#this has been in my drafts for like three months jesus christ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darthmaulification · 3 years

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Your stories are so detailed! I love them! ❤️ May I request Darth Maul x pregnant reader smut, where Maul can't resist pregnant reader? or something exploring Maul's breeding kink trying to get them pregnant? 👉👈 that'd be so hot 🔥💦

A/N: ... this has been sitting in my drafts for like... two months. oopsie. took a while on this one. 😶 but, y’know, life happens. 🙏😔

anywho, this is the dirtiest, nastiest, most extensive smut i’ve ever written, like good GOD, what have i written??? 😳 i blame you, anon, your thot was too damn SCANDALOUS. 🥵😈 had me BLUSHING writing my own darn tootin’ fic!!! 😳😖🥴😩💦💦

also, i kinda subscribe to the fanon (?) that dathomirian zabrak give their son’s names that mean violent, aggressive things (hence maul, savage, feral) so that’s why maul’s and reader’s son has the name he has, despite the fact he’s a literal sweetheart.

i hope y’all EAT with this one! PLEASE enjoy! 💗

content: DISGUSTANG smut, unprotected p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), pregnant sex, afab!fem!reader, established relationship (married 🥺), very domestic at the beginning, reader and maul have a son!!, pregnant!reader, reader is implied to be curvier too, maul’s my breeding kink really shows here, his pregnancy kink too lmao, also some goddess play? (is that a thing lol?), maul is also very service top in this, this fic is nothing but love in all forms it comes in

word count: 4,136 (jesus christ)

If someone had told you when you were younger and immature, that you’d be chasing a naked toddler around your home, you would have laughed at the absurdity. But here you are, finally gaining on your smiling, giggling like a madman three-year-old son, a tiny little boy whose way too fast for his age, and with far too much of his father’s influence in him. Not to mention he’s dripping wet, covered sporadically head to toe in bubbles, and, again, naked as the day he was born.

“Get over here, strawberry!” You attempt to coax the russet-skinned toddler back to you, clutching a fluffy towel in your hands. Of course, the sight of the towel only riles him up even more— because Ravage had determined very early on that bath time also means playtime— so he shoots off in the opposite direction, as quick as he can on his short, chubby legs, which is surprisingly fast. You groan, throwing your head back in mild exasperation.

It doesn’t help in the slightest that you’re currently seven months pregnant, and the extra weight of your second does not aid in making you a fast runner. Quite the opposite, actually.

“Maker, this child.” You sigh, shaking your head and setting up chase Ravage again, but before you go after the screaming, laughing toddler, Maul chooses that exact, perfect moment to return home, in all his shirtless glory. The opening of the door makes Ravage skid to a halt, almost tipping over, and when he sees his father in the doorway, his gummy smile positively beams and brightens his whole face.

“Dada!” He shrieks, careening towards Maul who grins and swoops Ravage into his arms when he reaches him. Ravage squeals, little hands immediately finding Maul’s face before he presses his little forehead against Maul’s chin. He goes almost silent, soft coos leaving his lips. Your husband hums, nuzzling the top of your son’s head gently in return, one of his hands rubbing Ravage’s back. The sight never ceases to make your heart swell with joy, how Maul so deeply adores your child and how Ravage gives it back.

“Did he escape the bath again?” Maul asks after a brief moment of quiet, walking fully into the house and closing the door behind him. The motion, for some reason, kicks Ravage into gear again and he starts babbling away, sticking one of his tiny fists into his mouth while also trying to “talk”. Maul strides over to you, taking in your disheveled, flushed appearance.

“Not quite.” You snort a laugh and shake your head, eyes rolling as the accursed memory of The Bath Incident briefly crosses your mind. Maul grins and passes over Ravage, who’s still speaking gibberish, but has calmed down enough to allow you to wrap him up in the towel. You adjust him in your arms, situating him above your baby bump, smiling warmly when he rests his head against the crook of your neck.

“He had the decency to bolt after I had pulled him out of the tub.” You reply, placing a soft kiss on the smooth crown of his head, and Ravage sighs happily when you do. You rub the little nubs on his head, where his horns are still only cartilage beneath the skin, in the way that makes him sleepy.

“How considerate of him.” Maul replies, smoothing a hand over Ravage’s head before his eyes drop downwards and he grins boyishly. He places a gentle yet firm hand on the swell of your belly, rubbing over your dress. Something in his eyes changes, in his whole demeanor for that matter, like a primal part of him rears it’s head. Like a fire that has gasoline thrown on it, flaring in intensity and heat.

You’ve seen it happen many times before during this pregnancy and your previous, and know exactly what very pleasurable end it leads to. It’s no secret to you of how Maul feels when you’re with child. A shiver goes down your spine, straight to your core.

“And what of this one, my love?” He asks, his voice just a tad huskier, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. It’s purposely slow and meant to be inviting, which you pick up instantly. Your lips curl up into a small grin in the kiss, and you part to see a mischievous look on Maul’s face. His pupils are dilated, not a whole lot, but enough that it’s noticeable.

“Oh, he’s been just fine. Active, as usual.” You murmur, letting Maul place a heavy, more heated kiss on your lips almost before you’ve even finished your sentence. You sigh into his mouth, happily letting your beloved husband to lay claim via the frenzied tongue. He shifts closer against you, which Ravage objects to with an indignant cry, and Maul parts from you.

“No kissing!” Ravage smacks a tiny palm on his father’s face, his face all furrowed with that anger that a toddler thinks they’re supposed to feel. Maul growls playfully and bites (very gently, of course) Ravage’s hand, which causes the baby to shriek with laughter. You pull away from Maul, rolling your eyes good-naturedly.

“Okay, okay, no getting him too riled up. Besides...” You send a glance over your shoulder, a coquettish smile on your lips.

“We need him to sleep. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.” You wink and turn quickly enough so that Maul doesn’t have time to quip a reply, but slow enough that you see his eyes flash with lust. Almost giggling, you hastily make your way to Ravage’s bedroom to get him ready for bed and out of the way for the rest of the night.

Despite bath time being a special sort of chaos a majority of the time, Ravage is far more willing to go to sleep easily. You peck his forehead, then pepper his tiny horn nubs all over in kisses, and then nuzzle his scarlet cheeks. Ravage is half-asleep, but awake enough to rub his eyes and smile up at you. He purrs lightly, hands gripping your forearm.

“Good night, baby boy.” You coo softly, cupping his face with your hand, fingers tracing the swooping black tattoo on his crown. Of course, Ravage is not actually tattooed, he is far too young and his skin is much too sensitive. Instead, Ravage is decorated like his father by a highly pigmented dye that stains the skin until he’s old enough to get inked. You kiss him one last time, on his chin, where the stain nearest his lips is beginning to fade.

“I love you so much, my sweet.” You murmur, pulling away from your baby which is always hard, but feels like it’s so much harder with all the pregnancy hormones that you’re dealing with. Placing a hand on your belly, you carefully rise so that you don’t disturb Ravage who’s practically asleep. You’ve never been much of a nervous person, but you keep your eye on him the entire time you walk to the door, and then some. Maul waits for you, having observed the whole time.

“He’ll be there in the morning, my dear.” Maul’s low voice is teasing, but it’s also laced with a genuine comfort. You feel the need to bite your lip, apprehensive about tearing your eyes from Ravage, but Maul’s hands pulling you against him breaks the spell. You wrap your arms around him, relishing in the warmth that emits from him in waves. If motherhood had made you one thing, it was being overly wary.

“He’s so perfect... How is he three years old already?” You ask quietly, resting your head against Maul’s bare shoulder. Your eyes glance over to your son, who’s sleeping so peacefully and quietly you want the moment to last forever. He looks so warm and safe and happy... Words cannot describe how satisfying motherhood feels. It feels like Ravage was still a newborn yesterday.

“I wonder that myself...” Maul starts, “Though, my dear, you’ll have another baby in your arms soon enough.”

You giggle softly, letting Maul pull you in close to him, as far as you still can that is. He reaches past you to pull the bedroom door shut as his face leans in, lips locking with yours to kiss you fervently, deeply. You moan softly into his mouth as his warm, moving tongue claims you, and you wrap your arms around his neck. You kiss for a few moments longer before Maul pulls back, leaving you catching your breath.

“Have I told you how stunning you look?” He asks, voice lilting with a curious sort of brazenness, playfully searching for an answer. You hum, eyes heavy lidded, tracing with a single finger the sloping tattoo on Maul’s collar bone. He meets your gaze, molten gold eyes just as hazy as yours.

“Yes... though I may need to hear it again.” You murmur, brushing your lips against the softer skin of his cheek, practically purring with delight when Maul’s hand slips, and he grabs your ass. You giggle breathily when he squeezes, smiling still when his mouth is on yours again.

“You glow, my beautiful wife, especially when there is a babe ripe in your womb.” Maul almost hisses those last words, and you whimper when the feeling of his growing erection pokes against your thigh. The wetness between your legs seems to grow tenfold, you feel drenched with liquid warm slick. Maul kisses you again, his other hand going to palm the swell of your belly, and you tremble at the vibration his groan sends into your mouth.

“Fuck, if only I could keep you like this.” He growls lowly, hand cupping your belly, and he’s emboldened by his own words, kissing you forcefully. You whimper, hands gripping him as he rocks his body into yours, grinding you lightly against the closed door behind you.

“T-To the bedroom, please.” You sigh desperately, clinging to your husband, and he chuckles lowly, eagerly, and he secures his arm around your waist to pull you in the direction of your shared room. He keeps kissing you along the way, making your knees almost give out on you with each heated, passionate one. By the time the door’s been opened, you’re quivering so intensely with need that Maul takes it upon himself to lift you into his arms and walk you to the bed.

Thankful for his strength, you sigh happily when he places you down on the soft mattress, the relief in your lower back and feet almost as intoxicating as the arousal the bubbles inside you. Maul keeps himself at the end of the bed, where he watches you like a vulture, watches as you scoot back against the mountain of pillows that you have accumulated over the duration of your pregnancies.

“Please, my love, give me a show.” He speaks, eyes dilating further until his golden yellow hues are nearly eclipsed by the inky blacks of his pupils. Your face burns with a slightly embarrassed blush, because it sometimes still evades you as to why Maul is seemingly so captivated by your pregnant form, but you’re so needy and hot, that your dress simply needs to come off.

“Okay. For you.” You whisper, eyes not leaving Maul as you reach up to unclasp the button at the top of your dress, then the one below it, and the one after that. Maul watches as your cleavage becomes more and more revealed, then as your breasts simple spill from the confines of your bodice, too heavy for the loosening fabric. Then he watches as you reach around to your back to untie the ribbon that holds your skirt, watches as the fabric slacks on your swollen belly.

You grow more and more aroused as you watch Maul almost drool as you shimmy your hips to pull your dress from your body, moaning softly when his hips suddenly seize when the fabrics fall to reveal your baby bump, your newly outie belly button, and the darkened line below it. With one last shift of your hips, and kick of your dress falls from the bed, and leaves you bare to your bristling husband.

“You look like the Winged Goddess herself.” Maul finally growls, taking in the entire sight of you, flushed and sweaty and pregnant, sprawl like a queen on her throne of pillows. The compliment sends a shiver down your spine and you whimper from arousal. It wasn’t often, being this heavily pregnant, that you felt sexy, so irresistible. But from the way Maul’s honey gaze burns across your body, how he studies your swollen belly and heavy breasts with nothing but adoration and lust, you can only think this is what it feels like to be worshipped.

Maul doesn’t only tell you he thinks you look like a goddess, he makes you one.

And Maker, Maul is horny. He’s staring at you intensely, like a wild animal about to pounce yet contained by straining patience. His hips rut the air, like his cock is searching for the hot, wet, holy place you have to offer for it’s sanctuary. Maul’s shoulders rise with the steady heaves of his chest, nostrils flaring with each exhale. Rarely does he have this type of patience, but tonight you are his temple, and he’ll treat you with reverence.

“Come, then. Give your goddess tribute.” You coo, voice a tad shaky from need, spreading your meaty thighs deliciously wide as you open your arms to him. No sooner does the invitation leave your lips as Maul leaps onto the bed, stalking up to you on all fours, looking like a hungry wolf. His golden eyes drop from your face to your dripping, swollen pink pussy, and something absolutely ragged flashes in them.

“My Goddess, I am going to ravish you.” And Maul’s lips are on yours in a deeply passionate kiss that steals away all of you in it. His tongue pushes past your lips and he tastes like heaven, and you moan, eyes closing. Maul hastens the kiss almost frantically, sucking at your mouth like he’s drinking a nectar. All of your moans and gasps are swallowed by him, and Maul pulls more and more from you. You reach and grab his shoulders, gripping at the thick muscle of his neck, nails biting into his skin.

Maul finally pulls away, breaking the kiss with a loud, wet pop and his absence is agonizing. Panting, his eyes scan your face, soaking up your dazed expression, red cheeks, and raw lips. He grins and leans back in to kiss you again, brief and light this time, before he starts to leave kisses along your jaw, leading down your neck. You sigh happily when Maul sucks mark against your throat, hands roaming his sculpted shoulders and upper back.

“Maul...” You whine his name, one of your feet crossing over his calf, beckoning him closer. Maul allows you to reel him in, arching over you and anchoring himself with his arms. Just barely, feather-light, his toned stomach brushes against the crest of your encarpous middle, a reminder that he’s the one who put the baby there. Maul nuzzles your neck, his chuckling sending small vibrations into the soft skin.

“My love...” Maul murmurs, one hand raising to cup your breast as his lips travel lower, “My Goddess, you are perfection.”

He squeezes your tit, which causes you to cry out from the explosion of pleasure that ensues. Maul knows they’re tender, knows they’re overly sensitive, and he knows all of this as his fingers tweak your darkened nipple, reducing you to panting shrieks. He rolls your weighty breast in his hand and locks his lips around the nipple of the other, swirling his tongue around it. You squeal and arch your back, one hand holding Maul’s head against your chest to urge him to not stop.

“Maul, Maul!” You chant his name, almost weeping when his hand leaves your breast, flattening against your side to knead at the plush flesh of your hip. Maul hums, uses his knee to further spread your thighs, and dips his hand below to tease his finger tips around your soaked pussy. You whimper when he traces your pulsing slit, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive bud that sits at the apex of your womanhood.

“Mm... you are drenched, my Goddess.” He groans, pushing two of his fingers into you which has you tossing your head back, mouth agape. It’s all stars and fireworks, so quickly and easily thanks to your over-sensitivity due to pregnancy, and the way Maul curls his fingers just right has the coil in you tighten. Maul sucks at your nipple, rolls his fingers again inside you, and it only takes the pad of his thumb, which comes to swirl over your clit only once, that has you undone.

“Maul!~” You weep his name, shaking and stiffening all at once as your first orgasm ripples through you like aftershocks of an earthquake. It’s all so sudden that even Maul seems pleasantly surprised, unlatching from your breast to look down between your legs where his crimson hand glistens with your release. He pulls his fingers from you, marveling at the way your cunt clenches, more of your nectar oozing from it.

“A bit premature, hm?” He teases, kissing your breasts and collar as he gives you a few moments to recover from the world-shattering climax. You shake your head, panting, hairs stuck to your forehead by the sheen of sweat that coats your entire body. You feel so hot, overheated, and wanting him— needing his thick, ribbed cock and his heavy balls and all his virile cum within them.

“Please, my love, please.” You beg, hands smoothing over his shoulders, gliding to massage his biceps, pulling him closer. All you want is him, you need him, your pussy aches for him. And Maul delivers, seeing how you’re already half gone, and in one delicious, pleasing thrust of his hips, he sinks his hard cock into your wet heat.

You shriek and he groans loudly, the simultaneous sensations of your clenching, quivering vagina and his spear-like dick jumps the both of you very near your ends. Maul pulls back his hips to snap them forward, going lost in his wild eyes briefly, and repeats the motion, slow but hard. You hardly have the awareness to breathe, so lost as Maul hits the gummy nodes of your cervix with each rock of his hips, the ridges of his cock dragging against the velvety walls of your cunt.

“F-Fa—Faster.” Drool escapes the corner of your lips with the weakly uttered plea you barely manage to convey. He obliges, just as lost as you, and his hips pull back to slam in quickly, repeating over and over, jostling your body with purpose and force. It feels like it knocks the wind from you, and you hold onto Maul like he’s your lifeline, weeping moans against his neck. His head dips against the crook of your shoulder, mindful of his horns, and he pants against your flushed skin.

“Love seeing you pregnant.” Maul grunts, lips worrying a dark mark into your neck that he seals with a small nip. You keen, hips unconsciously tilting more so his cock continues to hit that place just right, that you can take him even deeper. That tender place makes you see stars, the pleasure electrifying you to your bones, making you curl your toes into the sheets. Your pussy clenches, and Maul groans, thrusting with conviction like a bull in rut. The sound of his hips snapping wetly against yours filling the air, each thrust makes your thighs and hips jiggle.

“Wan—ugh, Want to keep you fat with child.” Scarlet and charcoal hands run up the hill of your belly to cup your breasts from below. Maul squeezes them, beckoning beads of milk to form at your nipples, and you cry out, moaning wantonly and uninhibited by now. Your eyes squeeze shut as the coil grows taut in your core once more, tighter and tighter with each snap of his hips. Maul growls out some incomprehensible sentence, snarling into your neck, where he bites again, then kisses and licks.

“S-So beautiful... tits full of milk... c-crowded, stuffed belly.” It’s all choked out in between grunts that get louder and louder until Maul is a mess of heaving groans. Your airy moans clash in the air with his snarling, Maul bites at your neck, your shoulder, lightly gnawing on you like he’s desperate for your taste. He thrusts into you like a jackhammer, bouncing you on his cock and rocking your entire body.

You mind goes blank, and the knot inside you snaps, sending you into the oblivion of a small death that shakes you to your core. It leaves you wide-eyed and moth hanging open, your puffy entrance spilling your wet release all over your inner thighs, the bed, and soaking Maul’s cock that still pulls in and out of you.

The rhythmic rocking of your body could have lulled you asleep, had it not been the soaring pleasure of your orgasm keeping you awake. It fades steadily, allowing the cloud that has blinded your mind dissipate as you regain consciousness, eyelids fluttering as you bask in the tingling of your climax, the wetness between your legs and under your butt, and Maul’s sturdy, warm flesh.

It’s all so much, so perfect, so wonderfully passionate.

He moans when your cunt grips him like a vice as he fucks you through your orgasm, pulling his head from your shoulder to lay wet kisses on your panting lips and tear-streaked face. You hadn’t even realized you’d actually cried from the pleasure until Maul dutifully laps away any remaining tears before he kisses down your neck to lick away the milk that’s leaked from your breasts as well, making you sigh.

His pace slows, hips stuttering once, then twice, and he too finishes with a loud groan, pelvis flush against yours as he spills thick, sticky ropes of cum directly to your womb. The feeling of the spreading warmth pulls you further back to reality, grounding you with it’s primal, natural familiarity. You hum, rubbing Maul’s tense back with your hands as he stays locked to you for a good thirty seconds, just letting him spill everything he has into you.

Near the end, he says your name like a desperate prayer, all choked, all wretched from his throat. And he says it again once his cock’s finished, the last few spurts of cum leaving him, and this time it is said with nothing but satisfaction, content, and love. He kisses your breasts a few more times, his hands rubbing your hips, before he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

“I love you.” Maul says, his eyes as bright and as serious as the sun, and you smile broadly, if not a bit loopy and sleepy too. You cup his cheek, thumb resting on the curved line of the tattoo on his cheekbone. One of Maul’s hands go to tuck your sweaty hair behind your ear, the other plants itself firmly beside you so that Maul can anchor himself above you. His softening cock rests nestled inside you, he arches over you like a protective ceiling of red and black loving flesh and blood, and he kisses you like your the personification of all that is good and holy.

“I love you.” He says again, and it makes your heart sing. The air around you and Maul buzzes with the dewy afterglow of sex, feeling as though it lights your dimly lit bedroom a brighter, gentle orange. Maul sighs deeply into the kiss and pulls out from you, and you sigh when you feel his release steadily seep from you like glistening honey off the comb. He still kisses you as he moves from atop you to your side, haphazardly grabbing a blanket to pull over you both.

As you both kiss and situate yourselves into bed, spent and exhausted, you don’t mind that tonight he doesn’t leave to get cloth to clean you up, or that you’re falling asleep sticky and wet, and that tomorrow you’ll have to clean the sheets and probably the mattress too. No, tonight you only think of Maul, soak in all of the love and adoration you feel come from him, and reciprocate it when he pulls you to him, spooning you from behind, wrapped securely by his strong arms.

“I love you, too.” You whisper to Maul in the darkness, eyes closed, your fingers searching to lace with his, both of your hands then resting atop the baby that grows inside you. He hums, kisses the back of your neck, and you fall asleep feeling happy, tranquil, and loved.

#star wars #star wars darth maul #darth maul x reader #maul x reader #darth maul #maul #anon #anon ask #request #this is how i choose to give back to society

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lichfucker · 2 years

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there is a consistent group of people who actively id black sails content, and that's WAY better than some fandoms I've been in, I'm endlessly grateful for it... but g-d sometimes it really does feel like it's five people staring down a tidal wave. like jesus fucking christ. I only follow a small handful of bs folks and yet! I went from having like 80 posts in my drafts (the vast majority of them things I was saving for reference, NOT posts waiting to be described) to over 500 in like three months. and that's not even counting the number of posts I describe immediately! I stick like half the posts I see in my drafts and the other half I just do on the spot. there's just so MUCH and people are always making MORE and the more is wonderful! it's incredible that a show that ended five years ago has such an active and passionate fanbase still! but holy shit I'm fucking exhausted. I'm so tired.

#bluh bluh

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whencartoonsruletheworld · 4 years

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The Thrilling Saga of Connie paying real life money for the Worst Sonic TV Show

Let’s begin with the simple fact that me and my sister, @birdsareblooming “Cori”, have both been hyperfixating on Sonic the Hedgehog since last March. During this hyperfixation, I was on Sonic Wiki to copy-paste song lyrics onto my stolen mp3s, and I called my sister in and pointed at the template at the bottom.

“What is this Sonic Underground thing?” I asked. “It has one shit billion songs.”

So we clicked on the page to read about it, and each sentence we read was a punch in the gut and this quickly became the funniest thing we’d ever read. Highlights include:

It looks like this:

“Sonic[...] is known to be a prince”

Sonic has two siblings who actually have good characterization but their names are literally just Sonia and Manic. Like. Sonic split into two names. jesus christ

Also Sonic and his siblings all share a voice actor. honestly Jaleel White does his best with it but

“The three siblings possess enchanted medallions that transform not only into musical instruments, but also into weapons.”

“Some fans consider Sonia to be a clone of Amy Rose, minus the attraction Amy feels for Sonic.” YEAH I SURE HOPE IT DOES

“Manic is the most often captured of the siblings” himbo king

Knuckles shows up, and for the first, like, two sentences his description is very similar to the game, and then you get immediately pulverized by “He has a pet Dinosaur called Chomps.”

Literally so many sentences on Sonic Wiki are lowkey salty about this show. The page features lines such as “Sonic Underground bears little relation to the often complex Sonic universe (including previous animated series, as well as Sonic comics and games), and shares only three established characters” and “many of the characters in the Freedom Fighter group that were in Sonic the Hedgehog are completely left out (including Tails).”

“The show met with mostly negative reviews.”

*checks air dates* It only lasted two goddamn months

So after seeing this we thought it was the funniest thing and we showed our older sister, @patema-introverted “North.” To our surprise, our at the time “knew nothing about this sonic bullshit” sister recognized the show. Turns out she’d seen trailers for it as a child and that was her sole exposure to Sonic canon.

We were in quarantine at the time, so we ended up finding it on YouTube and binge-watching it all together as a sibling bonding activity. It was just as hilarious as we thought it would be- some stuff was legitimately good, like the sibling dialogue for instance, but good lord were the character designs ugly, the plot all over the place, and pretty much every song, um, not great. Also there was one episode that we skipped because it got, um, I think “stereotypical” is the nicest word I can use here.

But the point is, we had a jolly good time watching it, and afterwards we binged all the other Sonic shows and bonded as a family.

After quarantine, North and I go back to college. My roommate gets groceries at Walmart, while I get them elsewhere, so while she and North collect food I wander the DVD aisle to look at the cool movies and also dumpster-dive in the bargain bin for Cats (2019). I am also short as fuck, so the top shelf of movies I cannot see, I can only read the labels.

So one day I was browsing the DVDs, and glancing over at the labels for the top shelf. I read over the final one before the shelves end.

And then I stop, do a double take, and have a heart attack, because there is a label that reads “SONIC UNDERGROUND $3.74″

I immediately climb the shelf but there aren’t any DVDs atop the shelf. However, the label is still there. I excitedly tell my sister and roommates, freak out with them a bit, and then give myself a mission statement:

I will buy the $4 Sonic Underground DVD from Walmart

I did not want it as a gift, I did not want to find it online. I wanted to walk into a store, pick up the Worst Sonic Show on DVD, walk it straight to the checkout, and in front of the cashier and God, pay for it with my own money. I did not care if it was the whole series or two episodes; I needed to do this for my own serotonin.

We would go to Walmart about once a week. Every time, I would go to the DVD aisle, and go right to the end of the shelves. I would stare at the label SONIC UNDERGROUND $3.74 and empty space above it and wonder who the fuck was buying this other than me. I would occasionally ask employees if they had any copies in storage. I would build a shrine to Manic in my room. Okay, no I didn’t, but only because my RA would have murdered me.

Christmas break comes, and we have to go home. We have a nice Christmas, and Cori and I infodump at each other about how we would make Sonic Underground a good show (note: we’re both galaxy braining) and also play Bendy and the Ink Machine. Fun times.

When we finally get back to College, it’s late January- long story short we have a very long winter break. My roommate who gets food at Walmart got food without us the first week cause she showed up first, so we take her out to Walmart the first time in the year of our lord 2021 on January 29.

I wander the Valentine’s aisle, immediately grabbing a sequin puppy. I go to the DVDs and see Animaniacs Season One, also grab that.

And then.

There it is.

The Holy Grail.

Above the label SONIC UNDERGROUND $3.74, is one DVD left.

Already I am losing my mind. It’s roughly seven hours of episodes- I couldn’t find an episode list, but I think that’s half the show, for $4! And the cover is amazing.

That’s a png of Sonic from Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog (1993) with a medallion badly photoshopped over it. The medallion is too small.

Manic is shoved into the corner. He doesn’t have his medallion at all.

Sonia isn’t even pictured on the front cover, probably because they realized she was the worst designed of the bunch. I’m not ragging on her though, because she’s still one of the better designed characters of the show. Those background characters make me cry

So you bet your ass I finally paid my hard-earned $4 for this shit. Upon getting home, I discovered that there was even wilder shit with this DVD than I thought.

For starters: the bonus features listed are as follows:

Original Concept Art - did not expect that these character designs were the final draft

Storyboard-to-screen - did not expect they bothered to storyboard this

Music Video Jukebox - that’s cute, they thought we liked the music

Interviews with original screenwriter & executive producer - I fully expect the only questions to be “why.”

On the left of this list are screenshots from the show, where people can finally see Sonia, who we Know™ is a girl because she is pink and has hair and also an actual body shape instead of just circles like her brothers.

But wait... what’s that in the lefthand corner?

That looks like some kind of robot. But it’s not a robot from Sonic Underground! That didn’t appear once. Why is it here?

The mystery continues upon opening the DVD case: inside are advertisements for other collections, including other Sonic DVDs: two volumes of Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog (1993) and the final episodes of Sonic the Hedgehog “SatAM” (1993)

First of all, the first volume of AOSTH has the exact same PNG of Sonic as the Underground Volume 1. Not even trying to hide it. But second... the second volume of AOSTH also has this robot on its cover.

And THIS ROBOT IS ALSO DECORATING THE THIRD DISC IN THE SET?

So you may be asking, who is this robot? Is it from AOSTH or Underground?

IT’S FROM FUCKING SATAM. The one show that doesn’t have it decorating the DVD covers.

Also, not only is it from SatAM, it only appears in one fucking episode. Not a major character! AND IT HAS A DIFFERENT DESIGN ON THE PROMO ART, WITH HAIR AND FANGS.

Why is it showing up everywhere? What is going on?

I have not yet had the opportunity to watch this glorious piece of animation, but I am so glad at the confusion I have felt upon receiving it.

But before I go, I must share with you the best part of this DVD purchase. And it was flipping to the back, scanning the details, and discovering the exact runtime of the episode collection.

Guys, gals, and enby pals, friends and enemies, Nintendo and Sega, the first Volume of Sonic Underground has a runtime of...

420 MINUTES.

Maybe I’m wrong and this IS the best Sonic show.

#sonic underground #sonic the hedgehog #sonic 2020 #walmart #mine #connie writes #story time with tumblr

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makeste · 4 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 290: It’s Touya Time

Previously on BnHA: Iida and Hadou showed up like a couple of Pennsylvanias and Georgias to bail Shouto out at the last minute. Ochako and Toga had an exceptionally strange fight which consisted of Toga being all “guess what Ochako, I used your quirk to murder someone, how do you feel about that”, and Ochako being all “I do not like that”, to which Toga was all “:(”. There was some doll-stealing and some bookcase-yeeting, and then Toga left in tears because Ochako was all adamant that murder has consequences. Anyway so I have absolutely no idea what Toga is thinking now, but I guess we’ll have some time to stew on it, because we ended the chapter by cutting back to the Iida+Hadou+Shouto VS Afomura battle, which was interrupted by Gigantomachia and the LoV showing up like a bunch of Floridas to ruin everyone’s nice day.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi hands the mic over to Dabi and is all “take it away, kid.” Over in Room 315 of Musutafu General, Rei is all “may I please watch some TV” and the hospital staff is all “sure”, and so she tunes in just in time to catch Todoroki Touya’s Peabody Award-winning documentary “Number One Hero, Number One Fraud: The Todoroki Enji Story”, which is being broadcast nationwide courtesy of Skeptic and his magic laptop. Meanwhile in Jakku, Dabi is all “I’M TOUYA, BITCHES”, and Shouto and Enji are all, “(゜◇゜ )”, and Dabi is all, “anyway so just to sum it all up, because of how much of a jerk Endeavor was, I am now Evil.” Everyone continues to be all “(ﾟoﾟ)” except for Dabi, who is all “└(˘▾˘┌ )�� ( ┐˘▾˘)┘≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛≡┏( ˘▾˘)┓≡┗( ˘▾˘)┛” for pretty much the rest of the chapter. Idk. Just let the man have his fun, guys. He’s waited a long time for this.

y’all I have a confession to make. I am technically not spoiled for this chapter thanks to my robustly paranoid system of spoiler-tag-filtering, which is extensive enough that it pretty much will catch whenever someone so much as breathes something even remotely new-chapter-related. that being said, I like to think that I am capable of making basic logical inferences! and so the fact that for the past 36 hours, my dashboard has pretty much nonstop consisted almost entirely of this...

...has led me to conclude that MAYBE, POSSIBLY, PROBABLY, BUT ALSO DEFINITELY, a certain someone is finally going to reveal his ~secret identity~ woop woop. lmao

anyway so everyone, please remember to act surprised though, as we would not want Dabi’s feelings to be hurt at all. he has been planning this moment for the last decade or so and I wouldn’t want him to feel like all of that effort was for naught. so just play along, okay. OH MY, IF IT ISN’T THE LEAGUE OF VILLAINS’ MYSTERIOUS DABI. WHATEVER COULD HIS ARRIVAL POSSIBLY BE HERALDING, I JUST DON’T KNOW

“Dabi’s Dance” lmao. I’m sticking with Touya Time myself. ngl I had this recap title planned out for at least the past year or so. just waiting for that day to finally come

anyway so some people in some building somewhere are all “TURN OFF THE TV IN ROOM 315” and idk. I’m guessing the LoV is hacking the airwaves to livestream the reveal, as predicted

-- oh shit. UHHHHHHHH

did she always have this TV or did she get it just recently?? jfc of all the times for the hospital staff to finally loosen up

um... so that’s... (・＿・；)

well but I mean, she was gonna find out one way or the other at some point though. like you can’t really just keep her locked up and isolated from all news of the outside world forever and ever and ever. granted, this isn’t exactly the ideal way for her to learn this particular bit of information, but it’s not really ideal for anybody else either! EXCEPT DABI, THAT IS. have yourself a day you funky little terrorist

oh shit what is this?? it’s not live???

over in Jakku, a red-faced, sputtering Dabi makes a frantic grab for Skeptic’s laptop. “WAIT, NO, JESUS, NOT THAT TAPE!”

lol. but seriously Dabi are you even wearing a shirt. like I’m not one to slutshame anyone bro, but it’s just, exactly what type of mood were you looking to set here??

anyway so we really are cutting back to Jakku now, and Gigantomachia is all, “MASTERS”! which, I wonder if he really did use the plural? that’s right Machia, both of them in one place now! that sure is convenient for you huh

lol what is this with all this AFO monologuing. you’re really gonna make me read through this when I’m sitting here all sleep-deprived from election week. JUST GET TO THE TOUYAS. WE WERE PROMISED TOUYAS!!

sigh

“tee hee it’s fucking hilarious how goddamn powerful I am now lol”

alas, in spite of myself I do have two serious takeaways from this. one is that AFO is still controlling most of Tomura’s body behind the scenes, which both does and doesn’t bode well for Tomura (like, at least he’s not dying, but the long-term implications of this for his free will and such certainly are not Good). and two is that this confirms that Ujiko did give Tomura at least one powerful mutant quirk, which explains why he was still so deadly and indestructible even when Aizawa was using Erasure on him (since Erasure doesn’t work on mutant quirks, just emitter and transformation ones)

MEANWHILE ON TODAY’S EPISODE OF “TODOROKI SHOUTO’S TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD LIFE”

I like how he doesn’t actually say that he can’t take on Gigantomachia. just that he can’t take on him and Afomura at the same time. that’s confidence, baby. that right there is why you always draft Todoroki Shouto in the first round for your fantasy team

HADOU!!!!

OOOH, TOMURA’S ALL “MAN, THIS GIRL’S WAVE POWERS AND THIS KID’S ICE POWERS ARE A SUPER-STRONG COMBO DAGNABBIT.” YESSS I LIKE THAT, TELL ME MORE ABOUT HOW COOL AND POWERFUL THEY ARE

HOT DAMN LOOK AT THAT

um but not to take away from this exceptionally cool moment or anything, but why is Endeavor dying and shouting “RUN” down there in the corner um

excuse me. not to take away from How Bad This All Is, but!!

just a little, smol, IidaBaku for everyone. Iida, who apparently doesn’t know a damn thing about first aid and is all, “hmm that’s a pretty bad-looking puncture wound he has in his left shoulder there, I think I’ll just let his arm dangle freely like that and I won’t bother taking off his heavy gauntlets either. I mean. he’ll be fine, probably.” smh. at least Shouto probably cauterized the wounds

EXCUSE ME WHAT

TIME FOR MORE OF THAT GOOD OLD FASHIONED SHOUNEN RIDICULOUSNESS I GUESS LMAO. KACCHAN YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO. THERE IS A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO, AND YOU LOST LIKE FOUR GALLONS OF BLOOD, BUT SURE. “PUT ME DOWN” HE SAYS. FIRST OF ALL, PUTTING ASIDE THE FACT THAT YOU ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT BE CONSCIOUS, THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN GOING TO DO, LIE DOWN AT THEM?? LISTEN, YOU SWEET IDIOT. TAKE HEED, BELOVED DUMBASS!!

ah well. I guess he gets to watch the Touya Show now too then lol

LMAOOOO now Machia’s lifting Tomura carefully in his palm like a broken action figure and Spinner is all “THE FUCK, YOU LOOK LIKE DEATH WARMED OVER”

“oh hey there Spinner. well let’s see, I woke up from my three-month coma and destroyed a city, had my body incinerated, and am currently being possessed by a diabolically evil potato. but please, tell me more about everything you've been through”

AW YISS AND THE FOCUS NOW SHIFTS TO THE TODOROKIS. EVERYTHING IS PROCEEDING EXACTLY AS WE HAVE FORESEEN

Endeavor my dude. it’s as if you want to die here. also holy shit, that bit about his lungs definitely does not bode well for him either

MOTHERFUCKER

GO AHEAD AND SIGN YOUR OWN DEATH CERTIFICATE, WHY DON’T YOU!! FLAGS UPON FLAGS. JESUS CHRIST

meanwhile Dabi’s just waving at ‘em

lmaoooo please oh please Caleb please keep this ‘EYYYYYYY’, it’s fucking perfect kdlshk;hg

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(ETA: so as you will see very shortly, I completely missed this detail in my first read-through because I was so anxious to get to the reveal page, but THIS MOTHERFUCKER LITERALLY DOUSED HIMSELF WITH INSTANT HAIR DYE REMOVER THAT HE’S JUST BEEN CARRYING AROUND IN A LITTLE HIP POUCH APPRENTLY SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME. MOTHERFUCKER. I HAVE NO WORDS.)

IS THIS THE TIME. IS THIS THE MOMENT?! HERE IT COMES SLKFHS BRACE YERSELVES LADS

EYYYYYYYYYYYY

OKAY EVERYONE JUST LIKE WE PRACTICED!! SURPRISED FACES ON THREE! ONE... TWO... (•̪ o •̪) !! okay how was that

LMAO ENDEAVOR

at least Shouto looks properly stunned. Enji just looks like endeavor.exe just straight up stopped working

meanwhile Deku’s out here trying to do the math on this latest surprise family reveal! first Tomura is related to Nana, and now this. what’s next. who are you related to, Spinner. he rips off his boots to reveal engine legs and declares himself Iida’s long-lost uncle

oh shit Touya

it’s as if a million fanworks suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly jossed. who knew that all this time he was secretly sporting a crop top scar

also, THIRTY?! holy shit son you been busy

la la la two-page spread of Touya casually driving the dagger into Endeavor’s hero career and rocking the foundations of hero society as we know it la la la

la la la!!!

OH IS THAT THE END OF THE STORY THEN

almost got confused for a sec. there’s two monologues happening at once here. Endeavor doesn’t even know that his dirty laundry is being aired out nation-wide as we speak ffffff

btw while I appreciate the close-ups of Enji and Shouto here for sure, ngl I would also really love to see everyone else’s reactions right now. SHOW ME BAKUGOU AND THE LOV YOU COWARDS

is his hair actually turning white all of a sudden?? your hair dye just reacts on command??

(ETA: in all seriousness though, the hell kind of hair dye was he using? all he has to do is pour a bottle of that stuff and not even lather it in and it’s just gone just like that?? what the fuck would have have done if it ever rained lmao.

and this motherfucker just goes and leaves the dye remover in afterwards, too. I have never dyed my hair in my life and even I can tell you that’s probably not a good idea, Dabi.)

is this it. is this the legendary Dabi Dance in action. lmfao

oh hey what the fuck

so you figured you’d just murder your innocent younger brother to get revenge on dad, huh. well that’s nice

is that really all there is to the origin story though?? feels like we’re still missing a huge chunk of it. what was it that finally sent him over the edge? or was the trauma of being created as Endeavor’s perfect little hero tool and then being subsequently rejected by him enough on its own? because I’m still kind of confused on the part where he goes from “abused and discarded by his father” to “killed thirty people and was plotting the murder of his own brother” to tell you the truth

(ETA: lmao the initial fandom reaction to this did not disappoint. listen guys. people can be traumatized and shaped by awful circumstances that are completely out of their control, and grow up to be people they wouldn’t have grown up to be if things had been better, and all of that absolutely sucks, but. it doesn’t mean they get a get-out-of-jail-free card for all of their future actions, either! the tragedy of this situation is that terrible things happened to Touya, and he then went on to do terrible things himself. the tragedy of it is that this is exactly how the cycle of abuse keeps repeating itself on and on and on. maybe one of the people Dabi killed had a child who will now grow up traumatized themselves, and potentially go on to pay it forward themselves when they grow up. the tragedy is that the eye-for-an-eye justice that Touya is seeking out won’t actually make anything better in the end. the tragedy is that we understand why Touya is so angry, but that anger has basically warped him into the gleefully sadistic dancing figure we see in this chapter who has stopped caring about anyone else’s pain or suffering and just wants his own revenge.

anyway. basically what I’m trying to say is that it’s possible for the concepts of “Todoroki Touya was an innocent child and a victim of abuse” and “Dabi is a grown-ass motherfucking adult who killed thirty people and PROBABLY NEEDS TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR THAT” to coexist lol. like, y’all wanted your moral grey, well HERE YOU GO lmao, eat up.)

lol but LOOK AT THAT BOY DANCE HIS LITTLE HEART OUT though

Todoroki Touya confirmed not a fan of the Endeavor redemption arc huh. well we all saw this coming lols

anyways here’s a sexy Touya for y’all

you really are the most theatrical bitch I s2g lmao

also for real though, what is happening with his hair? anime team in shambles here. they’re probably just gonna double down and keep it red. too bad though cuz this is a surprisingly good look on him

SO MANY CLOSE-UPS OF THE TODOROKI FACES

friendly reminder that Dabi without a doubt REHEARSED this speech like a thousand fucking times. LET US FALL TOGETHER!! COME DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL. apparently if you fake your own death in middle school you will never mentally age past that point and will remain a permanent chuuni

OH LMAO THAT’S THE END

we really just gonna end on “DANCE WITH YOUR SON IN HELL”, huh. very well then. you know what song to play, Horikoshi. one, two... YOU ARE MY DAD. YOU’RE MY DAD!! BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE

#bnha 290 #dabi #todoroki touya #todoroki enji #todoroki shouto #todoroki rei #bakugou katsuki #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha

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heyitssmiller · 4 years

Text

Chop It Like It’s Hot

A Worst Cooks in America O’Knutzy AU

The Sweater Weather Discord group helped me come up with this idea like two months ago, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. All credit goes to @lumosinlove for her amazing characters!

Chop It Like It’s Hot Masterlist

Chapter 1: Don’t Go Bacon My Heart

The Day Before the Competition

Interviewer (off camera): Finn O’Hara and Logan Tremblay for their introductions.

Logan: * taps on microphone* Is this mic working?

Finn: How do you still not know how to work a mic? You deal with them all time.

Logan: I signed up to compete in a cooking show, not to deal with your chirps.

Finn: You love ‘em. *winks*

Interviewer: So basically all we want from you guys is a brief introduction for the viewers. I’ll ask some questions, but most of this should be you guys just talking. We can edit things out later, so don’t worry about anything like that. Why don’t you guys start with your names and careers and we’ll go from there.

Finn: Yo, I’m Finn O’Hara, and I’m a terrible cook. *finger guns* Although I guess that’s a given, seeing that I’m on this show.

Logan: *mumbles in French, head in hands*

Finn: This asshole – shit, no – fuck! Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be cussing. This is a family-friendly show.

Logan: Dear God, please stop talking. I’m Logan Tremblay, the unfortunate boyfriend.

*Finn pouts*

Interviewer: And you guys play hockey?

Logan: Yeah, we play in the NHL. Gryffindor Lions.

Finn: That’s how we met, actually. Through hockey. We played together at Harvard, then got drafted to the Lions about a year apart. We’ve known each other for eight years and have been together for three of them. Can’t seem to get rid of this one.

Interviewer: And you’re not worried about being rivals on this show?

Finn: Rivals is a strong word… I mean yes we’ll be competing against each other instead of being teammates, but we know going in that it’s not personal. Just a little healthy competition.

Interviewer: So what made the two of you sign up for this show?

Logan: We didn’t. Our teammate Dumo and his wife Celeste did. They thought it would be funny. *pause* They’re probably right.

Interviewer: Out of the two of you, who is the worst cook?

*Finn and Logan point to each other*

Logan: You can’t be serious.

Finn: You once cooked pasta so much that it turned into literal paste!

Logan: You tried to cook pizza rolls in a toaster.

Finn: That’s what it said in the instructions!

Logan: It said toaster oven, you - *more French*

Finn: English, Tremz. How many times do I have to tell you that? I guess we’ll find out once and for all who the better cook is by the end of the next eight weeks, right? *mouths “it’s me” to the camera*

Logan: Whatever, Fish.

Interviewer: I think we’ve got all we need guys, thanks. Start time for tomorrow is 10:00 am, but plan on being here forty-five minutes to an hour early to get ready. We’ll see you then.

Competition Day

“Are you nervous? I’m nervous.” Finn stated, running a hand through his hair and looking around at the studio they’d be in and out of for the foreseeable future. There were cooking stations everywhere and he could already see tools and machines that he had no clue how to use. There were twelve other contestants that he didn’t know and the crew scattered everywhere, running back and forth trying to get everything ready. “God, how am I sweaty already? Is this normal?”

Logan rolled his eyes but still reached over to grab Finn’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Relax. It’s not so bad.” Finn smiled down at him, glad that they were at least here together. How in the hell did he get so lucky?

“Besides, you’ll be sent home soon enough. So don’t stress too much.”

Finn laughed. “Wow, I hate you so much right now.” He betrayed his words with a quick kiss. “You’re going down.”

Those green eyes flashed at the challenge, but right as he opened his mouth to respond-

“Good morning, recruits!”

All heads turned towards the voice. Three figures stood towards the front of the room: one they both recognized as the producer, who was flanked by who Finn assumed to be the chefs, seeing that they were wearing chef’s outfits. Chef’s uniforms? Did their uniforms have a technical name? Finn made a mental note to google that later.

Anyways, one was a short woman with dark ringlets tied back in a ponytail and an undiscernible expression on her face. The other was tall, blond, and had legs for days Jesus Christ-

“Welcome to your first day of boot camp! This is chef Dorcas Meadowes and chef Leo Knut; they’ll be your team leaders. We’re going to start with some footage of you all walking into the kitchen, so if you all would wait out there until you’re allowed to come back in. Cameras will be rolling, so be ready! After that, our chefs will explain the first challenge and then you’ll start cooking.” He clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s get this show started!”

“Why did they make us come in here just to send us back out?” Logan grumbled, following the other shuffling contestants out into the hall.

“Probably easier to give directions to the main studio instead of saying ‘hey, just wait out in the hall.’”

Logan hummed noncommittally. “I guess.” He wasn’t overly excited to be here; most of this (besides the initial push by Dumo and Celeste) was Finn’s idea. And god knows he could never say no to Finn. One look at that pout and brown puppy-dog eyes and he was done for. Logan didn’t like cooking, but he did like Finn. And they’d probably remember this for years to come. It didn’t matter what he was doing, as long as he was with Finn and making memories with him he’d do just about anything.

“Wonder what the first challenge is.” Finn mused, his eyes locked on the doors.

Logan laughed. “Always so impatient.”

“I’m a New Yorker,” Finn grinned, leaning into his accent. “It’s in my blood.”

The doors opened and contestants began filing back into the kitchen. Finn made sure to wave enthusiastically at the chefs with a wide smile. Logan noticed the tall one (god, he’d already forgotten the guy’s name) give a little wave in return as the other chef commanded the attention of everyone else in the room.

“Good morning, recruits, and welcome to boot camp! I’m chef Dorcas Meadowes, and this is chef Leo Knut. He’s the rookie of our crew, but don’t worry – he’s still qualified to teach all of you. Even though that’s not saying much.”

There was a smattering of laughter and chef Leo smiled, revealing dimples Logan could see from where he stood. “Hey, y’all. I’m very excited to see what makes all of you qualified to be put on this show. Who knows? Maybe you’ll give me more gray hair.” Dorcas laughed and ran her fingers through the tuft of gray hair at his temple.

“When did you get this? I don’t remember seeing it when we were in culinary school. Is it from Iron Chef?”

“Nah, this is from having Gordon Ramsay come to my restaurant.”

“Truly a terrifying man.” She shuddered. “Anyways, you guys be nice to this giant ball of sunshine. Even if he’s new, he’s still able to eliminate you from this competition.”

“In order to pick our teams, we need to see what kind of skills you have.” Leo winced. “Or don’t have. So today, we want you to make your favorite dish. Easy enough, right?”

“Oh god,” Finn murmured into Logan’s ear. “What’s my favorite dish? Do I even have one?”

“Finn.”

“You all have an hour to complete this task.” Dorcas said, glancing down at her watch. “And your time starts… now!”

“Fuck.” Finn stated emphatically, dashing off to the pantry.

Fuck was right. God, what was Logan going to make? He was wracking his brain for something while he grabbed two aprons from the back. He tossed one to Finn and took the station beside him before hurrying to the pantry. Chicken was always a safe bet, right? Celeste made a barbeque chicken recipe that was to die for. That couldn’t be too hard. It was just chicken and barbeque sauce. And maybe green beans on the side? He could get those canned ones and they’d taste fine if he rinsed them. This was fine.

He guessed on the temperature for the oven. 350 seemed good. Then he dumped two chicken breasts into a pan, poured the barbeque sauce over them, and put them into the oven.

“What are you making?” Logan startled at the soft voice, turning to see chef Leo at his station.

Blue eyes.

Logan blinked, Leo’s question forgotten. “Quoi?”

“You speak French?”

Why was his brain refusing to work all of a sudden? Get it together, Tremblay. “Uh, yeah.”

“What are you making?” Leo asked for the second time, but now it was in French. Weirdly worded French.

“Barbeque chicken.” Logan responded in French, then switched back to English. “What in the world was that?”

Leo flashed him a grin. “New Orleans, born and raised. We speak French there, too. Now tell me how you’re making that chicken.”

“Uh.” He had never said the word ‘uh’ so much in one sitting. Merde. “I put it in a pan, spread barbeque sauce over it, and I’m cooking it at 350.”

“How do you know when it’s done?”

Was this a trick question? It felt like a trick question. “Uh.” Fuck. “It has to get to a specific internal temperature, right?”

The chef nodded. “And what’s that?”

“145?"

Something in Leo’s expression flickered, but Logan couldn’t figure out what it meant. “Well, good luck. Logan, right?”

“Yeah.”

“See you at the judging table.” He said with a dimpled smile before moving to Finn’s station, which was already a mess. “Oh my. How are you doing over here?”

Finn laughed a bit hysterically. “Not good. Not good at all.”

“Ok. What’s going on?”

“Well I’m trying to make carbo’hara, and –“

“Really, Fish?” Logan called from his station. “That’s what you’re making?”

“What’s carbo’hara?” Leo asked as he watched Finn put bacon in a pan.

“Oh,” Finn waved a hand carelessly. “It’s just carbonara, but a pun on my name, O’Hara. Get it?”

Leo laughed, crossing long arms over his chest. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, but it makes me happy. My parents used to make it every night before my brother or I had hockey games.”

“Oh, that’s right. You guys are hockey players.”

“Go Lions!” Finn cheered, taking a spoonful of butter and throwing it into the pan with the bacon.

“Are you putting butter on bacon?” Leo asked with a raised eyebrow.

Finn responded with full confidence, “I didn’t want it to stick to the pan.”

“Ok. Got it. I… I look forward to seeing what you make.” Finn watched as Leo bit his lip and tried his hardest not to laugh.

Cute.

Finn felt his cheeks flush and blamed it on the steam from the pasta.

The last thirty minutes of the task were absolute chaos, but both boys got it done. Finn’s looked messy, which accurately summed up his cooking style. Logan was pretty proud of how his looked; he just hoped it tasted good. He gave Finn a smile and a fist bump. “Ready to be judged?”

Finn laughed, looking down at his plate. He grimaced. “Not really.”

“We’re all bad cooks. Chances are someone else’s dish is worse than yours.”

“That… actually helped. Thanks.”

***

Finn was chosen to be judged before Logan. He brought up his plate with a sheepish smile and placed it on the table in front of the chefs. Dorcas raised an eyebrow while Leo prodded the pasta with his fork.

“It’s carbo’hara.” Finn stated with pride.

“Well, Finn…” Dorcas met his eyes. “This looks like a mess, but let’s see how it tastes.”

Finn cringed as they both took a bite of his food. Dorcas frowned as she chewed and Leo tilted his head, a confused expression on his face.

“I don’t know how you did it, but this solidifies in my mouth like glue.”

“Oh god, please don’t eat any more.”

“You definitely put a lot of effort in and you have a lot of potential,” Leo said with a small smile. “I think you were just a little too ambitious for this first round and it got away from you.”

“That’s fair. Thanks for the input.” Finn grabbed his plate and made his way back to his station. He wasn’t too upset by those reviews – he already knew he was a bad cook. But he had potential, so at least he had that going for him.

Logan grinned at him back at his station. “I can’t believe you served the judges glue pasta.”

“At least I’m not serving them canned green beans.”

“They taste just fine, thank you very much.”

“Lo, they’re professionals. You’re not getting away with something lazy like that.”

He definitely got in trouble for using the canned green beans. Dorcas looked down at them like they were worms. Leo gave him the ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ look, which was even worse, please don’t look at me like that.

“Canned food is a no-go, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“And this chicken isn’t cooked all the way.” Leo said, showing him the pink meat. “You said earlier that you’d cook it until it reached 145 degrees, but chicken needs to reach 165 at a minimum.”

“I’m sure it tasted fine, though.” Dorcas added. “You can’t really go wrong with pre-made barbeque sauce and chicken.”

Ouch. Logan grabbed his plate. “Right. Thanks.”

Finn was predictably cackling at his station. “Tremz, they couldn’t even eat yours. Celeste is going to be so disappointed in you.”

“Shut up.”

***

As soon as they were back into their hotel room, Finn kicked his shoes off and faceplanted into the couch. “I can’t believe that took so long.”

“Yeah,” Logan sat down and grabbed his take-out. “Who knew cooking all day would make us so hungry?”

Finn made grabby hands at the other food container. Logan laughed and handed it to him. “I haven’t been this hungry since playoffs, fuck.”

They ate in silence and were finished in record-setting time. Finn collected their trash and stood up to throw it away. “So blue team, huh? I’m kind of surprised they put us on the same team.”

“Me too. But Leo seems like a good teacher, so I’m glad we’re on his team.”

“Yeah, he seems so young, too.” Which sounded ridiculous to say; Leo couldn’t be that much younger than them. “If he’s already winning competitions and starring in cooking shows at that age, he must be pretty good.”

“Winner of Iron Chef America, Chopped, Guy’s Grocery Games…” Logan read off his phone with a low whistle. “He graduated culinary school early and opened his own restaurant a year later.”

“Damn.”

“There’s a video of one of his competitions on here.”

“Play it!” Finn said excitedly, flopping back down on the couch and peering over his boyfriend’s shoulder. Logan gave him a strange look. “What? Maybe we’ll learn something useful.”

“I think this is going to be way too complicated for us, but ok.”

So they sat on the couch watching cooking competitions for hours, learning skills and techniques that went way over their heads. Logan wordlessly switched to Leo’s cooking show Cajun Cooking, watching episode after episode of the blue-eyed chef teaching traditional New Orleans recipes.

Little did they know that halfway across the city in his own apartment, Leo Knut was watching Youtube highlights of the Gryffindor Lions, keeping a sharp eye out for number seventeen and number ten.

#lumosinlove #Sweater Weather #Coast To Coast #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #leo knut #o'knutzy #chop it like it's hot

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miraclesabound · 4 years

Text

Fangs and Other Things

Summary: Reader has moved on with her life after her best friend Ben disappeared, but the newly-christened vampire Kylo Ren isn’t quite done with her yet.

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Dubcon, hypnosis, semi-consensual adultery, PIV sex, blood drinking, pseudo-threesome

Pairings: Reader/Male OC, Reader/Kylo Ren

Note: I had a version of this rolling around in my drafts for years, and @thepilotanon and I had discussed some angsty vampire headcanons a while back. What better time to finally get this done than a gray and stormy day right before Halloween?

Tag List: @thepilotanon, @callmehopeless, @trelaney, @direnightshade, @safarigirlsp, @candycanes19, @desiraypark, @finn-ray-nal-beads, @clumsycopy, @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather

Three years ago

Ben can honestly say that when he kissed you, he didn’t expect to be slapped – but as he reels back from the impact of the blow, the anger in your eyes burns almost as much as the hit does. He’d thought that maybe you would back away, but actual violence? This is new to him. He supposes he should count himself lucky that you struck him with the hand that isn’t now sporting a rose gold ring.

You don’t know if his expression is actually fearful, but you don’t have time for analysis. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Ben Solo?” you hiss. “I invite you to my house to tell you that I’m engaged and this is the stunt you pull?”

“Kid, please, I was desperate, I’m sorry!” He begs. “I thought he was going to take you away from me, I had to at least show you how I feel!”

“Take me aw- are you out of your mind? You’re my best friend, Ben, and Jason knows that! Do you realize how you sound?” You’re about to make a low blow, but he crossed a line first, so you’re not sure you care. “You sound like Rey!”

That does knock the wind out of his sails. His ex had always been suspicious that the two of you were having some kind of affair, and one time, she’d even told you to fuck off and keep your claws to yourself; you and Ben hadn’t spoken for about three months after that. It was miserable, and Ben and Rey had broken up soon afterwards.

But even knowing how he sounds, Ben can’t stop the next words that come out of his mouth. “Kid, I love you! I fucking love you! Doesn’t that count for anything?”

You shake your head, and tears start to prick the corner of your eyes. “You’re too late, Ben – and if you’re pulling a stunt like this, all you’ve done is prove that I made the right choice. Please…just get out.”

He knows he could grovel and plead at your feet for forgiveness, but it won’t do any good. Instead, he just grabs his coat and his wallet and heads for the door. As he’s leaving, he hears you pull out your phone, and he’s sure you’re calling Jason to tell him what just happened.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” He growls at himself as he walks down the block. “Jesus Christ, Solo, did you really think she was gonna jump into your arms? Jason’s a good guy, why the fuck-” He doesn’t get to finish the thought. A shadow has been trailing him for several seconds, and it leaps out at him, knocking him to the ground and clamping down on his neck, blacking him out.

When he wakes up, a withered old man is by his side, and tells him what he is and what Ben is becoming. The process over the next few days is excruciating, but when the transformation is complete, Ben finds strength, power, and new senses beyond his wildest imagination. The old one, Snoke, takes Ben as his pupil, gives him a new name, and slowly indoctrinates him to the vampire ways – most importantly, that a vampire doesn’t request permission. He simply takes.

Present Day

You blink awake to your husband gently shaking your shoulder. “Honey,” he says kindly, “you were moaning in your sleep again.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” you say. “I don’t know what it is, but these dreams are getting more intense.” Intense is the polite way to put it, they’ve really been almost pornographic every night for the last two weeks – and for some reason, your lover in these little visions hasn’t been some celebrity or your beloved Jason; it’s been Ben, missing and presumed dead these three years. Thankfully, Jason’s not the jealous type, but he can tell that you’re troubled, and if he holds you a little tighter in the mornings when you wake up, it’s only because he’s worried for your state of mind.

Pulling you into his arms, he runs his fingers up and down your back, hoping it will soothe you. “Maybe it’s just because the anniversary is coming up?” he asks.

You shrug, nuzzling further into his chest. “It makes as much sense as anything else – but I never had sexy dreams about Ben before – not even once.”

Unfortunately, neither of you have sensitive hearing, or you might have caught the brief chuckle from the tree outside your bedroom window. The creature who now goes by the name Kylo Ren, the one who used to be the weak man Ben Solo, has been traveling the world, but now, he’s back in your town, and he’s been planting the seeds to take what’s his. As the sun begins to rise, he drops to the ground from the branch he was sitting on, and he walks away with a smug expression on his face. You’ll be back at his side soon enough; you just needed a little reminder of what you could be having.

Jason takes you out to dinner that night, and while you have a lovely time, you can’t shake the feeling that the two of your are being watched as you leave the restaurant to go home. You cling even closer to his side than usual, and when you whisper your suspicions to him, Kylo, who’s been observing the two of you, can still hear you over the noise of the crowd.

Jason doesn’t have the same worry, but when you ask, “Can we take the shortcut to get back to the garage?”, he agrees. Kylo restrains a laugh – he knows this town as well as you do, if not better, so he knows he’ll be able to cut the two of you off easily. With the speed typical of his species, he gets to the expected corner about 30 seconds before the two of you do, and the shock on your faces when you see him is too delicious to ignore.

“No no no…” you say, more to yourself than to either of the men in your company. “No, no, it can’t be, I’m going crazy…”

“You’re not crazy, honey,” Jason reassures you. Turning to Kylo, he says, “I’m sorry, you just look very much like someone we knew a long time ago, but you couldn’t possibly be him. Excuse us.” The two of you try to walk around him, but Kylo almost teleports in front of you again. Jason rolls his eyes. “Ok, you’re hilarious, pal – can you let us by, please?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Kylo says. “Besides, you’ll find out there’s very little that’s impossible in the world these days.” Turning to you, he says, “What’s the matter, dear? Don’t you know your best friend?”

“You’re not Ben!” you insist. “It makes no sense! The police couldn’t find any trace of him!”

Kylo allows a wicked smile to cross his face. “I suppose you’re partly right – I’m not Ben Solo anymore; I’m more than he ever was. My name is Kylo Ren now – if you come with me, I’ll explain everything.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you!” You almost jump; you’ve never heard Jason raise his voice before, but as he steps between you and this…this demon, you’re grateful for his strength. He’s been your rock as long as you’ve known him and you know he would defend you with his life. However, courage and honor are no match for a literal sucker punch. Faster than you can perceive it, Kylo lands a devastating blow to Jason’s gut, and Jason crumples to the ground, trying to catch his breath.

Your fear is now mixed with fury, and as you help Jason to his feet, you shoot Kylo the most hateful look you can muster. “What’s your problem?” you yell. “Why won’t you just leave us alone?”

You really are rather cute when you’re angry; Kylo has always thought so. Gesturing with his finger, he says, “Like I told you, I’ll explain it all – if you come here.” On those last two words, a strange cloudy feeling comes over your mind, and your feet move you closer to him without your will. Jason stares in horror as you walk over; even without seeing your face, he knows that something is deeply wrong.

Kylo’s smile is much more genuine now, and when you’re within reach, he takes your hand and kisses the palm. God, he’s missed your scent; even when he was human, you always smelled perfect to him. After his lips leave your hand, he says, “You know what I am now, don’t you?”

“Yes…” The word comes out of your lips as a drunken whisper.

“And do you know what I want?” he asks, pulling you closer to him, an arm wrapping around your shoulder. Your eyes look even lovelier with the haze of hypnosis over them, and he can start to smell the arousal in your blood.

“Me?” you ask. Kylo frowns slightly, but he supposes you questioning him makes sense. Victims under his spell speak the truth, but they’re not mind-readers. How could he expect you to know how badly he’s been craving you?

“That’s right,” he says, smoothing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He sees Jason trying to approach and shoots him a warning look. The young man stops in his tracks, his animal instincts overriding his protectiveness. Confident that he won’t cause more trouble, Kylo looks back to you and asks, “Then tell me, dear – who do you love?”

He’s leaning in for a kiss when you say with perfect confidence: “The man I married.”

He’s so close to your mouth that the breath of your words brushes his lips, and it takes some effort to pull away from you and look at you properly. “WHAT…did you just say to me?”

“Jason is the man I love,” you repeat. Your tone isn’t mocking; if anything, it’s painfully sincere.

“Shit,” Kylo curses under his breath. He had banked on using his dream powers to turn your heart back to him, but apparently he’s dealing with something stronger than he’d anticipated. “Stay here, darling,” he tells you, and he walks over to Jason, who, to his credit, is standing his ground. “Jason, I need to make something clear; I never had anything against you personally – but I can’t let you take her away. Do you love this woman?”

“More than anything,” Jason responds. “I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t.”

“Then come away with us,” Kylo says, and while he’s not using his powers on the other man, his tone doesn’t allow for argument. “You’ll have each other, and you’ll know she’s safe. That said-” Here he leans in close, and he can hear Jason’s pulse jump into overdrive. “If you try anything funny, you’ll regret it.”

“…fine.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Both of you, follow me.” Kylo turns on his heel, walking away into the darkness. You do your best to match his pace, and Jason hurries to catch up to you, taking your elbow so that you don’t accidentally trip on the cobblestones. Even in your addled state, you smile at him.

The three of you walk about five blocks away from the main road before Kylo says, not even looking behind him, “This is the place.” You and Jason come to a stop behind him, and Kylo pulls a key from his pocket. Turning around, he places it in your hand: “Go open the door and walk upstairs – we’ll be right behind you.” You obey, and as you unlock the door and walk through it, Kylo looks at Jason and gestures with his head. “I prefer being the last one through my own door – go ahead of me, please?” Jason seems suspicious, but he follows Kylo’s instruction and walks through, waiting in the front hall for his “host”. Kylo takes the key out of the lock, steps through, and verifies that all the latches are in place before he closes up tight.

Kylo believes in living in style, and he can see the slightest touch of admiration in Jason’s eyes as he looks around the well-appointed living room and kitchen. However, they can’t linger; Kylo can hear you walking around upstairs, waiting for instruction.

Jason looks slightly concerned, but Kylo’s voice is casual as he calls up the stairs. “Go to the second door on the right, it’s unlocked. Make yourself comfortable, we’ll be up in a moment.” When Jason hears the door open and shut, his posture relaxes, and he seems a bit more at ease following Kylo up the stairwell.

The door in question leads to Kylo’s master bedroom, and he’s pleased to see that you’re sitting on his bed, even if your body language isn’t as relaxed as he would like. “I told you, dear, you could make yourself comfortable,” he says. “Would it be better if Jason was with you?” You nod, and Jason takes the hint, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his arms. The two of you lie down together on the bed, and you let out a moan when he kisses your cheek.

Jason’s startled; he’s known you to be responsive to him, but this is much more than he usually sees you. Looking over at Kylo, who’s taken a seat on a nearby chair, he says, “This isn’t normal – what’s happening to her?”

“It’s a side effect of the hypnosis,” Kylo explains, taking a moment to shuck his coat and his shoes. “She can’t lie, but she also loses restraint; her arousal will be through the roof.” Her smell is becoming even more potent, and Kylo has to clear his throat so that his own attraction doesn’t seep through in his voice. “Makes the blood sweeter that way.”

Jason looks almost sick at the mention of blood, and he holds you more tightly to him. “Honey, are you hearing this?” he asks you. “I won’t let him do this to you if it’s not what you want.” Kylo scoffs to himself – as if this human could really stop him…but he won’t make a move if you’re not actually ok with it. He’s waited too long to properly have you; he’s not going to ruin it by being a total monster.

The keen that comes out of your throat makes Kylo’s cock twitch, and you say to Jason, “Please, I need you both, I need his fangs….” You reach out to Kylo. “Please…” Jason looks at Kylo over your shoulder, as if to say, “Well? What do we do now?”

Kylo smiles indulgently and comes to your side, kissing your forehead. “We’ll take care of you, dear – just be patient and we’ll get you ready. Lie down, ok?” You follow his order and lie back on the luxurious blanket that covers the bed. Jason holds your hand, and Kylo straddles your hips, running his fingers up and down your sides. You let out another desperate sound, and the vampire leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that he’s waited three years for.

Instead of pushing him away like you did back then, you pull him close to you, tangling your fingers into his dark hair as he teases your lip with his teeth. This part is familiar to him – in your dreams, no matter what position the two of you end up in, you always need to be kissed thoroughly, enough to make you shake. He moves his lips to your neck, and his fangs pop slightly when he finds your pulse point. He won’t take any of your blood yet, but he doesn’t want to be searching for the vein in question when you’re about to come, either.

What is popping is his cock, now nearly at full mast just from being this close to you. His hips buck into yours, and you breathe his name out as if it’s a prayer. He drags his lips down to your shoulder, pushing the collar of your shirt away as he sucks on your skin. Next to him, he can hear Jason shucking his own shirt, and the young man takes your spare hand, kissing each finger individually.

Your hips push back into Kylo’s, and he knows that if he were a younger being, he could lose control right there, and he can’t afford that. Instead, he pulls away from you and has Jason take his place so that he can catch his breath. While Jason helps you take off your clothes, Kylo unzips his pants and lets his cock spring free. The cool air is a bit of a balm, and while he’s still very hard, he doesn’t worry as much that he’ll embarrass himself.

Jason has you stripped completely naked, and after kissing you and dragging a finger between your legs, he lets out a low whistle. “God, honey, you’re so wet – what do you need?”

“Anything, please…” you beg. Looking over his shoulder, Jason gets a nod from Kylo, and then he curls two fingers inside of you. “FUCK!” you shriek, simultaneously stretched and relieved by the sudden intrusion. The scream softens into moans as Jason sets a good pace – he’s not touching your clit, but the feeling of something pumping in and out of you is so good that it makes your eyes water. You’ve never been someone to cry during sex, but then again, you’ve never been hit with hypnosis either.

He’s sure it’s from the over-stimulation, but when Kylo sees your tears, he moves quickly to your side. “It’s ok, dear, we’ve got you, I promise.” He kisses all over your cheekbone and your jaw. “It’s ok…”

“Kylo, it feels so good!” You nearly scream again when Jason starts to circle your clit with his thumb. “I want to come, please, it’s too much!”

Jason starts to apply more pressure, but Kylo taps him on the shoulder and he takes the hint, removing his hand so that you can come back down to Earth, just for a few minutes. Instead, he kisses your thigh, just to let you know that he’s still here. You look down at him in adoration, but the fire in your eyes when you turn to look at Kylo is unmistakable.

“Do you think you can take my cock?” he asks.

“I want you.” That’s the only answer you give, but it’s enough for him (even though “I love you” would be even better). He undresses himself quickly, and he motions for Jason to give him space. Your husband scoots back, and Kylo moves you so that he’s seated fully on the bed and you’re in his lap. With how slick you are, aligning himself and pushing into you is barely an effort.

The two of you groan in unison, and over your shoulder, Kylo sees Jason unzip his pants, getting ready to stroke himself. Kylo smirks, if only because he’s wanted to do the same when he’s been spying on you, so he can’t blame the human for needing release of his own.

Your breathing in his ear is unsteady, and Kylo returns his attention to you, not moving much himself, but gripping your hips so that you can piston yourself properly. He wants to rut into you like some kind of animal, but this is about you just as much as him, after all – he has to make you feel how much he can give you, and you have to be willing to take it, or what’s the point?

That said, he can feel you shake with both fear and desperation, and he kisses your cheek. “It’s ok, dear – you can fuck me harder. Believe me, I can take it.”

With his permission, you start properly bouncing on his cock, and the moans you let out are positively obscene. Jason is stroking himself faster now; he doesn’t expect that he’ll get to fuck you himself tonight, but seeing his wife so blissed out is still an immense turn-on. In fact, the sound of him masturbating gives you a good pace to set while you bounce – and regardless of what Kylo says, he’s fucking you now, not the other way around. His grip on your hips has tightened, and with every thrust, he hits deep inside you, nearly making your ears ring.

That said, this isn’t the sort of thing that gets you off in the end, and you look down at Kylo with what’s probably a pathetic expression. “Kylo…Ben…please, I want to come!”

The use of his old name is almost too much to bear, but Kylo pushes through, and sits up so that he can plant his lips on your neck. Putting one hand where you can rub your clit against it, he curls the other one around the back of your head to hold you still, his fangs popping out.

Jason sees this, and his protectiveness returns in force – “How do I know you’ll be careful with those??”

This time, Kylo doesn’t smirk. “I would never hurt her again – especially when I already made a mess by leaving. The bite will feel good for her, I promise.” Finding that vein he sought out earlier, he says to you, “I’m gonna fuck you through this so that it feels better – hold on tight.”

He sinks his teeth into your neck – and you practically explode around him. You scream to heaven as your orgasm hits, and the rush of your blood in his mouth is sweeter than any fruit he ate when he was human. You squeeze tightly around him, and he falls over the edge, coming and coming as if he hasn’t fucked in years. He briefly hears the groan of Jason hitting his peak as well, and he admits to himself that he didn’t want the man to have to linger too long.

As all three of you come down from your highs, Kylo feels some of your blood trickling down your back and onto his fingers. He certainly doesn’t want you to pass out, so he carefully removes his fangs, retracting them with a small click. After Jason brings a towel, Kylo gently places it against your wound – he can tell you’re getting tired with the way your forehead leans against his. He will explain everything to both of you – but not tonight.

#vampire kylo ren #kylo ren and reader #kylo x reader

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official-alan-dabiri · 3 years

Link

First and foremost, we have some exciting new changes that everyone can get behind. Absolutely nobody has a problem with the new experience globe mechanics. New experience globes are only at full value for six seconds, and after that are worth 25% exp. And then they last for thirty-nine seconds. Nobody finds this objectionable in any way. This change was not on the PTR due to public outcry from Reddit when it was leaked early, but it’s here live with all of its zero problems fixed.

Another change about which we have received zero complaints is a new tag system behind the scenes. People looking for just the right hero for the situation can easily find it by searching for such keywords as “CC” “Silence” “Sustain” and “Double soak” and find extremely useful and not absolute garbage results. Don’t worry about checking it ahead of time, just get right into draft mode and use it to find the perfect pick!

In addition to those minor and unobjectionable changes, we have removed Volskaya Foundry from the ranked queue, and added everyone’s favorite quickmatch map, Warhead Junction. We have also done this simultaneously with an Overwatch-themed event.

Hero changes below the cut, because this patch is another doozy, with fiiiiiive herooooo rewoooooorks, Four buffed assassins, three nerfed offlaners, two nerfed tanks and we also nerfed the looost viiiikiiiings!

Anduin is the first of our reworks and with him taking a more prominent role in Shadowlands we want to be able to welcome WoW players with open arms. He, uh, doesn’t have a new skin or anything, we just want people to play this game. The central goal of the buff is to improve his healing output in line with other heroes without removing the largest strength in Leap of Faith. As such, we’re just touching literally every part of his kit and talent try and praying that it goes the way we want.

People keep mistaking Johanna for the best tank in the game. This is factually untrue, since Muradin exists. As such, we are just gutting the absolute pants off of Johanna’s talent tree and making it weird and clunky.

For too long has Raynor been the scourge of draft play. Too good to skip, but not scary enough to ban. Perfect macro contributions, with respectable hero damage. Enough self-sustain to take weight off your healer, and self-peel for when tanks are bad. The perfect killing machine. As such, we’ve nerfed his damage into the ground. Start playing Greymane, bitches.

Stitches has proven to be a mediocre bruiser in the eyes of the community. After all these years, I think I know why. We accidentally categorized him as a tank. As such, he needs some serious changes to make him fit that label. This whole time we’ve been balancing him as a bruiser and nobody said anything? This is as much your fault as it is mine.

The average damage output of a ranged assassin has been steadily climbing for a while now. As a result, for a hero to actually be a glass cannon, they need some serious firepower. Valla now has the gunpowder to match her glass. And she’s the glassiest cannon there is. Don’t get me wrong, she still evaporates like a drop of water in California when an enemy hero looks at her. But when she has a solid tank and three healers behind her, the world is your oyster.

Oh my god they didn’t break down the heroes by category. Jesus Christ what the fuck Blizzard? You just decided that this is the line? This is the day you stop caring? Well, congratulations, you’ve made reading your patch notes mildly more inconvenient. I’m still doing this. Ya bunch of jack-offs.

Mei has been grossly overperforming, and we have no idea how that happened. We certainly didn’t buff her over and over again for an entire year. Anyway, we’re just going to roll some stuff back. Definitely probably fine.

It turns out - and bear with me here because this might be hard to follow - Hogger, D.va, and Sonya were all overtuned? For six months? So we’re just gonna tippy tappy them down the smallest little bit. And then slap them around a little for good measure. D.va’s mech form is no longer indomitable, Hogger can no longer solo any merc camp in the game in 12 seconds, and Sonya is now... Basically fine still, honestly. We kinda gave her just a slap on the wrist in comparison. But honestly after gutting Hogger like that, I just didn’t have the heart. One of the benefits from being a little later, alphabetically.

After riding the TLV train up through the ranks, I think it’s about time to recognize that I’m not actually good at them. They’re just overtuned. So it’s time to come back to earth, Icarus. Don’t be fooled by the seemingly-small HP nerf, though. The real nerf is buffing Longboat Raid. People are going to have to pick it to test it and it’s gonna murder their winrate.

Someone told me that Lucio is a problem and needed to be addressed this patch, but my cat came into the home office being adorable so I didn’t hear exactly what they said. So we had to kinda wing it. Hopefully these minor adjustments to his talent tree will solve whatever they were talking about!

Even we know Uther is a problem. Being first pickable and filling three different unique roles was what we wanted to do with Varian not Uther. So we’re going to try and make him incrementally worse at tanking until he just goes away. First up: Shaving off some of that personal armor.

AFK splitpush trash Azmodan is dead. Long live teamfight artillery mage Azmodan. Really glad I made the last HotS Content post about Nova instead of Azmodan because boy howdy do these changes invalidate the entire playstyle that post would have discussed.

W build Falstad has obviously become a problem. Not only was he riddled with bugs after the rework - don’t worry, we learned from our mistakes and made sure there were no bugs with our new reworks - but also he had the ability to point and click on an enemy hero and force them to run all the way to the next lane over in order to stop taking buckets of free damage. It turns out that ability was more powerful than anticipated, and required adjustment.

Q build Falstad has obviously become a problem. Not only was it completely overshadowed by a build that did more damage in every situation with less skill requirement, but we overestimated the value of macro power on a build that demands PvP for stacking. As such, we’ve doubled the amount of power each stack gives him! That’ll do.

AA build Falstad... Stay the course, buddy. Doin’ fine.

Junkrat has been underperforming, which is surprising for a hero with his level of power. As such, we’re going to make a few small buffs to hopefully draw attention, and then we can roll things back once the pickrate reflects his actual power. Hopefully then WE CAN FINALLY MAKE THE MANDATORY CHANGE I PUT IN EVERY MEMO. TYRE. WITH A Y. THAT’S HOW THEY SPELL IT IN AUSTRALIA. KAEO I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU- wait, did Kaeo leave? Who the fuck is still here? Kinnabrew? Adam? Jason? JASON! JASON!?

Tassadar has also fallen off a lot without us having done anything at all whatsoever to nerf him. Entirely undeserved treatment. I’m disappointed in all of you. As such, we’re going to tweak his numbers up just a little tippy tap so that you all remember who killed the Overmind. It wasn’t James Raynor or Sarah Kerrigan. It was Tassadar... Tassadar Bassadar. That’s his last name. Don’t look it up, just trust me.

In the bug fix department, we’ve had a nice sit-down with the Mountain Giants on Alterac and told them that if they have time to lean, they have time to clean. Reaching the end of their lane and expecting the core to come to them is putting undue stress on an already overtaxed position. The core is a very stressful job, and if the mountain giants could just do their part to walk into the core pit when they arrive, that’s a huge load off their shoulders. Drek’thar and Vanndar really needed this expectation taken off them right now, and I’m hopeful it will lead to a better work environment.

#Heroes of the Storm #patch notes #Don't message me telling me Tassadar's real last name #I know it's De La Cruz

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broadstbroskis · 5 years

Text

connected-pt 5 | auston matthews

an author’s note: and here we are with the last chapter! wow, thank you all for sticking with me through this and for sharing your feedback on it! hope you enjoy!

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Toronto 2019

There’s a long moment of silence before Auston clears his throat. “I owe you an apology.”

“You think?” You snark before you can stop yourself. “Sorry.” You add, as he winces.

“No,” He nods. “I-uh-I deserved that.”

“You do,” You agree. “But it’s not really helpful.”

Auston gives you a small smile. “There’s a lot I want to say; I’m not sure where I want to start.”

“I’ll start then.” You say, starting to lose patience. “I hated you for months. I was so mad. You just...how could you just leave me there without a single word? I thought we were so solid! Not just, like, solid. In agreement, even! Going to come back here, see where you were drafted, and then work something out. But no! You left.”

You’re on a roll now, the feelings that have been stewing for years just pouring out. Austin winces and you don’t even acknowledge it; you just keep rolling on. “And that devastated me, Auston! Break ups are bad enough on their own, but that you couldn’t even respect me enough to tell me you were leaving hurt me more than anything.” He winces again. “And then! I come back here to Toronto for fall semester, and what do I get? To see your fucking face everywhere. On billboards, magazines, commercials, and some-fucking-how, in person, all over an entire city of over two million people!”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to respond to that, but you continue on. Really, it’s just hard to stop now; if you stop talking, you might start crying and you really just don’t feel up for that now. You’re already emotionally drained enough. “And I just-how was I supposed to ever get over you? When we live in a city that worships the ground you walk on and you just magically appear in all my favorite places?” You gesture between the two of you. “This right here? This absurd meeting, where I low key went off the deep end, was bound to happen. Frankly, I’m shocked it took as long as it did.”

Auston’s eyes are wide and his jaw is dropped as he turns his head to stare at you. “What did you just say?”

You level him with a flat look. “Look, I know I was more than “low key” weird today, but not commenting on it is about the least you could do for me.”

“That’s not what I-” He huffs impatiently. “No! What did you mean about us meeting? When could that have happened?”

The question is so absurd to you that you break down, laughing maniacally. But Auston’s looking at you with genuine confusion, like he actually has no idea what’s going on. “Like, ten times, last spring alone.” You manage, wiping the tears that have fallen from your eyes. If you don’t, they’ll turn into actual tears.

Auston frowns. “No.” He shakes his head.

You glare back at him. “Yes. I see you all around the city, all the fucking time. Do you have any idea how many tables in this city I’ve ducked under to avoid you?” He pales. It’s frightening, almost, how white his face turns, and you actually stop talking, stop moving even, as you watch, concerned. “What’s wrong?” It’s the softest tone you’ve taken with him all day.

“Holy shit.” He buries his face in his hands; his voice sounds absolutely wrecked.

“Auston?” You try to keep the impatience out of your voice, when it’s been a few moments and he still hasn’t looked up. “What is it?”

When he looks back up at you, there’s a slight red rim around his eyes and he takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually got no idea how many tables you’ve ducked under to avoid me, but I do know I’ve been searching high and wide all over this entire goddamn city to try and find you again.”

It’s your turn to freeze, choking on absolutely nothing at his words, and he loses the ghost of a smile that flickers onto his face almost as quickly as it comes when he reaches out to calm you and you immediately flinch away. “Sorry.” Auston says, but leaves his hand close by. “Please; let me finish though?”

When you make no move to get away, he smiles gratefully. “There’s no apology I could give that would make up for things but I want you to know that I am sorry. I don’t know why I did it; I was scared, I guess? Not that that excuses it. I still don’t really know, but I do know you deserved better than that. And I-I realized that pretty quickly, but…” He trails off.

“But I blocked your phone number.” You supplement. That had happened shortly after he left-blocked, deleted, and all physical traces removed. It was unfortunate for you that memories couldn’t be erased so quickly.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. So when I was drafted here and moved here, I knew that was my chance. I could come see you, apologize, try and talk to you. Except I couldn’t find you, anywhere.” And suddenly, your jaw drops in realization, but now, Auston’s the one who’s on roll, just talking on. “I tried your school. I looked at all the coffee places. I go to restaurants I know you’ll like and bars that I know you’ll love.”

“Oh my god.” It comes out as a whisper.

“And I’ve been doing that for three years, hoping to run into you, to just talk to you, and apologize, and Jesus Christ, tell you that I’m not over you either!”

Your jaw drops at his admission and Auston is breathing heavy as he looks at you, somehow both gently and challenging. You can’t look away, drawn into his eyes. This is the last thing you expected to hear from him; your stomach is clenching-from excitement? Or from anxiety? Nerves maybe-but over what? “Oh.” Is all you can say, after a very long pause.

“Oh?” Auston repeats. “That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

“I’m thinking!” You cry. “I just-” You sigh. “I don’t know where we go from here.”

He sighs. “I know. I think three years ago I would have been happy to just jump back into things, but I know better now. I don’t know either.”

There’s a sadness in his voice as he finishes speaking, a certain solemnity that’s settled over the two of you. And as you reach for his hand, tangling your fingers in his on the countertop, you know that the two of you are finally on the same page.

-----

Zurich 2021

“We could have gone anywhere in Europe after Worlds.” You give Auston a look. “Anywhere on the entire continent. It’s so easy to travel!” He’s grinning, like he already knows what you’re going to say. “And you picked the city I hate most in the world.”

“Hey!” He protests. “We met here!”

“And then you left me here alone!”

He tangles your hands together, as you continue your walk through town. “I’m trying to erase those memories. Bring up some good ones.”

“I mean, they weren’t all bad.” You concede. “Lina’s still a gem. All those chocolate shops.”

“Uh huh, and?” Auston prompts, grinning.

“I guess you had a couple good games here.” You tease. “Before you bowed out early in the playoffs. Oh wait, that sounds familiar.”

“Gutty.” Auston shakes his head. “Alright, anything else?”

“I love you, but enough people pump up your ego already. I am actively working to make it so that it doesn’t get so large that you float off this planet and away from me.” You laugh at the look of mock hurt on his face. “But yes, you know I did have some good times here with you too.”

He grins. “Like here, in this park?”

You frown. “What are you talking about? We’ve never been here before!”

His grin widens. “You sure about that?”

It takes a minute of looking around-the trees are in full bloom, there’s people picnic-ing on the grass under them, ducks are swimming in the pond, the mountains off in the distance look far more green- before it hits you. “We skated here!

Auston nods, grinning. “Dangle, snipe.”

“What, no celly?” You tease.”

“That comes later.” He drops down on one knee and you gasp, covering your mouth immediately, wishing you could take back the “holy fuck,” that had escaped before you’d been able to stop it. “I know it’s taken us a while to get back to this point, but I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can’t think of a better place than the city we first met in, the place we first fell in love in, to ask this. Will you marry me?”

He actually looks nervous. You’ve never seen that look on his face before-not for playoffs, for big games...for anything really. But it’s not like your answer could be anything else. “Yes. Oh my god, yes!”

It feels like a blur as he slips the ring on your finger-it’s diamond and beautiful and shiny!-and then Auston’s kissing you-or maybe you’re kissing him?-and people around you are clapping as they realize what’s happening.

You’re willing to concede that maybe Zurich isn’t the worst city. In fact, as you look over the pictures the hidden photographer had taken of the two of you while lying in bed with Auston later that same evening, you realize the city had been what connected the two of you in the first place.

Which definitely wasn’t a bad thing.

#connected fic #auston matthews #auston matthews imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #nhl fanfiction #hockey fanfiction #my hockey fics

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cagestark · 5 years

Text

Better Late Than Never//1

And Merry Christmas to YOU

Aka I started another project that I will take twenty years to finish. But @starkerflowers prompts were just too fucking good.

About: With interest in his work waning, famous writer Tony Stark (under the pseudonym AE Potts) changes his entire public relations platform, which includes hosting a meet-and-greet contest where one lucky fan will get to spend the day with him. That one lucky fan is Peter Parker. Peter is 21. Will contain nff, alcoholism, suicide attempts, character death (not major), drug mentions, anxiety, anxiety attacks.

Read here on AO3.

Tony is awakened from a drunken, dreamless sleep by a tub of envelopes and small packages being upended over his head. He jerks upright with a shout from where he was slumped over his writing desk, upending the (empty) bottle of whiskey that had lulled him to sleep. Pepper stands over him, impeccable in every way he is not.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, pushing envelopes off of where they have pooled on his lap. “You could have taken my eye out, Peppercorn. What are you trying to do, perform Lingchi on me? What is all this?”

“Fan mail,” she says. Her voice is stern and unsympathetic. The first time she’d found him passed out drunk over his desk, she had panicked and nearly called for an ambulance. The next handful of times she had just covered him with a blanket and regarded him with sad eyes the next morning when she brought him coffee. But those were ten years ago. Not to mention, all in her first few weeks on the job— “Social media is revolting. You never answer fan mail, you never do Q&A’s, you haven’t done an interview in almost a decade.”

“Fuck this,” Tony mutters, opening one drawer. “Where’s my whiskey?”

“In your bloodstream, I’d imagine. Don’t brush this off, Tony. Sales are waning. We need to make some serious changes in our PR or I’ll be putting in my two-weeks’ notice.”

That gets Tony’s attention. Pepper hadn’t threatened to quit after his last book when he’d killed off one of the most popular characters (one of his personal favorites, may she rest in fictional peace) and the public had flipped their shit. She hadn’t threatened to quit years before that when she walked in on him hunched over his desk with a straw to his nose, three sheets to the wind on far more than just whiskey. She has the disposition of a mountain: unflinching and ever-enduring.

“You mean it,” says Tony.

“I mean it.”

His shoulders sag. He glances around the room: the mess, the junk, the empty alcohol bottles, the half-finished manuscripts. There’s a strange feeling in the back of his throat, acidic, like he might throw up. Or cry. When his mouth opens to say something sarcastic, something about not letting the door hit her on the way out if she expects him to play nice with the media, all that comes out is a broken: “I can’t lose you, Pep.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You will. If you don’t make some changes. Okay?”

Maybe this is what it means to be balanced on a knife’s edge, where one way ends in pain and the other ends in terminal inconvenience. But he knows which one he has to pick. His whole life is just a big inconvenience, but pain? Tony has spent enough time with his hand flat against the stove’s burner to know that he’d rather die than feel it again, rather die than lose one of the only people left who can stand him.

He picks up the closest letter and tears it open, blinking heavily to clear his eyes. Pepper leans down to press a kiss to the crown of his head and then gags. “Take a shower, when you get the chance,” she mutters, smiling.

The letters start off by being good for one thing: his ego. Adoring fans have been writing to his penname and business address for decades since he put out his first super-hero novel, titled IRON-MAN. Pepper has chosen to give him recent fan-mail, considering he’s spent so long ignoring it that if he were to answer them in order of reception, he might encounter fans who didn’t even remember the letters once sent. Or ones who were dead.

They are all variations of the same thing. The handwriting changes, gentle feminine cursive to childish scrawling to neat block lettering, but the message is usually the same. DEAR MR. POTTS. I’VE READ EVERY BOOK YOU’VE EVER WRITTEN. I GOT YOUR NAME TATTOOED ON MY ASS. IRON-MAN IS MY HERO. I’VE NEVER READ PROSE AS LOVELY AS YOURS. WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?

At Pepper’s request, Tony drafts a generic letter to send in response, something about how he can’t respond personally to every letter but he wants them to know that he’s read what they’ve written and ‘holds it close to his heart’.

“It’s good,” Pepper approves. “Sign them yourself.”

“Good?” Tony says. “I was joking—this letter is trash. Anyone who knows me would see this for the sarcasm it is—”

“Then thank God none of the fans know you,” Pepper responds coolly.

She has a point. Tony has existed in relative seclusion since he first began publishing his works at 24. After twenty years, he’d managed to remain mostly anonymous. A pseudonym does most of the work, including non-disclosure agreements for his employees. Any time a presence is required, he sends Rhodey or Happy or Pepper even. Theory pages abound on the internet, sites devoted to finding out who the real AE POTTS is. Even though one picture leaked of him during the early 2000’s (a grainy godforsaken thing that didn’t even show his best angle), there were still some disbelievers. One popular conspiracy theory is that AE is Pepper, considering Tony stole her last name to use as his own.

Maybe that’s why his declining image in the media bothers her so much.

A week later, Tony’s hand has a cramp the way it hasn’t since he was a little boy learning to write his letters. Freehand has never been his specialty—it’s far too slow for the way his mind works, bounding a sentence, a scene, a chapter ahead. Signing so many letters is going to freeze his hand in a claw like position. He’s sure of it.

Then Pepper drops the next bombshell on him: the contest.

“It goes against everything I’ve been working so hard to do for the last twenty years,” Tony shouts at the zenith of their argument. “I do not want to be known! I don’t want the fame; I just wanted the goddamn fortune, is that too much to ask for?”

“Times have changed,” Pepper says through her teeth. She holds her own, spine straight. She hasn’t shirked away from his angry outbursts ever, not even when they were children growing up together in Manhattan. “I’m not asking you to do a 20/20 Special. I’m not asking for an interview on Ellen. I’m asking for you to meet with one fan. Have a goddamn lunch with them. If you can’t handle that, then you can kiss your fortune goodbye. Mark my words.”

Tony marks them. He fucking marks them, okay? When he’s drinking himself blind, locked in his office (good luck getting in now, Pep), they ring around his skull like a dime in the dryer. Sometime around dawn, she picks the lock on the door and mops his brow while he vomits in the tiny trashcan beside his desk.

“I’m not doing this to torture you,” she says with uncharacteristic tenderness. Her hand on his forehead occasionally rifling through his greasy hair is not what’s making his eyes prickle with tears—it’s the vomiting. Honest. He’s not that touch-starved. “You know that, right? I hate seeing you like this.”

“I know,” he chokes miserably, gagging again. So he agrees to the Willy Wonka Initiative. Pepper puts out the word that the infamous AE POTTS will be selecting a single fan to meet face to face. Anyone eighteen or older is eligible to participate, as long as they write a letter explaining why they should get it blah blah blah. A golden ticket might have been funner. At least then Tony might have had an excuse to wear the tacky purple suit and tophat.

In the meantime, Pepper reveals that she’s been having Happy screen his mail to only show him the happy letters—figures. His hate mail isn’t extensive, but it certainly exists, having increased exponentially since he killed off Natasha in the last novel.

FUCKING MYSOGINISTIC ASSHOLE, Cheryl from Newport tenderly writes. YOU HAD ONE GOOD FEMALE CHARACTER, AND YOU KILLED HER OFF. I HOPE ANOTHER WOMAN NEVER LETS YOU BETWEEN THEIR LEGS AGAIN AND YOUR DICK SHRIVELS OFF.

Tony thinks that’s pretty succinct. He posts it up on his desk propped up against the last picture ever taken of him and his mother. Killing off Natasha had been an idea he’d personally revolted against for months. Sure, it made sense that sensitive, strong Natasha would be the one to sacrifice herself in order to stop the villain from succeeding in wiping out half the universe. It made sense for a woman to be the one to give her life to protect others.

After all, hadn’t his own mother died trying to protect Tony?

The weekend after the contest drops on their social media platforms, Pepper texts to tell him that it’s being received far, far better than they might have ever hoped for. Already dozens of letters had been received, letters which must have been penned and mailed just hours after the news had spread.

Joy, Tony texts back.

I haven’t told you the best news, she says. That’s how Tony knows that the next news will be the worst news, absolutely the worst news of all. You get to pick the fan.

“Any letter catching your eye?” Pepper asks him over lunch in his office.

“They’re all the same,” Tony laments. Even his own ego can only take so much stroking. After a while, the fan mail has become mostly routine and lackluster, though he keeps opening it, keeps signing the response letters, keeps sending them out. “I’m going to end up picking one at random, Pep.”

“I don’t care how you pick,” Pepper says. “As long as you do—and as long as you’re ready to suffer with the consequences of your choice.”

“Suffer? God, I love the light you bring into my life. The unending optimism. The unparalleled faith and trust in me.”

Her eyes glitter even as they roll. “If you like me so much, you can buy lunch next time.”

Tony snorts, taking a large bite from his burger. “Gold digger.”

“I’ve seen your taxes, Tony. These days, there isn’t much gold to dig for.”

“Ouch, kill shot.”

The letter arrives only one week before the contest deadline. In the top drawer of his desk are three other letters from potential winners, mostly picked at random, sometimes because Tony likes their handwriting, sometimes because they say something funny that actually makes him laugh. When he opens up the letter from Peter B. Parker, he scans the first lines not intending to be impressed.

Dear Mr. Potts, Peter writes.

I’ve written you so many letters that it should be easy by now. I don’t know why my hands are shaking. Maybe I’m nervous because I know for certain that this one, someone will actually read.

I received my first copy of IRON-MAN when I was eight years old—yes, a little bit heavy for a kid that age, but my parents had just died unexpectedly in a car accident. My aunt and uncle took me in, and my uncle gave me his first edition. Iron-man’s story was one of the only things that got through to me as a kid. His struggle to come to terms with losing his own parents, his loneliness, his fear. The way he overcomes all of that and still goes on to do good…yeah. It meant a lot to a grief-stricken kid. Obviously.

Pretty much every birthday and Christmas, I end up receiving one of your books as a gift. My family and friends know me so well, I have nearly a half-dozen copies of AVENGERS (it’s one of my favorites). The things you write about are so close to my heart, so close to some of the experiences I’ve had in real life. My struggle with mental illness. My abuse and neglect. And the way you write these things makes me think…fear, I guess…that maybe you know something about them too.

I would love to get to meet you and talk about your incredible books. I’d love to get to know you. Not going to lie, as a fanboy, I’d probably be happy to just sit at the same table with you and have a meal. I’ll buy. We don’t even have to talk (okay I swear I’m not as desperate as I sound!). I’m sure you’ve received so many awesome letters, and I know that the fan you pick will be so, so lucky.

(Every letter I write to you, I ask if you could please return my book. It’s been five years since I sent it. I’m sure you don’t even have it anymore, maybe you threw it away from the start. But if you do have it, even if you don’t pick me to win the contest, it would mean so much if you sent it back. When I mailed it to you in Jan. 2014, my uncle was still alive. He’s gone now…anyway it’s one of the only things of his that I have left.)

Your fan always,

PETER.

PS: please disregard the last letter I sent…obviously.

Tony rereads the letter twice. He feels a swirl of emotion in his stomach, not dissimilar to the queasiness after a long night of drinking. This—this is what he sacrificed by being so closed-off from his fans. While he’d known that his fans were real and obviously human, a part of him had never felt the magnitude of it before. These are people with feelings and experiences. This Parker kid (a self-proclaimed fanboy) lost his parents too, and far younger than Tony had. In a car accident.

Maybe Peter hadn’t been there, hadn’t been in the car, hadn’t watched his mother parents go up in flames, but it’s still a tragedy all in its own right. And all at eight years old. Jesus Christ. This kid has been looking up to him for ten years and more, and he had no fucking idea that kind of dysfunctional altar he’d been worshiping at.

Tony goes into the private bathroom connected to his office and gags up—nothing. Drool. But it still leaves his mouth slimy, so he brushes his teeth until he’s spitting pink into the sink, and when he catches sight of the haphazard reflection in the mirror, he pities it. He leans forward to touch foreheads with it, auto-intimacy. Do better, some voice in the back of his head says, but it’s not his voice.

Happy picks up his cellphone on the first ring. Of the ninth call.

“What do you fucking want, Tony?” he hisses into the receiver. “I’m at the movie theater seeing that new Star Wars. You made me go out into the lobby—”

“Then I’m doing you a favor,” Tony says, cracking open the cap on a sparkling water. “Look, I have important questions, I wouldn’t have called otherwise. My fan mail—how much of it has Pepper kept?”

“Jesus, how should I know? Totes and totes full, at least—”

“Brilliant—”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m missing the movie!”

“Didn’t I say you’re not missing much? I’m asking you because Pepper will make me do it myself: I need you to find specific letters from one fan: Peter B. Parker. Address is Queens, but he could be from anywhere. I’m also especially interested in acquiring a package he sent me in January 2014.”

“Christ, could you be any more mysterious?” Happy mutters. “Text me the details you bastard, I’m not missing another moment of Mark Hamill.”

It turns out that Pepper is not only a saint in all ways previously mentioned, but she is a saint in this as well: his fan mail from the last ten years has been saved and meticulously organized by month and year of reception. Happy comes to Tony’s office in the city the next day with a package, the outside brittle but address clear.

The writing is the same script as the letter newly received from Peter, though the handwriting has become more mature over time. Neater. Confined. No more hasty slant from an enthusiastic hand. The kid’s contest entry is in the top drawer of Tony’s desk—the previous potential winners are now the cherries on top of the reject pile. His stomach is heavy as a stone while he tears open the five-year-old package.

Out tumbles a pre-addressed package that was meant to carry the book back to its owner, back to Peter. Then, one first edition of IRON-MAN, the cover a little tattered, the spine creaky. Also included is another letter, torn from a spiral notebook. He opens it with shaking hands.

DEAR MISTER POTTS

I KNOW THAT GETTING A RESPONSE FROM MY LETTERS IS A LONG SHOT, BUT I’M REALLY HOPING THAT YOU’LL AUTOGRAPH THIS COPY OF IRON-MAN AND RETURN IT TO ME. IT IS MY UNCLE BEN’S…

It goes on to describe how his Uncle’s birthday is coming up and Peter hopes to give the autographed book to his Uncle. Tony reads with a heavy heart, knowing now that Tony hadn’t bothered even opening the package, hadn’t tried to sign it—and even if he had, Ben hadn’t lived long enough to celebrate his next birthday. What a son of a bitch Tony is.

For the first time in three months, Tony goes home.

Most days he stays at the space he rents in the fancy Manhattan building, the one that holds his office and Pepper’s own workspace as well as the other people who work for him (Happy, Beck, Rhodey). The mansion outside Manhattan belonged to Tony’s father and his mother. When his mother had still been alive, it had been a cold place that he had endured staying at for her sake. After his mother had died, it had been a torture chamber, or worse—a stale, suffocating tomb.

Then Howard had died and somehow left it to Tony (probably out of some misguided duty to ‘keep it in the family’). Tony made a personal habit to visit it infrequently and stay there even less often; but Pepper maintains it for him, has it cleaned, keeps it safe. Uses it as storage, Tony knows. For his fan mail.

It takes up three entire rooms, floor to ceiling clear totes labeled with months and years. Just looking at it makes Tony feel small, ashamed of how little he cared about interacting with his fans. It’s no wonder sales were down. Searching for Peter’s letters would be like looking for a needle in a haystack—but he has to do it, and he can’t let Happy bear the brunt of the weight anymore either. This is on Tony.

So he begins pulling totes from the room and scattering their contents on the oaken table and floors of the dining room. Five hours and seven totes later, and Tony still has no letter from Peter.

Pepper finds him at midnight. She comes bursting in through the front door—Tony can hear the sound of the door colliding with the wall from the force she’s used—shouting his name. The hysteria in her voice chills him to the bone. It’s worse than the tone she uses when Tony fucks up; this is the tone she uses when there’s a Tragedy, when something is Wrong.

She finds him in the dining room surrounded by letters, kneeling up from where he was slumped on the floor. He must be a sight, but she is one too, her hair a mess, her eyes red. When she sees him, all the breath goes out of her, one hand clutching at her breast as the other grabs the back of a chair for support.

“Jesus, Pep, what’s happened? Is it your father, another heart attack—?”

“Why don’t you ever answer your goddamn phone, you bastard!” She says through heaving breaths. “You don’t leave the office for weeks and suddenly no one can find you, you won’t pick up your phone—”

It takes a long moment for the pieces to connect.

“Oh Christ,” Tony says, chidingly. “What, you were scared for me?”

She slumps into one chair and puts her face into her well-manicured hands. Tony drops back onto his ass. He’s not a good man, not a sensitive man. The last woman who had cried in front of him was his mother, and look at all the ways he had failed her. But the longer he sits letting Pepper cry, the more it feels like bamboo shoots growing under his tender fingernails. Fuck it. He gets up, knees creaking, and goes to her.

They sit side by side at the dining table no one has eaten at in twelve years. Pepper leans into him, her thin shoulders shaking. Shame makes his own eyes burn, because he thought what did she have to be afraid of? But maybe she saw his car in the driveway of the unhappy home he avoids and assumed that he’d come here to Hemingway himself. Maybe she sat in the drive steeling herself to come into the sight of his body.

“I’m going through the fan mail,” Tony says at last.

“I can see that,” she says. Her scathing tone drips with tears.

“I’m okay, Pep,” he says. He’s not sure if it’s true. He’s not sure if he’s been okay ever since he blinked awake upside down and suspended by the seatbelt in the back seat of his mother’s Cadillac, glass littering the roof (and the roof had become the floor, then, see? Because they were upside down), the smell of gas and smoke in his nose). Maybe he’s not okay. Maybe it’s all a fucking lie, but he’s not going to off himself. Not when there’s a mystery afoot. “I promise.”

She nods, one damp hand reaching out blindly for his. It’s an awkward angle to hold hands at, but he doesn’t complain. And awkward or not, it feels nice to be touched in a kind, even platonic way.

“What are you looking for?” Pepper asks at last, wiping at the wet, swollen skin beneath her eyes.

“Why? You want to help?” Tony asks.

“Might as well,” she says. “I always do your heavy lifting, don’t I?”

With Pepper’s help, they find the first letter. Somehow the Willy Wonka Initiative has reversed until Tony feels like a kid, ripping open chocolate bars, desperate for a glimpse of gold. At dawn, a cry echoes in the dining room startling Tony from where he was slumping against a tote, dozing.

“I’ve got one, Tony!” Pepper shouts. She’s barefoot, her panty hose taken off and folded on the table, her sensible jacket removed and slung over the back of a chair. Her rumpled shirt and tendrils coming free from her ponytail reveal how much energy she’s been putting into this with him—maybe to make up for her emotional outburst earlier, maybe like a mother humoring a child’s singular beneficial interest. “From Peter B. Parker, address is Queens, same as before.”

“What’s the date?” Tony asks. He slips in a pile of letters from last August and nearly breaks his neck. Wishful fucking thinking.

“Last May. Here—”

Tony takes the letter and collapses in a chair, his lower back grateful for the support. He recognizes Peter’s handwriting as he tears the letter open, and he can feel Pepper’s presence over his shoulder, reading along with him.

This letter is different from the others. Tony knows it right away. The first indication should have been the date; Tony’s most recent novel dropped early May of last year. His most controversial work to date, with praise glorious and venomous in kind. Which way did the scales tip when it came to Peter, Tony wonders.

I know that you won’t read this. I’ve written you twice a year since I was ten years old, and you’ve never written back. I don’t blame you. I’m sure you’re busy—I guess I just needed to get these words down somewhere, so that they exist, so that somewhere there is a record of me after I’m dead.

Tony reads the rest in a dazed blur. At one point, Pepper’s hand lifts to press against her mouth, but still they read on, huddled together for convenience and then for comfort.

In the letter, Peter describes the tragedy of his uncle’s death and how he felt personally responsible, and how after months of guilt, when he’d read about Natasha’s sacrifice, he’d decided to take action. Against himself.

If someone’s death can do so much good in the world, Peter wrote with shaky script. Then maybe mine could too. I’m not deluded or anything. I know that I’m not a superhero and that I’m not fighting against some sanctimonious super villain. But I feel like if my death could make May’s life easier, then I have to do it.

“Jesus. Tony, don’t read this—” Pepper reaches out for the letter but Tony nearly rips it in half trying to keep it away from her.

It’s not just for May, Peter admits. I’m ready to stop hurting, too.

Peter signs off, for good. Only it hadn’t been for good—Peter’s most recent letter had obviously proven that, and hadn’t he written it himself? Ignore my last letter, obviously, he’d said. Something must have changed Peter’s mind, but one thing was clear: it hadn’t been Tony. Because Tony had been so self-absorbed, so tangled in his own grief and ego and addictions he hadn’t even read the letter. If Pepper hadn’t saved it, then it might have been destroyed, no record left of Peter’s words at all.

“Tony,” Pepper says. She takes the letter from his fingers and he lets it go. His hands are numb. “This isn’t your fault. Peter obviously was unstable—he’d just watched his uncle being murdered in front of him. No one in their right mind would read Natasha’s death and think that you were encouraging them to take their own life.”

“I know that,” Tony snaps. Lying. Then: “I’m not an idiot, Pep.”

Maybe the biggest lie of all.

#starker #writer!tony #fan!peter #tw: alcoholism #tw: drugs #tw: suicide attempt #cagewrites

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calumcest · 4 years

Text

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter two

[ao3]

yes i finished my essay and was like writing another 6k of fic vs doing all the other work thats due within the next 10 days...Hmm...so here we are

A week passes, and Luke almost succeeds in putting Ashton to the back of his mind.

He’s preoccupied with other things - the fact that he’s suddenly got three times as much work to do, because Chris has taken a week off to reunite with his soulmate; the fact that his boiler’s broken, and nobody’s around to come and fix it because everyone’s taking a break to try and find their soulmate; the fact that he’s having to stay at Calum’s, because his apartment is doing a great impression of a fridge right now, and that means listening to Michael and Calum’s hushed conversations about him when they think he’s asleep. They’re clearly worried about him, which is kind of sweet, but also makes Luke feel a little pathetic, throwing him back to the days after Ashton left where Michael and Calum would tiptoe around him, frowning at him but saying nothing, as though any words would be the wrong ones.

Luke goes home from time to time to pick up post and new clothes, and on Sunday, he notices a note has been stuck through his letterbox. It’s stuck to the soggy newspaper that’s been forced through, so the ink’s run and Luke can’t read it anymore. He shrugs and chucks it out with the newspaper, thinking that if it were someone he knew they would have texted him, so it was probably some kind of advertising.

The only topic of conversation in society now is the soulmate tattoos. More and more research is being done, families are being torn apart, brought together, and churches are booked for weddings for the next eighteen months straight. Luke had finally brought himself to ask his parents what their situation was, and they’d smiled, and that was all he’d needed to know.

Luke had thought it would take him a while to wrap his head around the idea of soulmates, but somehow, it hadn’t. Somehow, seeing the people he knows interact - seeing Michael and Calum interact - it seems like it’s the only logical answer, like there was never anything else they could have been. It sits uncomfortably in Luke’s stomach, because he knows it’s not like that for him and Ashton. Something went wrong with Luke’s tattoo - it wasn’t supposed to be Ashton, he’s sure of that. Or if it was, then maybe it was a sign from the universe that Luke should take a vow of celibacy.

Luke shrugs when he’s asked at work if he knows who his soulmate is. It’s not like he’s lying - he knows who his soulmate was, two years ago, but Ashton’s a stranger to him now. The thought makes Luke feel a little better, if only because it means Luke’s a stranger to Ashton too. Ashton no longer knows him, no longer has power over him, no longer has a grip on Luke’s lungs and heart and mind.

It’s not until Wednesday evening that Ashton forces himself back to the forefront of Luke’s mind yet again.

He’s sat on Calum’s sofa, destroying him at MarioKart, when his phone starts buzzing. At first, he ignores it, because getting this win is definitely more important than whatever bullshit Michael’s texting him (last time he paused a game to read a text from Michael it had just been a picture of an orange captioned ‘juicy’), but the buzzing continues, distracting him and making him slip on a banana Calum had thrown in front of him.

“Fuck’s sake!” Luke yells, when Calum whoops joyfully as he makes it over the finish line a microsecond before Luke. “Fuck you. That wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh, yeah?” Calum says, turning to him with a smug grin. “What, someone take control of your hands? You got that rat from Ratatouille up in those curls?”

“Remy,” Luke says, without thinking.

“Huh?”

“The rat,” Luke says.

“I can’t believe you know that,” Calum says, sounding very much like he can believe Luke knows that.

“Fuck you,” Luke says again, scowling. “I bet you fucking told Michael to text me just so you could finally win a game.”

“Michael’s napping, dude,” Calum says, looking somewhat amused. Luke frowns. Nobody texts him except Calum and Michael, and Calum’s right here. So if Michael’s asleep-

His stomach drops.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and watching the screen light up with the one name he doesn’t want to see.

Ashton Irwin I’m outside

Ashton Irwin There’s no way you can’t hear this doorbell

Ashton Irwin Have you moved?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Luke says, and shoves his phone at Calum. Calum’s eyes widen as he reads, and he huffs out a laugh of disbelief.

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding as incredulous as Luke feels. “He’s just fucking turned up at your apartment?” Luke nods, suddenly incredibly glad that his boiler’s broken. Ashton just fucking turning up at his place makes his skin crawl, makes him feel incredibly unsafe.

“How many different ways do I need to tell him to fuck off before he gets the message?” Luke says, and there’s an edge of desperation to his tone that even he can hear. Calum’s expression softens slightly.

“You can just block him,” he suggests.

“Well, he’ll just turn up at my fucking apartment again, then, won’t he?” Luke says.

“You can stay here until it blows over,” Calum offers. Luke loves him.

“Thanks, Cal,” he says, and he means it with every fibre of his being. “I just- I just want him to go away.” He hopes Calum understands what he means - not just go away from his apartment, but leave Luke’s life again, because it had taken so much of Luke to get over him and rewrite himself after Ashton had broken almost all of him, and every interaction with him is a sickening reminder of how things used to be, who he used to be. He can’t fucking stand it.

“Want me to talk to him?” Calum says. Luke hesitates, then shakes his head.

“I don’t want him to think I can’t handle it,” he says. I don’t want him to think he broke me remains unspoken, but hangs between them uncomfortably.

“Okay,” Calum says, because he understands. He always understands. “Want me to help you draft a reply, then?” Luke nods.

“Can you call Mikey, too?” he says, and it comes out a little unsure, a little small. Calum’s face softens into a smile.

“‘Course,” he says, reaching for his phone and unplugging it from where it’s been charging to call Michael.

Michael picks up after two rings, because it’s Calum, and Luke can see the outline of him in the dark, lying in bed.

“Hey, love,” Calum says softly, and Luke is suddenly jerked into discomfort, like he’s intruding on a private moment. Calum and Michael haven’t said anything to Luke about their newfound soulmate status, and Luke hasn’t asked, all of them dancing around the topic like talking about it is going to irrevocably change their group dynamic somehow. Luke’s never heard Calum call anyone love, and the names he’s got for Michael are usually more along the lines of dickhead, arsehole, fucker, and it makes Luke realise just how left out he is now, all because of two fucking tattoos. He has to swallow back the jealousy rising in his throat, press down the spike of anger flaring in his stomach.

“This better be fucking good,” Michael mumbles, muffled by his duvet.

“Ashton’s outside Luke’s house,” Calum says, and there’s a sudden sound of rustling, and then the light is turned on, Michael squinting and looking somewhere between furious and concerned.

“That bastard,” he says, which seems to be a bit of a mantra where Ashton’s concerned. “What the fuck? Has Luke called the police?”

“No,” Luke puts in, although now that Michael mentions it, he thinks he probably should. “He might be gone by now, anyway.”

“Oh, I forgot you were at Calum’s,” Michael says, even though he’s been complaining about it for, like, four days straight.

“We’re going to draft a response,” Calum tells Michael, who nods.

“I’ve got one,” he says. “‘Fuck off, you fucking bastard, and also, I’m calling the police on you. Arsehole. Fuck you.’” Calum rolls his eyes, and Luke laughs, letting the warmth of it flood his veins. It helps to know he’s not alone, both in his anger at Ashton and in dealing with the situation.

“I already told him not to contact me anymore,” he says.

“And he somehow thinks that turning up at your house doesn’t count as contact?” Michael says, in disbelief.

“Well, either way, he texted you,” Calum points out.

“So he just doesn’t give a shit,” Michael says. “Right. Got it.”

“What should I say?” Luke says, with an only-slightly-melodramatic sigh.

“Tell him to fuck off,” Michael says.

“Politely,” Calum adds.

“How do I do that?” Luke says, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Kindly fuck off? Please fuck off?”

“Keep it business,” Calum suggests. “Keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional. Talk to him like you’d talk to a client that’s pissing you off.”

“As per my last communication,” Michael says sarcastically, and Calum and Luke both laugh.

“I think you’re right,” Luke says. “Keep emotion out of it.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Don’t let him think you still care.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, but you know what Ashton’s like,” Michael says. “You could come at him with an axe and he’d interpret it as ‘Luke cares about my existence’.” Luke snorts, feeling a little spiteful and not regretting it at all.

“How about ‘I don’t feel comfortable with you turning up at my house unannounced’?” Calum says.

“And ‘I’ve already told you I’m not interested in speaking to you, please stop contacting me’?” Michael adds. Luke nods, typing it out.

Me I don’t feel comfortable with you turning up at my house unannounced. I’ve already told you I’m not interested in speaking to you, please stop contacting me.

He reads it out again, and both Michael and Calum nod.

“Add a ‘you bastard’ at the end,” Michael suggests, and Luke rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, a wave of love and appreciation for Michael and Calum suddenly washing over him.

He would never have made it through Ashton without them, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle Ashton 2.0 without them either. They’re always there, never questioning, never judging, fiercely supportive, and Luke doesn’t know what he did to deserve two such unwaveringly loyal best friends.

“Thanks, guys,” Luke says, as he presses send, immediately locking his phone and trying to push down the anxiety that bubbles in his stomach as soon as he sees the words turn blue. “For everything.”

“Of course,” Michael says gently.

“Always, Luke,” Calum says sincerely.

Luke thinks that just maybe, with Michael and Calum at his side, he can get through this.

-------

It turns out Ashton and Luke have wildly differing definitions of please stop contacting me. Luke thinks it means ‘don’t speak to me anymore’, and Ashton thinks it means ‘wait a day before trying again’.

Luke’s on his lunch break when his phone buzzes. Knowing better than to just assume it’s Michael or Calum now, he fishes it out of his pocket with trepidation. It’s Ashton, his name white against the black of the screen with the green swipe to answer button staring back at Luke.

If he doesn’t answer, Ashton will just try again. If he answers and shouts at Ashton to fuck off, Ashton will know that Luke’s not capable of being cordial with him, that Ashton had hurt him so much that it still stings two years later. So, sighing, Luke swipes on the answer button, and lifts the phone to his ear with a resigned, and slightly pissed off, “What?”

“Hi,” Ashton says, and it still makes Luke feel a little sick. There’s something jarring about hearing the same voice that used to call him baby, sweetheart, gorgeous, now miles away on the other end of a staticky phone line, strange and unknown.

“I told you not to contact me anymore,” Luke says, and it comes out a little weary.

“I know,” Ashton says, and he has the grace to sound guilty.

“Right. So you’re just choosing to ignore that?”

“No, I-” Ashton cuts himself off, and there’s a moment of silence before he takes a deep breath. “I really think we should talk.”

“I’ve told you,” Luke says, for what must be the thirtieth time, “I don’t want to talk. I have nothing to say to you.”

“I do, though,” Ashton says.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then why did you pick up?”

“Because you’d just fucking turn up at my house again, or something,” Luke says. “Which, by the way, is really fucking creepy. Like, it made me feel really unsafe. Michael wanted me to call the police.”

“I know,” Ashton says, and he actually sounds sincere. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Luke does a double take. Ashton, apologising?

“Right,” Luke says, a little nonplussed, because he was expecting a justification, an excuse, not an apology. That’s not really Ashton’s style. “Well. Don’t do it again. I won’t hesitate to get a restraining order.”

“Okay,” Ashton says, and then, without missing a beat: “Can I take you out for dinner?” Luke’s mouth falls open.

“Are you fucking insane?” Luke says, too incredulous to be angry. “How many different ways do I have to say ‘I want nothing to do with you’ until you get the message?”

“We really should talk about what this means,” Ashton presses. “Like. We’re soulmates, now.” The words twist deep in Luke’s gut, and he swallows back the queasy feeling rising in his throat.

“What if we always were?” he bites out, and he can’t help the bitterness that drips out with the words. They’re met with an uncomfortable silence, and Luke feels a stab of spiteful glee.

“I want to talk about it,” Ashton says finally, which doesn’t answer Luke’s question. “Please. Just one dinner. And then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

Luke tips his head back against the wall, letting his eyes flutter shut.

On the one hand, he wants Ashton to fuck off and leave him alone, indefinitely. He wants to go back to forgetting Ashton, to living a life without him and to uncomfortable first dates and fumbling hookups. He wants to pretend his tattoo doesn’t exist, to be able to choose who he loves rather than be assigned someone to love, someone he already tried to love and worked hard to stop loving.

On the other hand, he knows that Ashton won’t leave him alone until he gives him what he wants. Sure, he might relent for a few months, but Luke will always have that knot of anxiety in his stomach every time he gets a text, every time the doorbell rings, and one dinner might be worth giving himself peace of mind.

“I’ll think about it,” Luke says eventually. “But just for the record, the fact I have to do what you want before you respect my wishes is doing you absolutely no favours.”

“I know,” Ashton says heavily, like he’s fucking sad about it, or something. Luke doesn’t think Ashton has it in him to consider Luke’s feelings. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“I know,” Ashton says again. Luke grits his teeth and bites back the fuck you that’s on the tip of his tongue, chanting Calum’s words to himself: keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional. I’ll think about it isn’t a yes, whatever Ashton wants to tell himself.

“Fine,” Luke says, after he’s taken a moment to collect himself, cool, calm, professional. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve had time to think. Don’t contact me in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Ashton says.

“Good,” Luke says, and hangs up before Ashton has a chance to respond.

Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks, exhaling heavily and staring at the grey clouds gathering above him and throwing a silent curse out at the universe, just in case it can suddenly read thoughts, for saddling him with this fucking situation. Ashton Irwin might very well be the death of him, for a second time.

-------

Luke completely forgets that he’d told Ashton he’d consider going to dinner with him until Calum tentatively brings him up the following Tuesday.

“Did Ashton ever say anything to your message?” he asks, scratching behind Duke’s ears, and Luke blinks at him.

“Did I not tell you?” he says, surprised. He’s not sure how the entire conversation with Ashton slipped his mind for almost an entire week, but he supposes that’s what happens when he doesn’t care about someone.

“No?” Calum says, equally surprised, as though he hadn’t expected Luke to have heard anything. Luke fucking wishes.

“He rang me the next day,” Luke says, and Calum frowns, hand stilling on Duke’s back. Duke turns and gives Calum a reproachful look, and Calum starts petting him again absent-mindedly. “Asked me to meet him for dinner.” Calum gapes at him.

“Are you serious?” he says, in disbelief.

“I know,” Luke agrees.

“Jesus,” Calum says, sounding almost in awe of Ashton’s shamelessness. “Was he this delusional when you were together?” Luke laughs, and shrugs. “What’d he say when you said no?” Luke hesitates, biting his lip.

“I told him I’d think about it,” Luke says after a moment, and Calum’s eyes widen.

“Luke,” he says, and it’s careful, worried, and Luke hates it.

“Look, I know,” he says, before Calum can say something like Ashton nearly killed you last time, are you sure this is a good idea? “I know, Cal, okay? I just- I need him to leave me alone.” Calum frowns again.

“What, and he’s trying to force your hand by making him leaving you alone conditional on you going out to dinner with him?” he says. Luke nods. “What a cunt.”

“I know,” Luke says. “I think he’d leave me alone if I said no, but I think I’d be jumping every time I got a text. I’d rather just have one dinner with him and know that’s it.” Calum’s frown doesn’t leave his face, but he nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says. “If it’s for your own peace of mind.”

“It is,” Luke says, exhaling heavily and slumping back on Calum’s sofa.

“So you’re going?”

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“You don’t have to,” Calum says, and it’s gentle, supportive. “We can go to the police, say he’s harassing you. We can get a restraining order.”

“I don’t want to go through that,” Luke says, carding a hand through his hair, a little stressed at the idea. It sounds a little extreme, and a lot expensive.

“Okay,” Calum says easily. “Whatever you want to do, Luke. You know I’ll support whatever decision you make.” Luke smiles, small and genuine.

“Thanks, Cal,” he says.

“I can’t promise Michael will, though,” Calum adds, and Luke snorts.

“No, probably not,” he says.

-------

“You said what?” Michael sounds absolutely outraged at the very idea.

“I said I’d think about it,” Luke repeats. Michael folds his arms.

“And you’ve thought about it, and you’re going to say no, right?” Luke hesitates, and that’s enough for Michael to make a noise of exasperation and roll his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Luke. You’re not going for dinner with fucking Ashton.”

“Who are you, my fucking mum?” Luke says, a little irritably. Michael’s expression softens a little at the barbs hidden in Luke’s words.

“I just don’t want-” he starts, but Luke cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“I know, Mike,” he says, because he does, he knows, and he doesn’t need to hear it. “I’m twenty-fucking-six, mate. I can make my own decisions.” Michael looks torn, like he half-wants to yell at Luke (which, frankly, he probably does), but then he sighs.

“Fine,” he says, sounding very much like it’s not fine. “Are you going to go?” Luke shrugs.

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he says. Michael gives him a hard look, and looks like he wants to say something else, but then Calum comes back from the kitchen, Duke in his wake, and sets himself down between the two of them.

“Play nice, you two,” he says warningly, but he’s only looking at Michael. Luke feels a touch smug about that.

“Fuck you,” Michael says, reaching for one of the bags of popcorn Calum’s brought through from the kitchen. Duke gets on his hind legs and paws at the sofa, gazing at Michael beseechingly, and Michael almost absent-mindedly reaches down to pick him up and put him in his lap. Duke settles down comfortably, resting his head on Michael’s thigh and blinking at Calum and Luke calmly. Something about the familiarity of the interaction makes Luke’s heart ache a little bit.

“Whose turn is it to pick a movie tonight?” Calum asks, reaching for the other two bags of popcorn and tossing one at Luke.

“Mine,” Michael says.

“No it’s not,” Luke says. “It’s mine.”

“Yeah, but your taste in movies is so shit that I’m vetoing your turn,” Michael says. Luke squawks indignantly.

“What?” he says, incensed. “My taste is fucking fine, thank you very much.”

“He kind of has a point,” Calum says, nodding solemnly at Luke. Luke scowls.

“Fuck you,” he says, ripping open his popcorn. “Just because you’re fucking soulmates now doesn’t mean you get to gang up on me.” As soon as he’s said it, the atmosphere changes; Calum and Michael exchange a glance, before looking back at Luke.

“We should probably talk about that,” Michael says carefully, and Luke groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with salty, buttery fingers. Gross.

“Can we not?” he says, wiping his nose with his sleeve to avoid looking at either of them. “Please, just for one fucking night, let me forget the whole soulmate thing exists.” Calum and Michael both hesitate, and then Calum shoots Michael another quick look and nods at Luke.

“Okay,” he says. “But your taste in movies is still shitty.”

Luke throws a cushion at him.

-------

On Sunday night, at two in the morning, Luke types out a single word.

Me Ok.

He presses send, turns airplane mode on, and goes to sleep.

-------

Luke completely forgets that he’d turned airplane mode on on Monday morning until he gets on the train and tries to load Twitter. When he turns it off, messages start popping in, so fast that he can’t read them before the next one arrives. Most of them are from the group chat with Michael and Calum, some argument about whether twenty-four hour time is better or worse than twelve-hour, and he’s got one from his dad asking how he’s doing, and - the reason he’d turned airplane mode on in the first place - one from Ashton.

Ashton Irwin Thank you. 8pm tonight, Zahli?

Luke bites his lip, staring out of the window as he thinks for a moment.

Me Ok.

-------

He doesn’t tell Calum until after lunch.

“I said yes,” he says, as casually as possible, staring at his nails like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. They’re kind of disgusting, actually. “Hey, do you have a nail file at home?”

“When are you seeing him?” Calum asks. “And yeah, in the cupboard under the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Have you tried calling about the boiler again?” Luke nods, picking at his thumbnail with his index finger.

“Yeah, they said they wouldn’t be back for another week,” he says. Calum pulls a face.

“You’re paying my water bill this month,” he says. “You take as long in one shower as I do in ten.”

“Why should I pay for your lack of hygiene?” Luke says.

“Fuck you, I’m hygienic,” Calum says. “And at least I know how to pick up towels.”

“Hey, I’m getting better,” Luke says. “I hang them up now.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“Stuffing them into the towel warmer is not hanging them up,” he says.

“It’s better than leaving them on the floor, though,” Luke points out, ripping a bit of his thumbnail off.

“Oh, what, so I should praise you for doing less than the bare minimum because it could be worse?”

“I mean, a little thanks wouldn’t go amiss,” Luke says, grinning at Calum. Calum scoffs, and rolls his eyes again.

“You’re the worst housemate I’ve ever had,” he tells Luke.

“You’ve never had a housemate.”

“I have now,” Calum says, pointing at him, “and you’re the worst one.”

“Well, then by definition I’m also the best,” Luke says, biting at the edge of his thumbanil. Calum scowls, and flips him off.

“When are you seeing Ashton?” Calum asks, which Luke’s kind of torn on, because on the one hand, Calum changing the subject means Luke’s won, but on the other hand, the subject he’s gone for is Ashton.

“Tonight,” Luke mumbles, around a mouthful of thumb.

“Tonight?” Calum repeats, and Luke nods. “Okay. Where?”

“Zahli.” Calum raises his eyebrows.

“He’ll try to pay,” he says. “Don’t let him.” Luke rolls his eyes.

“Obviously not,” he says, because he’s not an idiot.

“What are you going to wear?” Luke stops. He hadn’t even thought about that.

“I don’t know,” he says, with a shrug. “Probably just my work clothes.” Calum looks him up and down, nodding thoughtfully.

“Good choice,” he says. “You look good, so you’ll be showing him you’re alright without him, but not so good that he’ll think you’ve put in effort to impress him.”

“True,” Luke says, because he’s well beyond pretending that he’s not analysing the situation this deeply himself.

“I wonder what he wants to talk about,” Calum muses, tapping a pen against his chin.

“Probably, like, how successful his band is, how many guys he’s fucked since me, how happy he’s been,” Luke says, a little spiteful and a little bitter.

“You’ve been successful,” Calum points out. “You’ve fucked guys since him. You’ve been happy.”

“I know,” Luke says, but there’s a little twisting in his stomach, because he’s always felt so fucking inferior to Ashton. It feels like he has something to prove since the breakup, like he has to show both Ashton and himself that he’s better now than the iteration of Luke Ashton knew had been.

“You don’t have to do it,” Calum says, clearly seeing the uncertainty written all over Luke’s face. “You can still back out.” Luke shakes his head.

“Not now that I’ve said yes,” he says. “He’ll read into it.”

“So let him,” Calum says, with a shrug. He doesn’t get it - he never cares what other people think, especially not people he doesn’t care about. Luke can’t stop caring what people think about him, especially people he used to care about.

“I can’t,” Luke says. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be, like, an hour, tops. And then I never have to speak to or see him again.” A weight of relief settles in his stomach at the mere thought, that in six hours everything will be over and his life can return to how it was six months ago.

“Thank fuck for that,” Calum says, and Luke can’t help but heartily agree.

-------

Luke’s at Zahli at eight on the dot, and, because they hadn’t talked about whether they’d wait outside or go in, decides to head inside on his own. His stomach is a bundle of nerves, tension and anxiety settled into every cell of his body, because this will be the first time he’s seen Ashton in two years. The last time he’d seen Ashton, Ashton had been his, and Luke had been a wreck. It’s embarrassing to think back to, that someone he barely even knows now has seen him like that, at his most vulnerable, so Luke orders a glass of red wine to try and take his mind off it.

He’s forcing himself to be engrossed in the food menu when Ashton sits down.

“Hi,” Ashton says, voice clear and low, and Luke looks over his food menu at him.

It feels like déjà-vu, if déjà-vu involved feeling suddenly sick and defenceless and pathetic. Ashton looks almost the same as the last time Luke had seen him, minus the stressed expression on his face, and maybe with a few more crow’s feet. His golden curls have been dyed black, tucked behind his ear besides the one strand he never could control, and Luke hates that he remembers that.

“Hi,” Luke says, proud of how steady and cool it comes out.

“You look good,” Ashton comments, after an awkward moment.

“This isn’t a date,” Luke says.

“I know.”

“Good.” Luke turns back to his menu, palms sweating, heart racing, and tries to focus on the words on the page.

“Have you ordered?”

“Obviously not,” Luke says, because he’s got the fucking menu in his hand.

“Oh, right.” Luke rolls his eyes privately, but says nothing, and then the waiter’s coming over and Luke’s just pointing to the first thing he sees on the page and smiling politely. The waiter, however, then takes the menus away from both of them, and Luke’s left with nothing to hide behind, and has to look at Ashton.

He’s dressed nicely, in a long-sleeved black lace shirt, and he’s got a few more rings on his fingers than the last time Luke had seen him. He’s still just as muscular - maybe even a little more - and his hazel eyes look a little older, blinking at Luke from behind dark lashes. Luke feels so queasy at the sight of him, almost exactly the same but somehow so fucking different, feels the echoes of the worthlessness and emptiness he’d felt in Ashton’s wake squeezing at his lungs, and wills himself not to throw up.

“So,” Ashton says, after a long, uncomfortable silence. Luke’s not sure whether he wants to yell at Ashton, cry, leave, or die. Dying currently sounds like the most enticing option of the lot.

“Talk,” Luke says curtly. Ashton blinks.

“Can you at least be cordial with me?” he says. Luke stares at him. What the fuck makes Ashton think he’s deserved that?

“Talk,” he repeats, because he doesn’t trust himself not to fly off the handle if he says anything non-monosyllabic. Ashton sighs, and looks down at his hands.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I want to apologise.”

“Right.”

“Can I- can I just say this without you interrupting?”

Luke hesitates, then nods. Biting remarks aren’t part of the ‘keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional’ routine, anyway. It won’t hurt to let Ashton say his piece.

“Thank you.” Ashton takes another deep breath. “I want to apologise. I know how I left-” he winces “-was pretty cold, pretty brutal. I’m sorry for that. I’ve given it a lot of thought over the last two years, and I regret it. Like. A lot. I missed you. A lot. I wanted to get back in contact with you, but I knew- I knew you wouldn’t want to hear from me. And then the tattoo came, and I- I didn’t look at it, for a few days, because when I looked at what everyone was saying online, I knew it would be you.” He pauses, eyes flicking back to Luke, like he’s gauging his reaction. Luke, though, is sitting still, emotionless, face blank. He’s not giving Ashton any satisfaction. “And then I looked, and it was. And I knew I had to be yours, but you didn’t say anything.” The pause is longer this time, an invitation for Luke to speak.

“Okay,” Luke says, because he doesn’t really have anything else to say.

“I- it’s not just the tattoo, Luke,” Ashton says, and Luke never wants to hear his name coming from Ashton’s lips again. “It’s you. I regretted it the minute I left, but I couldn’t go back to you, not knowing what I did. How I did it. I- When I heard about the tattoos, I knew it was going to be you. It’s always been you.”

Luke kind of wants to laugh. Two years ago, these are the exact words he wanted to hear from Ashton. It was a mistake, I’m sorry, I love you, it’s only you - those words bounced around his head in different fantasies for months on end. Now, though, he feels nothing, and that’s the biggest success Luke thinks he’s ever had in his life. He’s sitting across from the person that took him the closest to the edge, and he feels nothing. It makes him feel powerful, feel in control, and he relaxes a little. Ashton’s apologising to him, opening up to him. Luke’s not giving anything away.

“You fell out of love with me,” Luke says, and it’s not accusing, it’s not emotional. It’s calm, rational, matter-of-fact.

“I thought I did,” Ashton says, and he opens his mouth to speak but then the waiter comes, handing them their dishes with a smile. Luke throws a smile at him, but Ashton barely glances at him. There’s an awkward silence as the waiter asks if they want any pepper, and Luke says yes please, and they have to wait for the waiter to bring it over and then for Luke to say stop. Luke lets it go on a little longer than maybe strictly necessary, childishly enjoying the way Ashton’s squirming in his seat, and then thanks the waiter with a brilliant smile, just to drive home the point of how friendly he can be with people that aren’t Ashton.

“I thought I did,” Ashton repeats, when the waiter’s finally gone and Luke’s tucking into his potatoes. “That’s why I left. I thought I didn’t love you anymore, and then I actually had to live without you, and I realised it was just because we were settling into a familiar love. I just couldn’t handle the commitment, and it made me block you out.” Luke raises an eyebrow, but keeps eating, and Ashton sighs.

“Look,” he says. “I- I know I fucked up. Badly. But I didn’t need a tattoo to tell me that. I already knew what the tattoo confirmed. I’d-” he swallows. “I’d really like the opportunity to have a second chance.” Luke sets his fork down at that, and sits back in his chair.

“Do you know what you did to me?” he says, calm and even. Ashton just stares at him, which Luke takes as a no, so he goes on. “You left me feeling like I was worthless. I spent months in therapy, and even longer crying on Calum and Michael’s shoulders every night. I couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe because everything was you.” He pauses, weighing up his next words. “You left, and I was left behind. I had to work hard to fall out of love with you. That was your choice, not mine. I would probably never have stopped loving you if you’d let me. But you moved on, and so I had to as well. And the consequence of your choice, your actions, is that I don’t love you anymore. I don’t feel anything for you anymore. I’m only here to get you to leave me alone.” Ashton looks a little sick when Luke finishes.

“And the fact we’re soulmates doesn’t mean anything to you?” he says, his voice cracking slightly on the word ‘soulmates’. Luke shrugs.

“No,” he says. “I don’t want to be with you. I don’t care who else you fuck. I don’t care who else you love. I don’t care about you anymore, Ashton.” Ashton swallows, and nods.

“I guess I deserve that,” he says, and Luke can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“You kind of do,” he says, but it’s not unkind. Ashton sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair.

“I thought you’d be more open to the idea,” he admits, taking Luke aback a little with his honesty.

“You don’t know me anymore,” Luke says. “Don’t kid yourself that you do. I’m not the same person you left behind.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, though? That we’re supposed to be together?”

“I guess sometimes the universe gets it wrong,” Luke says, with a shrug. “We tried, and it didn’t work.”

“It might work now that I know how to love you properly,” Ashton says.

“I’m not going to give you a second chance based on a ‘maybe’,” Luke says. Ashton stares at him for a moment, and then nods, tight-lipped and unhappy. For the first time, Luke feels a little sorry for him. He’s not even touched his food.

“Can I see it?” Ashton asks, after a moment.

“It’s on my back,” Luke says. “It’s your bird tattoo, carrying a drumstick in its mouth with one of your moons in the background.” Ashton nods again, but it’s absent-minded, almost numb.

“That sounds beautiful,” he says.

“It is,” Luke says.

“Mine’s a daisy chain wrapped around a microphone,” Ashton says.

“That’s my favourite flower,” Luke says, without thinking, and Ashton nods. Of course, Ashton already knew that. Luke remembers the conversation; Ashton laughing at him (“Daisies can’t be your favourite flower, Luke, that’s fucking stupid.”), his defensiveness (“Fuck you, they’re cute.”), chucking a cushion at a giggling Ashton’s head.

“It’s on my tricep,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked.

“Mine’s on my shoulderblade.” Ashton nods, and they lapse into silence. Luke’s finished his food, and Ashton’s not even glanced at his, which is stopping the waiter from coming back to clear their plates away.

“We should probably pay,” Luke says, when the silence stretches on for so long that he thinks it might be Tuesday already.

“Okay,” Ashton says, and he sounds kind of sad. Luke flags down the waiter, who asks Ashton if there was a problem with the food, and an awkward conversation ensues in which Ashton smiles at the waiter and tells him no, he just doesn’t feel well, but his friend had really enjoyed the food, and Luke watches as the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The waiter asks if they want to split the bill or pay as one, and Luke jumps in and says they want to split it before Ashton can make one final grand romantic gesture, or whatever. The waiter nods, coming back (much to Luke’s relief) in record time with the card machine and two bills. Luke and Ashton pay, thank the waiter, and then fumble with their coats as they get up and head out into the temperate November night.

“So,” Ashton says, when they get out of the restaurant. “I guess this is it.” Luke nods.

“This is it,” he says.

“I had a nice evening,” Ashton says, and Luke can’t help but laugh.

“No, you didn’t,” he says. Ashton half-smiles.

“Okay, no I didn’t,” he admits. “But I did enjoy seeing you again.” Luke nods, not really sure how to take that.

“Good luck with everything,” he says.

“You too,” Ashton says. Luke smiles at him, and it’s a real smile, partially fuelled by relief, and partially by something he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Get home safe,” Luke says, because he can’t say ‘see you’, since he’s sincerely hoping not to.

“You too,” Ashton says again. Luke nods, offers him one last smile, and then turns on his heel and walks away.

His shoulderblade tingles as he goes, and there’s an odd edge of sadness to his relief, but he doesn’t stop or look back.

taglist: @glitterlukey @hey-its-grey

chapter three

#lashton #malum #5sos fic #5sos slash #5sos fanfiction #i promise im not ignoring everyones messages i just need to get ready for bed #and do my duolingo #i have 28 minutes left

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Saturday, December 26, 2020

Getting creative to help the homeless (AP) After three years on the streets, Tiecha Vannoy and her boyfriend Chris Foss plan to weather the pandemic this winter in a small white “pod” with electricity, heat and enough room for two. Portland this month assembled neat rows of the shelters, which resemble garden sheds, in three ad-hoc “villages”—part of an unprecedented effort unfolding in cold-weather cities nationwide to keep people without permanent homes safe as temperatures drop and coronavirus cases surge. “We just get to stay in our little place. We don’t have to leave here unless we want to,” said Vannoy, wiping away tears as they moved into the shelter near a downtown train station. “It’s been a long time coming. He always tells me to have faith, but I was just over it.” ... “Those (are) folks who would under normal circumstances maybe come into a drop-in center to warm up, or go into the subway to warm up, or go into a McDonald’s to warm up—and just not having those options available to them. What then?” asked Giselle Routhier of the Coalition for the Homeless in New York City.

Raise your mittens: Outdoor learning continues into winter (AP) Cindy Soule’s fourth graders in Maine’s largest city have studied pollination in a community garden. They solved an erosion problem that was damaging trees. They learned about bear scat. Then came a fresh layer of snow and temperatures that hovered around freezing—but her students were unfazed. Bundled up and masked, they scooted outside with their belongings in buckets. They collected their pencils and clipboards, plopped the buckets upside down in the snow, took a seat and went to work. The lesson? Snow, of course, and how snowflakes are formed. Schools nationwide scrambled to get students outdoors during the pandemic to keep them safe and stop the spread of COVID-19. Now, with temperatures plummeting, a smaller number of schools—even in some of the nation’s most frigid climes—plan to keep it going all winter long, with students trading desks in warm classrooms for tree stumps or buckets.

Explosion in Nashville that damaged 20 buildings, injured 3 people an ‘intentional act’ (USA Today) Authorities believe an explosion that occurred in downtown Nashville early Christmas morning and was felt for miles was an “intentional act” sparked by a vehicle. Police responded to reports of a suspicious vehicle parked outside the AT&T building just before 6 a.m. Upon arrival, police said an officer “had reason” to alert the department’s hazardous devices unit, which was en route, when a “significant explosion” happened. Three people were hospitalized with injuries, police said. At least 20 buildings were damaged, Nashville Mayor John Cooper said. The sound of the explosion could be heard from miles away, and people reported windows shaking from South and East Nashville. “It looks like a bomb went off,” Cooper said. The downtown area will be “sealed off” for further investigation and to make sure everything is “completely safe.”

US to require negative COVID-19 test from UK travelers (AP) The United States will require airline passengers from Britain to get a negative COVID-19 test before their flight, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced late Thursday. The U.S. is the latest country to announce new travel restrictions because of a new variant of the coronavirus that is spreading in Britain and elsewhere. Airline passengers from the United Kingdom will need to get negative COVID-19 tests within three days of their trip and provide the results to the airline, the CDC said in a statement. The agency said the order will be signed Friday and go into effect on Monday. “If a passenger chooses not to take a test, the airline must deny boarding to the passenger,” the CDC said in its statement. The agency said because of travel restrictions in place since March, air travel to the U.S. from the U.K. is already down by 90%.

Many just want a hug for Christmas this year, Queen Elizabeth says (Reuters) All many people want for Christmas this year is a simple hug, Britain’s Queen Elizabeth said in her annual festive message, saying it would be hard for those who lost loved ones to COVID-19 pandemic or were separated by curbs on social mixing. In her traditional pre-recorded Christmas Day address to the nation, the 94-year-old monarch repeatedly spoke of hope for the future whilst acknowledging millions of Britons would be unable to have their usual family celebrations this year. “Of course for many, this time of year will be tinged with sadness; some mourning the loss of those dear to them, and others missing friends and family members distanced for safety when all they really want for Christmas is a simple hug or a squeeze of the hand,” Elizabeth said. “If you are among them, you are not alone. And let me assure you of my thoughts and prayers.” “Remarkably, a year that has necessarily kept people apart has in many ways brought us closer,” said the queen, adding the royals had been inspired by stories of those who volunteered to help others in need. “In the United Kingdom and around the world, people have risen magnificently to the challenges of the year and I’m so proud and moved by this quiet indomitable spirit.”

For the European Union, It’s a Pretty Good Deal (NYT) The European Union emerges from fraught negotiations with Britain over its exit from the bloc with a sense of satisfaction—that it has maintained its unity and its core principles, especially the integrity of the single market of now 450 million consumers that is the foundation of its influence. And it is now looking ahead to its life without Britain. The final deal is a free-trade agreement that recognizes Britain’s desire to leave the single market and the customs union while preserving tariff-free, quota-free trade in goods with the European Union. To that end, Britain agreed to a mechanism, with arbitration and possible tariffs for violations, that would keep its regulations and subsidies roughly in line with those of Brussels, to prevent unfair competition. But the deal will require inspections of goods to prevent smuggling. The deal also covers many mundane but crucial matters of visas, health insurance, and air, rail and road travel. It treats Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom, as within the E.U. customs area to prevent the need for a hard border on the island, but requires some checks on goods going from Britain to Northern Ireland. And the deal reallocates fishing areas and quotas, given that Britain is now an independent coastal state.

Pope Francis celebrates low-key Christmas Eve Mass amid coronavirus restrictions (Fox News) Pope Francis celebrated Christmas Eve Mass on Thursday night amid coronavirus restrictions that reduced a normal crowd of as many as 10,000 congregants to a group of fewer than 100 people, according to reports. During his homily, the Roman Catholic leader urged followers to reach out to the needy, noting that Jesus Christ was considered an outsider. “The Son of God was born an outcast, in order to tell us that every outcast is a child of God,” the pope said. May the Child of Bethlehem help us, then, to be generous, supportive and helpful, especially towards those who are vulnerable, the sick, those unemployed or experiencing hardship due to the economic effects of the pandemic, and women who have suffered domestic violence during these months of lockdown,” he said.

Turkey debates law that would increase oversight of NGOs (Reuters) Turkey’s parliament began debating a draft law on Friday that would increase oversight of non-governmental organisations and which, according to rights campaigners, risks limiting the freedoms of civil-society groups. The government says the measure, covering “foundations and associations”, aims to prevent non-profit organisations from financing terrorism and to punish those who violate the law. Civil-society groups, including Amnesty International and the Human Rights Association, said terrorism charges in Turkey were arbitrary, and that the draft law would violate the presumption of innocence and punish those whose trials were not finalised.Investigations based on terrorism charges have been launched against hundreds of thousands of people under a crackdown following a failed coup in 2016. Hundreds of foundations were also shut down with decrees following the coup attempt.

Half of Russians sceptical Kremlin critic Navalny was poisoned (Reuters) Half of Russians believe that Kremlin critic Alexei Navalny was either not poisoned, as he and Western governments contend, or that his poisoning was stage-managed by Western intelligence services, a poll showed on Thursday. The poll, released by the Levada-Center, shows how hard it remains for Navalny to shape public opinion in Russia even as his case attracts wide media attention in the West and his own slickly-produced videos of what happened to him this summer rack up millions of views online. Navalny, one of President Vladimir Putin’s most outspoken critics, was airlifted to Germany for medical treatment in August after collapsing on a plane in Russia. Germany has said he was poisoned with a Soviet-style Novichok nerve agent in an attempt to murder him, an assertion many Western nations accept. The poll by Levada, which is regarded as more independent than state counterparts, showed only 15% of Russians believed what happened to Navalny was an attempt by the authorities to rid themselves of a political opponent. By contrast, 30% thought that the incident was stage-managed and that there was no poisoning, and 19% said they believed it was a provocation orchestrated by Western intelligence services.

Hong Kong street refrigerator keeps giving (AP) Most people who head to Woosung Street in Hong Kong’s old-school neighborhood of Jordan are visiting its popular restaurants serving everything from curries to seafood. Others may be headed for a lone refrigerator, painted blue, with a sign that reads: “Give what you can give, take what you need to take.” The door of the fridge sitting outside a hockey academy opens to reveal it is stuffed with packets of instant noodles, biscuits, tins of food and even socks and towels for anyone who may need them. Ahmen Khan, founder of a sports foundation on the same street, said he was inspired to create a community refrigerator after seeing a film about others doing the same thing. He found the refrigerator at a nearby refuse collection point and painted it blue. “It’s like a dignity, that when you go home, you open your fridge to get food,” Khan said. “So I want the people to just feel like that. Even if it’s a street, it’s their community, it’s their home, so they can simply just open it and then just put food there, and collect the food.” Khan’s blue refrigerator project went viral on social media and people have been dropping by to leave food inside.

Israeli jets fly over Beirut, explosions reported in Syria (AP) Israeli jets flew very low over parts of Lebanon early Friday, terrifying residents on Christmas Eve, some of whom reported seeing missiles in the skies over Beirut. Minutes later, Syria’s official news agency reported explosions in the central Syrian town of Masyaf. Other Syrian media said Syrian air defenses responded to an Israeli attack near the town in the Hama province. The Syrian Ministry of Defense issued a statement saying Israel “launched an aggression by directing a barrage of rockets” from the north of the Lebanese city of Tripoli towards the Masyaf area. Israeli jets regularly violate Lebanese airspace and have often struck inside Syria from Lebanese territory. But the Christmas Eve flights were louder than usual, frightening residents of Beirut who have endured multiple crises in the past year, including the catastrophic Aug. 4 explosion at the city’s port that killed over 200 people and destroyed parts of the capital.

#headlines #news

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alittleoptimistic · 4 years

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Psychic For Hire

A Buzzfeed Unsolved Fanfic

Summary: Shane is a psychic for hire working in LA, and sure, he’s a fake, but at least he’s telling people what they need to hear! That is, he thought he was fake. But after a strange accident, he has the oddest dreams… Meanwhile his old friend Ryan is researching his next greatest supernatural horror novel in the underbelly of the LA psychic scene and wondering how on earth you convince someone they might be psychic for real?

Trigger warning: violence, car accidents, cussing, dead people.

________________________________________________________________

Chapter 2

Sometimes you’ve got to just be like, ‘well, okay, this is how today is gonna be.’ Ryan dropped his fifth quarter into the vending machine and blinked, long and slow at the options. He got lost for a second, his eyes focused on the reflection of ceiling lights and the waverly look of his own face in the glass. He had a bruise just beneath his left cheek, (coffee cup, he was pretty sure), and a cut on his upper arm. Pick a snack, he ordered. His arm lifted up and tapped in the numbers.

Chips, a slim jim. They clunked at the bottom and Ryan wandered toward room 247 A, where Shane lay sleeping. Ryan felt an odd calm. He should freak out, but he’d gone beyond that and now he floated in this haze while he waited for Shane to wake up.

The hospital room had vertical fabric blinds that let in a dirty evening light. When Ryan entered, Shane was sitting up in bed, gingerly poking at the small bandage over his left eyebrow. He’d been smacked pretty hard. Scary, hard. Ryan had never seen someone that pale before. They were lucky. His chest shuttered.

“Hey, big guy, you’re awake.”

Shane blinked at him, no trace of confusion in his eyes. He knew exactly where he was. Which was very typical of him, to be honest? He relaxed into a smile, apparently unperturbed by the whole situation. “You totaled my car. It’s like college all over again.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan threw the slim jim at him. “Don’t stick your head out the window like a dog.”

“I was throwing up. Christ, my head hurts. Am I okay? I feel okay?”

Ryan nodded. “You flew out the window, so everyone is super shocked that you are. They think you probably have a concussion, though, which sucks. You’re supposed to rest or whatever. They’ll probably be in here in a few minutes.”

And they were. A few more hours of pandering around, being poked, asking and answering questions, and getting prescriptions, and then, remarkably, they were on their way out. It was… wild. He’d been so scared, and now here they were, catching an Uber.

“I wonder what happened to the people who hit us.” Ryan mused as they watched the animated Uber car on his phone get closer and then miss them entirely.

Shane huffed. “He’s fine. Won't try to change his shirt while driving again, I’m guessing. Don’t worry about it.”

Ryan glanced up. “You don’t even-”

“Is that our guy? I think I see it. Purple Toyota? Purple Toyota, baby!”

The night slipped into a darker, deeper purple as they arrived at Shane’s suburban fever dream of a house. The brightest light by far was Shane’s neon PSYCHIC sign on the front window. Ryan found himself staring at it as they climbed out of the Uber, saying their goodbyes.

He wasn’t sure this was such a good idea anymore.

He had four months to come up with the first draft of a novel about the LA psychics, according to his publishers. Ryan was thinking about some kind of mix of Dead Zone and the celebrity lifestyle… if that was possible. It made sense to stay with Shane, do research the way he always did. Part of his angle was always the real-life research he did before writing anything. He wanted to give people as much truth as he possibly could. Shane was his best friend (or was , ten years ago) and Shane was a professional psychic. It would be stupid to pass up an opportunity like it. This was a strange thing for Shane to be, of course. Ryan remembered first hearing about Shane’s job through a mutual friend and he’d laughed and told them they were confused. Shane, a psychic? Shane was goddamn Doubting Thomas reincarnate.

It made sense, now that Ryan was here, talking to him. Shane wanted to be a therapist in school, but he had to quit midway through after… something. Ryan couldn’t remember what had happened exactly. Shane had told him they couldn’t room together next semester, and just like that, he disappeared off the face of the earth. Ryan got the impression any questions about this were very off-limits, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. The point was, the way he explained it, Shane managed to find a way to be a therapist without technically having a license.

It didn’t make him any less of a con artist, obviously, and it put an honest horrible taste in Ryan’s mouth. He’d rather not know about any of it than have to recalibrate who he thought his friend was. He couldn’t tell any of this to Shane. And he needed the room. Not to mention, it was going to be great for his book. What better insight to this side of LA then through the eyes of someone who knew all the tricks. Then, Ryan could find the real ones, couldn’t he? Or, he could try.

Shane unlocked the front door. He was talking casually about nothing in particular and Ryan laughed in response without really hearing the words. Shane’s house was simply ordered, a single hallway down the center with a living room and open kitchen to the left, and the closed-off office to the right. Two bedrooms further down the hall, and a bathroom at the end. Apparently, Shane used the other bedroom to do video work? Editing had always been a hobby of his, something he and Ryan bonded over originally. “I’ve got a foldout couch in there you can use, ” he told him.

They met around the breakfast counter and Shane poured him a glass of something. Ryan frowned. “I don’t think you should drink if you have a concussion.”

“I’m going to have a headache tomorrow either way,” Shane answered.

“Wh- no, Shane, Jesus-”

Shane took a sip and gave him a put on look. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You drink. You’re all shaky still.”

Ryan wanted to tell him he was not shaky, thank you very much. Instead, he picked up the glass and did so. Surprised, he took another sip. “This is… really good.”

“Gift from a friend,” Shane hummed, sitting down on the tall chairs. His feet still touched the ground, and Ryan realized a moment later, his own did not.

“You have friends?”

Shane rolled his eyes, amused, and then winced. He could brush it off all he liked, but his head was definitely hurting him. “Got me there. A client, then. Lilly Keller.”

Ryan choked on the wine.

“Wait. Like, the Lilly Keller?” Lilly Keller, the famous actress, winner of multiple oscars at the young age of twenty-three. Lilly Keller, America’s newest heartthrob. Ryan’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t just- Frick, dude, you’re Lilly Keller’s psychic?” Shane gave him a cheeky grin. “She’s a sweet girl. You can come with me to a session if you like.”

“ If I like? Who else do you know? Do you know Leonardo Dicaprio? Please say you-”

“She’s the only celebrity, don’t get too excited!”

Ryan was about to reply when headlights shot through the room from the front window. They were inordinately bright, especially since he and Shane hadn’t turned on more lights than the small one over the stove. The car faced them, unmoving. The headlights flipped on and off and on again with deliberation.

Ryan held up a hand to squint at it. “What the hell?”

Shane didn’t say anything.

“Shane?”

Ryan looked at him. Shane was stiff, his face blank. He set the glass down with a clink on the counter. “...shit…”

Ryan’s breath caught. “Is something wrong?”

Shane raised his eyebrows, meeting his eyes suddenly. “Naw. Just something I’ve gotta do. You wait in here.” Without another word, Shane crossed the kitchen and opened the door of his office. Ryan stayed at the counter, too shocked to do anything but obey.

Maybe this really was a bad idea.

Shane cursed in the dark of his office as he pushed aside a few books on his bookshelf to reveal the safe hidden behind. He opened the dial quickly. Inside lay a pile of jewelry, some watches, other important documents, and piles of cash. It wasn’t all his technically. He got rent from several other psychics around the area and then delivered a portion of his and theirs to the person above him.

Shane counted the bills, fumbling. His head pounded like it was shrinking around his brain. There was no way he was going to get around avoiding explaining this to Ryan. With a sigh, he straightened, closed the safe, and walked to the front door. Ryan met his gaze and his eyes widened when he saw the money in Shane’s hand. Shane didn’t have anything to put it in or else he would have. Shane didn’t respond. He already knew Ryan was scared. It was bleeding off him like sweet sick. Fear and disappointment.

Shane had a knife in his back pocket just in case as he walked down his sidewalk. It was wet from the sprinklers. Just at the end of the driveway sat a black, shiny car, windows thick.

The moment he saw it, his headache pulsed worse. But he relaxed. His shoulders dropped and he picked up his pace. Thank God…

The window rolled down as he got closer.

“Good evening, Jack.”

Jack, a black-haired kid with a pointy nose and bruised eyes, leaned into the streetlight so he was visible. “How’d you know it was me?”

Shane handed him the cash. “The way you park? I dunno. Wasn’t expecting you tonight. I thought you guys weren’t coming till the twentieth? Where’s Hera?”

“She’s at a party. Apparently she has some big meeting in the twentieth. She told me to come collect early.”

“Well, you’re lucky I had extra meetings this week.”

“ You’re lucky.”

Shane wasn’t scared of Jack. He wasn’t a bad kid, all things considered. It wasn’t his fault his family was batshit crazy. Shane smiled and drummed his fingers on the top of the car. “Well, tell Hera I said hello.”

“Will do.” Jack turned the car back on, putting the money on the passenger seat. He nodded toward Shane’s head. “Someone get ya?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Car accident earlier today.”

“Aw, that sucks. They give you morphine?” Shane blinked at him. “A little. Gave me crazy dreams.”

The kid grinned a wide, toothy smile. One of his teeth was gold. “Nice. Thanks, bitch. See ya. Hera said she wants you to start taking in the money yourself or she’ll kick your ass.”

Shane opened his mouth to protest. Then he shut it. He managed something like a smile. “Fine. Stay safe, Jack.”

“Whatever, voodoo man.” With that, Jack rolled up the window and slunk the car down the street.

Shane hesitated in his front yard. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was... so tired.

And Ryan was peeking through the blinds. Of course, he was.

Shane turned around and met Ryan’s eyes immediately, startling the man into dropping the blinds and disappearing. It would be funny in other circumstances. Suddenly, he didn’t want to stay up and drink with his friend anymore. His headache was only getting worse and Ryan was worry pacing in his living room like an anxious cat.

Shane made it back to the kitchen. He rubbed the back of his neck. His body ached. The pain medication must have been wearing off. “Well, you wanted to know what it's like being a psychic in LA...” He laughed.

Ryan stood stiff, his hands trembling. “Who was that?” Shane ignored the question. “My head is killing me. Can we… I'm sorry, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Ryan wavered. “Are you in danger?”

Shane waved the question away in dismissal. “Naw, calm down. My boss likes me.” He knew Ryan was brimming with questions, but they had a whole two months at least to get answers to them, and Shane was having a hard time focusing now. He walked out, down the hallway. “I set out the blankets and pillows on the bed in there.”

Ryan didn’t have a choice really, but he relented and followed. “... Okay. We’ll talk tomorrow?”

Shane turned at his door. “Duh? Night, Ryan.”

“... night.”

Shane put the door between them as quickly as he could. He was being totally unfair, but he really didn’t have the energy to explain. He sat down on his bed, took his shoes off, and then lay flat on the covers for a minute, thinking he’d get up and change any second. His body was heavy, and he was very aware for no reason in particular that he was a creature inside it.

Shane sat in the passenger seat as the car whizzed the highway. The radio played Miley Cyrus’s ‘The Climb’. Shane turned his head. He recognized the feeling, the thickness of the air like moving through dough. In the driver seat, Jack sang not-so-well, but earnestly, as he drummed his hands on the wheel. The sight made Shane smile. Jack wouldn’t be caught dead listening to something like this.

Shane stood in a bookshop, looking up at the reflection of a book on the inside of a display. ǝɿiH ɿoꟻ ɔiʜɔγƨꟼ. A dark-haired man passed by.

Rapid images passed his eyes. A girl cried in her bathroom, a man and a woman fought in a kitchen. A plate broke. The images passed faster and faster until he couldn’t distinguish them. Everything was too quick, too much information all at once. His stomach began to ache.

Then he was laying on cold marble tiles. Heels clicked past his ear. Above him, marble arches stretched into a dome centered by a massive chandelier that shone like the damn sun. He tried to sit up and managed to turn his head instead. Gravity was too heavy. A familiar woman opened the front door. She wore a mink fur shawl over a nightgown, clearly heading toward the bed. “Jack. you look like shite, honey, why doesn’t your mama dress you properly.”

“Got the money, auntie.”

A pause. “Excuse me?”

Jack stepped back. Shane could see his sneakers. “I have the money, auntie Hera, Ma’am.”

He gave it to her and she hummed. “You told him to come here?”

Jack nodded.

“It’s about time we initiated that dry ass fucker… I’ve never seen a more well-behaved pet.” She leaned forward and pulled Jack down so she could kiss him on the cheek.

“Aw, ugk, auntie- auntie, he’s paying fine, I don't see why you’ve gotta-”

She grabbed his cheek, a little rougher than she ought to have. “How about you run along and let the adults do the thinking, Jackie dear. Have a goodnight, tell your mama she’s a whore.”

“Okay, auntie.”

Shane was listening so closely, he almost didn’t notice until it was too late. The stone crept around his legs and up to his body. He screamed as he fell into the marble.

Concrete surrounded him. He couldn’t breathe. Coldwater rushed at his back. Suddenly he dropped into water, tumbling, slamming into walls. It was so cold. He gasped and flailed and-

Jumped up out of sweat-soaked sheets.

Shane choked on nothing, shivering, breathing rapidly. His whole body hurt. He was battered and bleeding and-

No, no he wasn’t. What kind of nightmare…

Shane scrubbed his face and hissed in pain at the cut over his eye. Sunlight streamed in from the window. A few moments passed, and his heartbeat slowed.

The door rattled. Ryan poked his head in, hair tousled. “Yo, you want eggs?”

Yes, he did.

Man, concussions sure were weird.

________________________________________________________________

previous to be continued....

#buzzfeed unsolved #buzzfeed unsolved fanfic #bfu fanfic #ryan bfu #shane bfu #au #mob boss #psychic #LA #crime scene #ryan and shane #story #multi chapter #dreams #nightmare #fortune teller

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missorgana · 5 years

Text

stiles stilinski's guide to not losing your best friend

pairing: scott mccall & stiles stilinski, isaac lahey/scott mccall (teen wolf) + background relationships

rating: teen and up

word count: 7614

summary: Isaac seems to be spending more time with Scott recently. Like, 'Scott and Stiles' amount of time. And Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn't a little, tiny bit frustrated about it.

(my longass contribution to a dead fandom, but i’ve had this idea sitting in my drafts for too long so. any mistakes found are my own and hope someone enjoys this mess ajgsj)

read on ao3

Stiles has known Scott his whole life.

Or well, not literally. He’s known him since around the beginning of third grade. Technically.

But it feels like Scott’s always been there.

He’s one of the few constants in Stiles’ life, really, besides his father of course. Scott’s the brother he’s always wanted.

And it’s a sort of unspoken thing between them that they consider the other’s parent family as well.

Melissa has talked through issues Stiles had several times - and has also insisted he call her by her first name - and Stiles has lost count of all the times his father caught them together in some kind of trouble. He still loves them both, though, Stiles knows.

Scott’s father was an alcoholic asshole who left him and his mom not long after pushing Scott down the stairs, knocking him unconscious. Stiles’s mother died in the hospital, with a young Stiles as the only witness, due to his father’s late sheriff work.

That’s another unspoken thing between them. Stiles kind of likes it that way.

Usually, when one is upset, or having a bad day, or anything, they’ll crawl through the other’s window and play video games until they both fall asleep, no questions asked. Cuddled up together, in most scenarios.

It’s not like they can’t talk about it. They have before.

But mostly, talking about things are reserved for their parents, unless it’s only between the two of them, obviously. And they’re both comfortable with that.

Because Scott knows Stiles would, literally, die for him, and he knows Scott would do exactly the same for him. They only mention it in dire situations, though.

These dire situations, however, seem to be happening more often lately, ever since the whole ‘Scott was bitten by a werewolf and oh turns out he’s also a True Alpha’ thing came around.

It’s taking some time to get used to. Stiles isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it, if he’s completely honest.

But him and Scott are still partners in crime, as they always have been, and it’s comforting that one thing hasn’t changed, at least.

It seems like there’s still time for that to change as well, though.

At least that’s how Stiles feels in this moment, standing with Scott in front of his locker, talking about God knows what.

Because they’re not alone. Isaac Lahey, the newest addition to the McCall pack, as they call it, is standing alongside them.

Well, not the newest. That would be Malia and Kira.

Stiles doesn’t have a problem with them, though. He likes them. A lot, actually.

But Isaac is a different story. Besides being overall unbearable to be around, with his seemingly permanent stink-eye look and apparent dislike of Stiles in general, he also seems to be spending more time with Scott recently. Like, ‘Scott and Stiles’ amount of time.

Stiles knows that Scott’s allowed to have other friends than himself, of course he is. They both have plenty of other friends, Allison and Lydia to name a few.

Scott maybe has a few more than him, but that’s not the point.

The point is that wherever Scott is, Isaac seems to be there as well. Like, right now, for instance. And Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little, tiny bit frustrated about it

“What about you, Stiles?”

That mention of his name shakes Stiles out of his own head.

“Sorry- what?”

Scott smiles at that, chuckles shortly. “Dude, have you heard anything we’ve said?” There’s zero judgment in his tone, though.

“Uh, not really, no. Sorry.” Stiles says, scratching his neck awkwardly. He really needs to stop doing that.

Isaac gives him a weird look and rolls his eyes. Whatever. It’s not like Stiles wants to hear anything he has to say.

He feels bad about Scott, though.

“It’s fine, man” says Scott, “We were talking about the English assignment for this morning. You finished it?”

Stiles’ eyes widen at that.

“I haven- Shit. I totally forgot about it.”

“Me too!” Scott says, while shutting his locker closed. He chuckles a bit again before continuing, “Isaac’s finished it though. You can have a copy of his, like I got.”

Stiles almost wants to laugh. There’s no way Isaac, who hates his guts, is willing to give him a copy of his assignment. He simply nods, though, not bothering to look his way.

“Sure” says Stiles, before adjusting his bag, “I have to go now. Biology.”

“Really? You still have 10 min-”

“Just, uh. Have to talk to someone. It’s urgent. See you in English!”

He wanders off before Scott has time to ask any more questions. This looks to be another long day.

...

Somehow, in the midst of all this supernatural teenage mess, Stiles and Scott managed to form a friendship with Lydia Martin and Allison Argent.

Scott has had a rough couple of months, after his breakup with Allison, but they seem to have established a fairly good, platonic relationship now, despite it all.

Stiles isn’t that close to Allison, to be completely honest. He likes her though.

And he likes Lydia, but that’s not news to anyone. His 10 year ‘win Lydia Martin’s affection’ plan has progressed a lot faster than he’s planned. She actually talks to him now. Like, on a regular basis.

After all the changes with Scott, and Allison turning out to be a hunter, it wasn’t really much of a surprise that Lydia was part of the whole supernatural club as well.

Stiles seems to be the only human left in Beacon Hills at this point.

A part of this friendship the four have established includes meeting in front of Scott’s locker and going to lunch together.

It’s not anything they planned, it just kind of happened. It’s really nice.

But now, Stiles and the girls have been waiting for over 15 minutes with no sign of Scott. Lydia glances at her phone for what seems like the 30th time, and fixes Stiles with an expectant look.

“Didn’t you have English with him?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs, then nods. “Yeah, said he had to talk to the teacher. I didn’t think he’d take this long.

He looks around in hope of spotting Scott, but he had no such luck.

Allison tilts her head to the side but says nothing. Lydia purses her lips for a moment.

“Let’s just go,” she says, “He’s probably in the bathroom or something, he’ll know where we are.”

And in less than a second she’s gone. Allison shrugs and follows along.

Stiles waits around a moment longer, but eventually lets out a sigh and goes in the same direction, to their usual table.

Lydia’s the smartest person he knows, she’s probably right.

Turns out however, for once, she’s not.

Because at their pack table sits Scott, apparently laughing at something Malia said. With Isaac right next to him. Jesus Christ.

Scott’s saved him a seat across from him, though, as he always does.

Allison and Lydia’s already seated, so he simply follows suit, preparing himself to casually question Scott about why he didn’t meet up with them.

Lydia is one step ahead of him, though. She always is.

She raises her eyebrow when Scott curses himself, already starting to apologise. “I’m so sorry, really, I completely forgot.”

He shakes his head at himself, and Stiles just can’t stay mad at him.

So he shrugs, like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, shooting Scott a reassuring smile, “It’s not a big deal, man.”

He’s kind of lying to himself though, because Stiles is pissed. At Isaac fucking Lahey. Who’s apparently making a point of not sparing him a single glance. Asshole.

“I won’t let it happen again, guys. Promise.” Scott tells them, looking like it’s the biggest regret in his life, ever.

Allison just gives him a pat on the shoulder and resumes her conversation with Lydia.

Stiles smiles at him again and kicks his leg softly, because that’s just the kind of thing they do, and devotes his attention to the chocolate pudding on the tray in front of him.

But he doesn’t miss Isaac leaning into Scott’s side, clearly whispering something in his ear.

It’s probably werewolf business. Whatever. No big deal.

...

Stiles is not a very patient person, he now realises. Far from it.

Which is why he decides to catch Allison in between classes three days later, fairly upset after his zombie film marathon with Scott the night before. And Isaac, of fucking course.

“Hey, Allison!” he says, shooting her a smile, although he’s sure it turns out more awkward than he intended.

She looks taken aback for a second. And he gets why.

Despite the four of them practically being attached by the hip at this point, Stiles actually can’t remember the last time he had a conversation with her alone. It’s strange.

Allison seems to recover quickly, though. “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

She nods as a silent response, closing her locker and leaning against it.

“Don’t you think Scott is hanging out with Isaac a lot recently?” he asks, but quickly tries to elaborate, “Like, I mean, more than with us.”

Allison flicks her eyes to the ground, then back to him, and purses her lips. This seems to be a mannerism she’s taken off Lydia.

“I guess.” she ultimately replies, shrugging, “They live together, so I expected that.”

And Stiles can’t really argue with that. Dammit.

“You’re right. I just- I don’t know.” he says, flailing his arms helplessly. “I guess I feel overlooked? I don’t think Scott would do that intentionally, but Isaac doesn’t like me. Yet he apparently insists on always being around him, even when I’m there.”

He mutters the last part but Allison must have heard him, because she furrows her brows with an understanding, slightly sad look.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” she says, and he can tell it’s genuine. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sure Isaac doesn’t have a problem with you, though. He doesn’t open up right away, you know. It takes a while to earn his trust.”

And, okay, now Stiles just feels like an asshole. An insensitive asshole. He’s doing real well.

“Yeah, I- sorry. That was not great of me.” he says, and lets out a sigh. “But could you- maybe, talk to him about this?”

Allison widens her eyes a bit, and pushes herself off the locker, standing up straight.

“Why me?”

“Because, you know. You and him. You’re a thing.”

It takes a beat before her demeanor changes once again. Stiles can’t decide if she looks pissed or not.

“I’m not dating Isaac.” she says simply.

And Stiles doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Because that’s exactly what he thought was going on. They seem so close.

But now he feels like an idiot. Again.

“Oh. You’re not?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Listen, I can tell this bothers you. Talk to Scott about it, okay? You’re the most important person in his life, everyone knows that.”

And Stiles can’t do much else than nod, defeated.

“I’m going to be late, Jesus. I’ll see you in Chemistry, right? Just think about it.” she says, and brushes past him without waiting for a reply.

Allison’s right, he has to admit that. He should talk to Scott. Tomorrow.

...

Stiles’ plan for today was to talk with Scott at lunch. But he kind of, sort of bailed on that.

He got another chance in Chemistry, but that didn’t work out either.

Allison’s eyes were on him the entire class, he could just feel it, but he managed to avoid her and slip out at the end. Not his proudest moment.

But now, Scott and him are at lacrosse practice. He figures third time’s the charm, right?

Except Isaac’s there, too.

And it’s not like coach ever goes easy on him. They do have obligatory water breaks, though, and this was when he would finally do it.

But Scott, Isaac and Kira are sitting on the bleachers, and she’s apparently telling them what her and Malia are doing for a group project.

Stiles isn’t sure if he should join them.

He can’t really talk to Scott about this with Isaac in earshot.

But Scott spots him standing awkwardly a few feet away and waves him over.

“What were you doing over there, man? Have you heard what Kira and Malia are planning for their Biology project?”

Stiles shakes his head, and Kira smiles excitedly, filling him in on what he’s missed. She’s got this look in her eyes that she always has when Malia is the subject of a conversation.

Sometimes, Stiles wonders if either of them will ever get the courage to ask the other out.

On an actual date. Not those days where Malia will use homework as an excuse to stare at Kira, and then use about an hour telling him about how helpful and pretty she is.

Anyway, he really should be listening to what Kira’s saying right now, and let this stupid thing go, but he can’t.

What does Isaac have to offer that he doesn’t?

He’s known Scott for, what? Six months? Less?

Stiles’ known Scott for almost ten years.

Does Isaac know he had a dog when he was younger? Does he know that Scott and said dog was attacked by a rapid pitbull, and his dog was deceased? Does he know Scott had asthma, before getting bitten?

Who was there to help and comfort Scott through his first wolf-out, and who stayed up at the library till closing time to research and help his friend understand his new powers?

Because it definitely wasn’t Isaac, that’s for fucking sure.

Suddenly, Kira has disappeared from Stiles’ line of vision. And when he looks around Isaac is nowhere to see, either.

Scott is giving him this look, and he knows exactly what it means.

It means he’s worried about him.

“Dude, are you doing okay?” he asks, hesitantly. Neither of them really know what to say in these types of situations, but Stiles appreciates it, he really does.

“Yeah, man. I’m peachy, Scotty.”

He lets out a nervous laugh, and Scott furrows his brows.

“Okay… are you sure? I mean- I don’t mean to pry. But you tend to get stuck in your own head sometimes. You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

God, Scott is so genuine. He cares so much.

This should be giving him the courage to talk it out, but instead, it just sends Stiles on a guilt trip. For fuck’s sake.

“I’m sure, seriously. I’m fine. Just haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.” he says, figuring one, tiny white lie won’t hurt much, “Nothing else to it.”

Scott doesn’t look all that satisfied with the reply, but he cuts the conversation there, and showcases his signature smile.

“If you’re sure, then that’s good enough for me. Come on, coach’ll probably kill us if we take any longer.”

He puts his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, patting his back and pulling him back to the field.

So much for that plan.

...

A while ago, Scott decided that they should do ‘pack hangouts’ on Friday nights. This idea was met with a mixture of excitement, hesitance and resistance.

But they’ve all developed a fondness for this event, despite it taking around 40 minutes of bickering before they know where to go every evening. It’s nice having some sort of structure, amidst protecting Beacon Hills from all the supernatural weirdness.

Tonight, they decide to go to the local bowling alley.

During the summer time it’s practically abandoned, with the exception of a senior bowling club. Not the most pumped up crowd in Stiles’ opinion, but him and his friends quickly make up for it.

All competitive events they plan automatically place the boys versus the girls, cause that’s usually what works best for them.

Stiles can admit he’s not the most skilled player. It’s fine. Scott and Isaac and their werewolf agility make up for that. The girls are better than them, though, and they all know it.

At the moment, the girls are ahead with eight points.

It’s Lydia’s turn when Scott suggests getting another round of drinks, and everyone eagerly throw remarks at him to order.

“Yes, Malia, I’m pretty sure they don’t have anything with deer in it.” he says, chuckling fondly at her disappointed frown. “I’ll figure something out. Isaac, you want anything?”

Isaac’s attention is on Scott immediately.

“Well, I don’t know if- you know what, I’ll go with you.” he replies, already standing up from his seat.

Stiles can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. But it goes unnoticed by the two, who walk off, and he huffs, crossing his arms.

He probably looks like a pissy five year old, at least judging from Allison’s face. Whatever.

Kira pockets her phone and sits right next to Stiles.

He notices her observing him from the corner of his eye. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, something he’s noticed she does right before bringing up stuff. Usually pack problems.

“Hey, Stiles?” she finally says. He turns his head to look at her.

“Is something wrong? You’ve been acting... weird all week.”

Stiles widens his eyes slightly. It’s really no secret how observant she is. She always seems to have an idea of what people are thinking about.

It still surprises him though, cause he hasn’t really talked to her this week, except today.

He clears his throat, “Uh, no, nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”

“It seemed like you were in your own world at practice today. Does that make sense?” she says, looking slightly embarrassed. “You just didn’t react when we talked.”

Shit. Now Stiles feels really, really embarrassed.

“I-I’m sorry, Kira, I just- I didn’t mean to ignore you. I mean you’re right.” he eventually gets out, with a sigh.

She frowns a bit, but he could tell it was out of confusion.

“Something’s going on? Did I do something?”

“No! Oh, God, no. Definitely not. You didn’t do anything.”

A strange, tense silence settles between them for just a second.

“Who did something, then?” she finally asks.

Stiles tries to think of something to say. Something other than the truth, something that doesn’t sound completely pathetic.

Fuck it.

“Something’s just weird with Scott.” he says, not sure how to explain it, “And Isaac. They just got close really fast. And that’s okay, totally, I just feel like they seem… ‘Scott and Stiles’ close, you know?”

Kira furrows her brows, and Stiles cringes. That didn’t sound possessive at all.

“I guess it’s more a problem with Isaac, really, I mean. He’s been rude to me from day one, but I’m worried he’s trying to replace me, to be an upgraded, werewolf best friend or something.” he says, not really wanting to look her in the eyes.

“I don’t want to lose Scott.”

And Kira’s face softens, not that it was hard before. She’s showing this worried demeanor now.

“I’m sorry. That was totally not my business to ask about that. Dammit, I’m an idiot.”

She seems ready to curse herself, or to just leave the conversation, so Stiles intervenes.

“You’re not! I swear. I guess I should say thank you,” he says, and continues despite the confusion appearing on her face once more, “For worrying about me."

She smiles hesitantly, shyly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“No problem. I mean, we’re friends. I always worry about all of you.”

He smiles back to her, as reassurance, because a weird sense of calm has now dawned upon him.

Somehow, he manages to keep a hold of it, despite Kira standing up to have her turn, and Scott returning with their drinks, and with Isaac of course, who apparently said something so funny he’s struggling to grasp his breath.

Stiles pretends not to care about it.

That is, until Malia suddenly turns to him, saying, “Do you want me to beat him up? I can do that.”

And he can’t do much else than slump down in his seat, rubbing his face, shaking his head. He appreciates the sentiment, though.

...

Stiles is more than fed up from this weekend.

Him and Scott had planned a paintball match Saturday, followed by food and video games till an ungodly hour of the night. Stiles was beyond excited.

Until Isaac turned up, to both Scott and his surprise, it seemed. And invited himself along to join them.

And of course Scott wasn’t bothered by it, cause he’s possibly the nicest person ever on this stupid earth. Stiles would appreciate that, if it wasn’t for Isaac being a complete asshole.

Somewhere along the way, Isaac had to talk to Scott in private. Stiles still has no idea why, but he couldn’t care less, honestly. He’s just pissed.

Which is why he walks straight up to Isaac once he spots him at the drinking fountain that Monday morning.

“Lahey!” He doesn’t even bother hiding the fact that he’s upset.

A couple of freshmen stare at them surprisedly, but Stiles keeps his attention on Isaac. Who’s now rolling his eyes.

“What do you want, Stiles?” he asks.

“I want to know what your problem is.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“My problem? Well, my father abused me and locked me in a freezer for the most of my childhood, and-”

Stiles cuts him off. “That-that’s not what I mean.”

They stare at each other pointedly for a second, before Stiles continues, “Look, I’m sorry. I sound like an asshole, that’s not what I want. Nobody deserves that shit. But I don’t understand what I did for you to hate me so much.”

Isaac scoffs, but stays silent.

“Besides, I’d appreciate it if you find your own best friend, and not try to steal mine, alright?” Stiles says finally. It kind of feels like a weight lifting off his chest.

Isaac looks at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Don’t bother denying it. You follow Scott around like a lost puppy. It’s clear to anyone that you’re trying to take my place”

And the motherfucker starts laughing. Like, full on laughing, like he just told the funniest joke in the whole fucking world.

Stiles' sure everyone in the hall is staring at them by now.

“I’m not trying to take your place.” Isaac says finally, still chuckling. “Trust me.”

Something about his tone is different, but Stiles can’t really figure out what. Still, he scoffs, because he has a hard time seeing what other explanation there could be.

“Why should I believe you?”

Isaac just shrugs, something resembling a smirk plastered on his face. And then he walks right past Stiles without a word.

Well, that didn’t exactly go the way he wanted it to.

...

Stiles manages to text Scott in History that same day.

Mr. Westover had made the decision to split up the two of them to opposite ends of the room a couple of months ago - probably for good reason.

His sarcastic commentary wasn’t really appreciated by anyone other than Scott.

This means Stiles is now seated in the back row, which isn’t too bad, because he is practically unsupervised while the teacher is at the blackboard.

u wanna go for milkshakes after class?

He watches the back of Scott’s head moving, notices his phone under the table, subtly looking and managing to not get caught.

Stiles’s phone vibrates in his hand.

yeah! have to go to work after tho! walk me there?

He chuckles silently at Scott’s overuse of exclamation points. Anything can excite him. It’s one of those quirks Stiles makes fun of him for, but he actually doesn’t mind at all.

of course man

Scott replies with about a dozen emojis. Stiles didn’t expect any less.

And now, he has somehow made it through History without falling asleep, and he’s walking alongside Scott, each with a milkshake in hand.

He scoffs at Scott’s mango-orange weirdness, much more content with his own Oreo monstrosity.

“Dude, do you know how much sugar’s in that?” he had asked Stiles, but not in a judgmental way, cause he was laughing. Stiles just stuck his tongue out at him, and asked the girl behind the counter for extra whipped cream.

Stiles is now thinking about his conversations with Allison and Kira for the millionth time. But mostly about the one with Isaac.

He had told him to back off and Isaac’s reaction was unexpected, while also being totally expected.

Stiles really has nothing against him as a person. Hell, in the beginning he thought they could be friends. He wanted to help Isaac.

His father was a sadistic child abuser, and most likely a murderer, too.

No one deserves someone like that in their life, Stiles absolutely meant it when he told Isaac that. He can’t say he knows, or understands, what he went through, but he can listen. Stiles’ dad has said he’s a good listener.

But Isaac clearly has something against his meer existence.

Oh, fuck this. Scott is right here, why waste time thinking about Isaac? He should just tell Scott how he feels. It can’t be that hard.

So he sucks in a breath, kicks some pebble on the ground, before finally opening his mouth, “Scotty?”

He keeps his eyes on the ground.

“Yeah?”

Scott’s turning his head to look at him, he can’t see it but he knows.

“I’ve been thinking… Um, I mean, there’s something on my mind. It’s been there for a while, I guess.” He decides to look up now, and sees Scott’s face, showcasing a small, reassuring smile.

His nod tells Stiles to keep going.

“You know Isaac doesn’t like me. Like at all. Which isn’t really the point, but it kind of is- ugh, okay. What I’m trying to say is you guys are hanging out a lot. And it makes me feel kind of…” he pauses, cause he doesn’t really know how to describe this, to be honest. But he does anyway. “Replaced.”

And Scott is silent for a beat. It seems like he’s processing what he’s just been told.

Then he’s frowning, but there’s a sadness to it.

“Shit. I-uh, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, dude.” he says, and then looks like he immediately regrets those words. “That didn’t come out right. I just- you feel replaced? I would never, you- you know that, right?”

And Stiles nods, because he knows, and Scott is so sincere, he can just sense it.

He just can’t help doubting himself.

Scott stops abruptly, and sort of gribs Stiles’ forearm, without much pressure. He could probably easily free himself and keep going, if Scott doesn’t put his werewolf strength into use.

But he feels like he’s been avoiding this for too long. Or that’s what Allison's telling him.

Stiles has never experienced anything else than honesty and loyalty from Scott, so, he asks himself, why would it be any different now?

Well, there’s been small, petty fights and lies in the past. They only lasted in a span of 24 hours, though.

“Let me explain, okay? I know that- I mean, Isaac hasn’t been really… forthcoming with you. I don’t think he dislikes you, though? He knows you’re my family, man, he wouldn’t-”

For some reason, Stiles feels the need to interrupt.

“You know what? Everyone’s been telling me that, but I don’t really believe it. I told myself I was only mad at him, but I’m kind of mad at you, too. He was an asshole this weekend and you just let him.” he says, and he stomps his foot.

He’s a fucking five year old, he knows.

If Lydia was here, she would probably roll her eyes at him, and make that “Ugh.” sound she does when she’s disappointed in someone.

“W-what, I, Stiles, I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t know he was coming. I swear.” Scott replies, rapidly moving his hands while explaining, “I mean, I told him I was hanging out with you. I didn’t invite him, though.”

“See, Scotty, that’s the problem, okay? He’s trying to be your best friend. You two had a private talk, even, when we were going home Saturday. He fucking lives with you, does he need to follow you everywhere else, too?” Stiles exclaims.

He cringes at himself a bit. That came out too harsh.

Scott’s eyes widen, like he’s had some sort of sudden revelation, and he rapidly replies, “There-there’s no way he would do that. Let me tell you what we talked about, okay? We were kind of waiting to tell you till the right time, but fuck, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head what seems like a million times, and starts again before Stiles can get a chance to answer.

“Isaac’s not trying to replace you, okay? And he could never replace you if he tried, man. I’m with you till the end, werewolves, druids, all that shit be damned.”

Maybe Stiles should let him explain. They both consider himself the brains of this duo, and Lydia’s complimented his solutions, as well.

But honestly, he’s tired. He can’t see what kind of explanation would make sense of this.

So he just rolls his eyes, and looks at his watch.

“Whatever. I don’t really wanna hear it. You’re gonna be late for work, anyway.” he says, pulling on his backpack straps.

Scott tells him to wait, but he just goes home. Don’t cry about this, dammit.

...

Stiles is stubborn.

He knows this about himself, because everyone he knows has told him so at least once. And he definitely knows he’s being stubborn right now.

Stiles has been avoiding Scott since their conversation Monday. He would call it a fight if it wasn’t so one-sided.

At the end of that night, he had received something around 30 texts from Scott.

Stiles please call me man

just let me explain okay

stiles????

dude im so sorry

i dont know what to do

call me

Did every one of those texts fill Stiles’ gut with regret? Yeah, yeah they did.

Nevertheless, he managed to somehow ignore the continued buzzing all through dinner, despite his dad’s slightly concerned looks.

For the last three days, he’s ignored Scott’s attempts to talk to him at school. The texts stopped when Wednesday came around. But Stiles knows him well enough to know that he doesn’t give up that easily.

Which is why Stiles didn’t have lunch with the pack for those three days, as well.

He got a couple of texts from Kira as well, and Lydia, and as much as he didn’t want to ignore the girls, his plan was pretty much as always.

Avoiding the problem till it solves itself.

Allison has also been giving him some rather unsettling glances in class. He pretended not to notice.

What finally made him give up his pride was his dad confronting him.

He could tell that his dad didn’t want to pry, but he still questioned why Scott hadn’t been around.

Which is why Stiles is now letting himself into the McCall house.

Him and Scott convinced their parents to give them spare keys to each other’s houses when they were 12. At that point, half of Stiles’ clothes had ended up in Scott’s wardrobe, anyway, and the other way around.

Stiles knows he could’ve just talked with him at school, but he feels safer here. It’s practically his second home.

And maybe he’ll feel a little less ridiculous without the potential risk of their fellow teenagers eavesdropping.

Once he enters, the house is quiet.

He figures Melissa is still at work, which isn’t really a surprise. Both of their parents have rather unconventional working schedules.

Stiles shuts the door behind him and automatically makes his way to Scott’s room.

They got off school about an hour ago, so Scott’s most likely still doing homework, or playing video games.

He always tells Stiles of pack business first. Well, they actually have a pack group text now, or whatever, but still. If something was going on he would know, regardless of the awkwardness he’s created for himself.

Stiles is used to go in his room without knocking, whether it be through the door or the window, and this is what he almost does now.

Almost.

Because standing meer inches from the bedroom, he hears a very familiar voice. And it’s not Scott’s.

It’s just his fucking luck. Isaac’s here.

The door is open, just ever so slightly, and for some reason, Stiles decides to peek through the tiny gap between it and the wall.

From his limited view, he can see the back of Scott’s head.

He can’t see Isaac, but he would never mistake his voice, with his apparent personal mission to annoy Stiles as much as he can on a daily basis.

Is this eavesdropping? Probably.

This might be illegal. Stiles doesn’t really know.

He’ll have to ask his dad later.

Anyway, apologising to Scott seems less appealing with Isaac present. Should he walk in anyway? Maybe he would interrupt another weird, private conversation between them. Maybe he should just go home.

But Stiles lingers, despite reason telling him not to

“I think he’s avoiding me. He hasn’t replied to my texts or called. I mean, it seems like he’s avoiding me? Ugh, I don’t know.” Scott’s voice sounds like confusion, frustration, desperation, all in one.

A couple of thumps sound that Stiles can’t really place.

“Stiles not talking to you, what a tragedy.”

Isaac really is an asshole. No redeeming qualities, whatsoever. What does Scott even see in him?

“Isaac.” Scott almost sounds like a scolding parent. He sighs, “Come on, don’t be like that. You know he’s my family.”

Stiles can’t help the smile creeping up on his face.

He really can’t stay mad at Scott and his stupid, good self. God dammit.

“Yeah, yeah- I’m sorry. Really. I know.” Isaac’s voice resonates, and it sounds weirdly genuine. “He’ll come around. He’s very possessive of you, so.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Yeah, Isaac, put all the blame on him. That’s just great.

A moment passes before Scott replies, “Possessive?”

“He accused me of ‘stealing his best friend’.”

“I figured, I mean, he said that to me, too.” Scott says, huffs a bit before carrying on, “I wanted to explain it to him. He wasn’t like this with Allison.”

This statement causes Stiles to furrow his brows. What does Allison have to do with this?

In this moment, Isaac steps into his line of view.

He makes a movement that looks a lot like shrugging.

“Allison didn’t attack him, so,” Isaac was quiet for a moment, seemingly choosing his word carefully. “I get it. But also, he’s pretty oblivious.”

The conversation continues to weird Stiles out, because Isaac sounds genuine, but if that wasn’t enough, his voice sounds almost remorseful. Like it’s filled with regret.

Huh. Isaac never apologized, or anything similar to that, after what went down.

That also plays a vital part in why Stiles hates his guts. Or it did.

He hasn’t really been thinking about that for a long time.

Isaac seats himself on the arm of the small couch, where Scott is sitting in front of the tv.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I showed up at your hangout this weekend.” he says, “I didn’t really wanna tell you over the phone.”

Stiles figures this is about their private conversation. What in the world could be so important that Isaac couldn’t wait, what, two days till they returned to school?

“It’s okay, hey, don’t apologise. I’m, like, thrilled you told me.” Scott replies, a chuckle sounding under his breath. “I- Stiles wasn’t happy about it, and I get it. You should probably talk to him. We both should.”

“Well,” Isaac starts out, a beat of silence, “Yeah, I promise. We’ll talk to him. He can’t stay mad at you forever, okay? But can we please not talk about this anymore?”

Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

Scott makes a sound like a huff, then chuckles, then looks down and up again, “What do you suggest we do, then?”

“Come on.” Isaac replies, but he moves down in the couch next to Scott.

Then Scott moves his head close to Isaac's.

And then they’re kissing.

Oh.

Stiles is stuck in his spot, mouth hanging open. It happened so suddenly that he doesn’t know how to react now.

That might actually make sense.

Or strike that, it does make sense.

Now standing here just feels plain wrong. He should leave.

That’s what he does.

He moves from the bedroom door down the hallway, down the stairs, half running out the door, praying he’s not too loud.

And now he doesn’t know what to do with himself, or this revelation, so he heads home.

Maybe he should just go to bed.

Yeah, he’s seen enough today, he should be sleeping on that.

He’ll talk to Scott after the weekend.

...

"I don't want to fuck you."

The sentence came out of Stiles' mouth before he could really think too much of it. And that sparked a rather awkward silence.

Perhaps this is not the best thing to tell Scott after ignoring him for a whole week.

Especially while Isaac and Allison are around as well.

But this is not the stupidest thing Stiles has done in his life, believe it or not. Scott knows this, he's sure.

And now said boy is looking at him with a startled, confused gaze.

Allison is looking rather uncomfortable.

Isaac's brows are deeply furrowed, showcasing a weird, sour expression on his face that is disturbingly similar to Derek.

Stiles starts chewing on his bottom lip.

He looks to Scott expectantly for a reply, but truthfully, he doesn't really know what he's hoping for.

Scott seems to be over the initial shock, though.

"Alright?" he simply says, sounding hesitant. "Uh...thank you?"

Stiles sighs a tiny bit in relief.

Gives Scott a nod.

But he doesn't really know what to say now

Stiles does notice Allison silently exiting the conversation, disappearing around the nearest corner.

"Stiles, what... What do you mean, exactly?" Scott asks him.

"Uhm, I mean what I said. I don't want to fuck you. Just want you to know that."

Scott scoffs, and chuckles a bit.

"Okay. I don't want to fuck you either, Stiles." He looks to Isaac for a second, perhaps for a way out of the situation as well.

Isaac just shrugs.

"Dude," Scott starts once more, "You're freaking me out, man. Been freaking me out since last week. I meant it when I apologised, you know that right?"

Stiles nods with slight defeat. Of course he does, you dork.

"Where's this coming from?"

"Well," Stiles begins, not really sure how to say this without mentioning his totally not cool eavesdropping on their private moment. "It's come to my attention that you and Isaac are, you know."

He follows this with some helpless hand movements, which receive a weirded out look from Isaac.

"I didn't know you guys were dating, and I feel dumb for not figuring it out, okay? But also I'm sort of hurt that you didn't tell me cause you're my brother, man! I was scared that I wasn't a good enough best friend anymore and you were ditching me for him, and also I have to say I don't know what you see in that douche, and-"

It all came out of Stiles' mouth in a massive, too quick to comprehend blur, until Scott stopped him before his own brain could, gribbing his shoulder slightly.

"Stiles!"

Scott looks at him with his stupid puppy dog eyes. He's an asshole.

"What are you talking about?" He says, scoffing like he's in disbelief. "Why would I think you're not good enough?"

"Cause, you know."

Scott looks confused, still, and Stiles sighs. "Your werewolf thing."

This makes the other boy frown.

"Dude, my wolf thing doesn't change anything. We talked about this a long time ago, remember?"

Stiles doesn't know what else to do than sigh, flail his limbs a bit, and open his mouth once more.

"That was before you and Isaac got all friendly."

He hopes that doesn't sound too judgmental, or sour.

Scott turns back to see the red haired boy roll his eyes, and he chuckles. "You two are impossible, you know that?"

He continues despite Stiles' frowning, "You're my best friend, man, werewolf or not. You know me better than anyone. Don't you ever think you're not good enough, alright? And I'm so sorry that I ever made you feel like you're not good enough. I don't ever want you to feel that way."

Scott gives him a reassuring smile, and Stiles cannot help giving in and smiling back, as usual. Damn him.

"Also," Scott adds, "We're, uh, pretty new."

He shakes his head at himself, and looks to Isaac, presumably for a better way to explain whatever he's trying to say.

"Our 'thing' is new. Like, just became official. How do you even know about it, anyway?" Isaac asks, with his permanently sharp look.

Well, at least he's not looking at Stiles like he's a wandering plague as he usually does, so that's something.

"Uhm," Stiles starts, not really sure how to say it, "I, kind, sort of, saw you kiss?"

Isaac scrunches up his face.

"I mean, ugh, I went to your house to talk and then you were there, and i didn't really wanna go in and interrupt, and, yeah."

Scott laughs brightly. "You're so weird sometimes."

Stiles knows he means it fondly, he can tell.

"Truth is, we haven't really told anyone yet. I don't wanna make it a big deal." Scott shrugs, "I just really like Isaac."

This makes the taller boy duck his head, displaying something Stiles cannot make himself believe is a shy smile.

This week's brought plenty of surprises, that much is true.

"I didn't even know you were into boys." Stiles says, but it sounds stupid, and he frowns at himself, "Nothing's wrong with that! I mean, you've only been with girls before, you know."

"Yeah, I mean, I've actually known I'm bi for a while now" Scott replies, makes a face Stiles can't really interpret, "I wanted to come out to you, to everyone. My mom knows, but that's about it up till this point."

Stiles doesn't really know what to think of this.

Doesn't Scott trust him?

He hates that thought immediately though, cause it's not up to him to decide who Scott comes out to, and when. It’s personal.

"I just, ugh, I think... the reason why I hesitated about telling you was because I thought it would make things weird."

Stiles finds himself frowning. He blinks a couple of times.

Maybe this looks way too dramatic, but he doesn't care.

"How in the world would it make things weird?"

Scott shrugs. "I mean, awkward? I don't know man."

Stiles shakes his head at him. "I'd never think you would hit on me, or whatever, if that's what you think. I wouldn't blame ya, though."

The other boy playfully punches his shoulder, laughing again.

"That is what I mean. And I would never hit on you! We're brothers, that just seems wrong to me." he says, then adds, "And I love you, I really do, but you're not really my type."

Stiles puts a hand on his chest in false offense, gasping, "Excuse me? I'm everyone's type."

Isaac scoffs behind them.

It's probably going to sound a bit mean, he's aware, but Stiles had sort of forgotten he was still present. Oh well.

"Definitely not mine." the red haired boy tells him.

Stiles makes an effort to send him the best stink-eye he can muster.

"Isaac," Scott says with an expectant look, "Don't you have something to tell Stiles?"

The taller boy sighs dramatically, but when he turns to Stiles he has a genuine look in his eyes, "I'm sorry."

Stiles lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

"I know I can be mean, alright? It's kind of my thing, I guess, sarcasm and all." Isaac elaborates.

"Guess we have more in common than I thought." Stiles replies with a huff.

And the taller boy smiles, a little bit. Tiny smile, bit like a smirk, but he doesn't seem offended.

"Maybe." he says. "I don't hate you or anything. I haven't really been a people person up till now. I'm trying to, though."

And Stiles smiles at that, and nods, hoping his understanding is conveyed through the simple gesture.

"You're not that bad, Lahey. You're alright. But you know, if you ever hurt Scott, you're in deep shit man. Break his heart, I'll-

"Alright!" Scott stops him with a hand on his upper arm, chuckle and wide eyes. “He would never. And besides, I know how to take care of myself.”

More chuckles sound from the three of them, Isaac nods and chimes in, albeit not as loud, “I would never.”

Stiles nods, satisfied with his answer. For now.

“Okay, so,” he says, slightly eager to change the subject. This whole ordeal feels awkward to him. He’s just glad it hasn’t screwed up everything.

“We’re still going to the movies Friday, right?”

Scott gives him the huge signature smile, of course, before he replies, “Definitely! The girls are looking forward to it as well.”

“Good. Please try to keep it in your pants, alright?”

This earned him an Isaac Lahey stink-eye, and a (slightly) shocked laugh on Scott’s part.

Some things never change.

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