze 2.0

I was binging AHS: Coven last night, because that’s what I do when I’m miserable apparently, and now I suddenly really want to write an au. I don’t have all of the details hammered out yet, mostly just a few scene ideas, but then i started talking with @missleeismyname instead of sleeping and it got even more detailed, so here are the thoughts:

Mitch and Stiles are two of the handful of students at this boarding school for witches. Witches are a dying breed, so this place is left derelict compared to its heyday, when it housed as many as 60 students. Now there’s less than six. 

Mitch has been at the school much longer than Stiles, ever since he was about 14/15 years old. He was strung out and exhausted after a week of not sleeping, unable to due to the voices screaming in his head nonstop, when he finally overdosed on prescription medication he stole from one of his parents in an attempt to escape. He woke up in the hospital hours later still drugged to the gills, and everything was finally, blissfully quiet. The only voice in his head was his own, so he kept going and never looked back. Now that I think about it, he is very much like Klaus. I wasn’t even thinking of that, I guess I just have a type. . 

Now, Mitch is a clairvoyant addict with a bad attitude and issues with boundaries, whose powers also include astral projection and communication with the dead. Possibly full blown necromancy later down the line, who knows. On top of all of that, he’s an orphan. His parents died in a car accident shortly after he was sent to the school, and he’s been there ever since. Now he’s 18/19 and since it’s not a conventional “high school” and he’s got nowhere else to go, he stays. It’s not like college is a concern when he still hasn’t got a grip on his powers yet, anyway. 

I haven’t fully decided on Stiles, but his powers include telekinesis for sure. He’s possibly a late bloomer because while Mitch came into his powers at around 15, Stiles was in his late teens. John knew about the school because Claudia went there when she was younger, and he should have sent Stiles sooner, but he was hoping the magic skipped Stiles’ generation like it did with his grandparents. 

Mitch doesn’t want anything to do with Stiles because close proximity means everything is louder and he would actually like to get some sleep at night, thanks. That’s going to be way harder to do with someone sleeping ten feet away. Especially when that someone won’t shut up. Stiles tries to be friendly for the sake of peace among roommates, but Mitch just blows him off. Stiles doesn’t take too much offence because he’s used to it. It’s not until later that night that he finds out more of what’s going on with Mitch, as they’re getting ready for bed. 

“Yes, I’m doing lines. Yes, Irene knows about it. I have no intention of quitting, so don’t waste my time with an intervention.” Mitch came sauntering out of the bathroom with no shirt, an orange pill bottle in one hand, and a razorblade between two fingers. Stiles’ attention was torn. “Any other questions?”

“Um.” Stiles stared at him wide-eyed. Where did he even begin? “What are you on?”

“No idea.” Mitch held up the bottle, squinted at the label, didn’t bother to read it off, shrugged, and said, “It's good shit, though.” Then as an afterthought, “I’m not sharing.” 

“I didn’t ask you to...?” 

The conversation was clearly over. Mitch went over to his own bed and stashed the pills in the nightstand, replacing them with a pair of earbuds he plugged into his phone. He fell back into his pillows and was passed out minutes later. Stiles could hear his music clear across the room blasting from those tiny speakers. It sounded like Metallica’s Enter Sandman. 

Stiles laid back on his own bed and looked up at the ceiling. “What the fuck?” 

Mitch can hear every thought that crosses Stiles’ mind, including all of his naughty fantasies, and he’s a total dick about it. He decides to take advantage, because if he’s got to listen to Stiles lusting after him all the time, he may as well get something out of the situation too, right? Which is why one evening he comes in, locks the door, and tells Stiles to shut up and get on his knees. Stiles is dumbfounded. He’s never had someone be so forward with him (self-deprecating thing that he is, he doesn’t think anyone would ever want him, much less someone like Mitch) but he goes along for the ride because there is no way he’s going to turn that down, he may never get another chance. 

What he doesn’t know is that Mitch’s overt sexuality actually serves a darker purpose…

After that things are awkward. Stiles avoids him, and Mitch doesn’t really care. If Stiles is interested he’ll come back around, if he’s not, then he won’t, makes no difference to Mitch. He doesn’t make it a habit of getting emotionally attached to people since it only leads to trouble. 

Sometime a while later Stiles is having a naughty dream about Mitch, who decides to eavesdrop and watch for a while before finally giving his position away, because Stiles is so cute and wrong.

“That’s not how I’d do it, you know.” Stiles screamed. He jerked away from the man on top of him to find Mitch leaning casually against the doorframe. The real Mitch. An instant later the dream copy is gone and Mitch watches in amusement as Stiles hastily tries to cover himself. 

“What are you doing here!?” How long has he been standing there? 

Stiles tells him to get out but Mitch ignores him, instead challenging Stiles: doesn’t he want a taste of the real thing? His fantasy was adorable but in reality Mitch would hold him down and make Stiles scream his name, if he wanted. And Stiles does, damn him. Besides, it’s not real, so it doesn’t count, right? 

Unfortunately for Stiles the affect in the morning is very real. He’s awkward and avoids him because he doesn’t know where they stand. As far as Stiles can tell Mitch is really only in it for the sex and doesn’t seem to like him much for anything else, because Stiles is loud, in every way.

Later he confronts Mitch and straight up asks if he’s using him, and Mitch agrees that yeah, pretty much. (Although not in the way Stiles thinks) So. Okay. That’s a thing. Stiles needs to work through that blunt honesty. It’s the answer he expected but it still felt like a slap in the face. 

Mitch leaves him alone to think because they both need to get themselves straightened out, and they can’t do that in the same room, and Stiles realizes they haven’t even kissed yet. Why should he believe Mitch wanted anything else when they hadn’t even done that much? Mitch never even reciprocated the blowjob. Clearly Stiles has been deluding himself. 

While Stiles is angsting Mitch can hear all of it, and he goes on a little bit of a bender because he can hardly deal with his own feelings when he can’t even discern them from Stiles. He needs everything to be quiet so that he can fucking think.

Sometime late in the night Stiles goes looking for him when Mitch doesn’t find his way back to their room, and finds him passed out somewhere he shouldn’t be. Stiles has a brief heart attack thinking Mitch has overdosed again, but he’s fine. Stiles gets him picked up and into bed to sleep it off, and a very delirious, barely lucid Mitch asks why Stiles likes him when he’s such an asshole. Stiles replies that he doesn’t know, and that he’d seriously rather not. Mitch is too fucked up to know that both of those are lies, but not too fucked up to remember it in the morning. He doesn’t ask about it, though. 

Mitch doesn’t want to hear the truth of what he thinks he knows. Of fucking course Stiles doesn’t want anything to do with him; he’s worked hard to make sure no one does, because it’s easier when no one wants to be around him. Then he doesn’t have to constantly listen to every thought that crosses their mind every second of the day. He tells himself it doesn’t hurt when people leave when he’s the one pushing them away.

Fortunately for Mitch, Stiles has decided he’s his, and Stiles doesn’t give up that easy on what belongs to him.

This time it’s Mitch doing the avoiding until Stiles is finally fed up and confronts him, asks what the fuck his problem is, shouts that he isn’t a damn mind reader and that if Mitch has got an issue he needs to speak up! Unfortunately that’s the #1 way to make him not talk, however. At least, he won’t be saying anything Stiles wants to hear.

What he does say broadly translates to “fuck off I don’t need/want you here”, and confirms everything that Stiles had already begun to suspect. That Mitch is lonely, starved for affection because of his self-imposed isolation and using sex to get it, when that isn’t what he really needs. It’s probably the last thing he needs, just another self-destructive habit he’s cultivated over the years. But it’s easier to use his body than to admit he needs something as basic as simple affection, especially after spending so many years pretending he doesn’t. 

Mitch is in denial so that results in yet another fight and Stiles is so fed up with this stubborn asshole.

Mitch storms off and after a little bit, giving them both time to cool off, Stiles tracks him down to the library. He’s got his music playing loud as always, so he isn’t paying attention which gives Stiles the chance to walk up and kiss him. Since words apparently won’t get through to him, maybe actions will. And Mitch already knows that kissing is a thing for Stiles, which is why they haven’t done it yet. But despite knowing Stiles has wanted to, he’s still surprised when stiles actually does

The kiss is brief, a challenge. When Stiles pulls away Mitch can read the intent in his eyes, hear the “your move now, asshole,” as clearly as if Stiles has said it. He knows he can fall into old, comfortable habits, turn this into what it’s been for weeks now. Stiles wants him enough he’d probably even let him, because something is better than nothing. Or, Mitch could take a chance and step out of his comfort zone, let this become something more.

So, throwing caution to the wind, Mitch pulls him back in and throws himself into the unknown, because for some ungodly reason Stiles is willing to take a chance on him. Mitch is the clairvoyant but Stiles is the one that saw something in him worth more than just sex. Just worth more, than anything Mitch has previously thought of himself. Arrogance born from a lack of self-worth, anyone?

Of course it takes one to know one, Stiles is everything he accused Mitch of being. Just like Mitch bartered his body for what he wanted, Stiles was willing to let himself be used to feel wanted, until he realized that he deserves better than that. They both do.

They don’t make it back to their room that night, staying holed up in the library, kissing and just touching each other, petting and caressing because they can’t get enough. This is what they both have wanted but have been afraid to ask for.

Morning finds them curled up on the couch, snuggled under a blanket, and passed out cold. Mitch can count on one hand the amount of times he’s slept without being drugged up, and all of them were after at least a week of no sleep. For the first time his mind was quiet, not overwhelmed with everything going on around him. He could finally drown it all out because he was so caught up in Stiles.

It’s not love yet, but it could be if they nurture it and let it grow. But whatever it is, it’s exactly what they need.