#while the entire block knows that letting him on the grill is a risk

[edithbarton]

-loud enough to carry through the back door of the Barton household- "GRAM'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!! Can ya bring me t'fire extinquisher?! Dad's done caught t'grass on fire again!!"

Edith shouldn’t laugh. That doesn’t stop her, though. Barney might be damn proud of his grilling skills - and she has to hand it to him that the burgers are fantastic - but it’s not really summer unless he’s managed to set the grass on fire at least once. 

Being the one inside working on getting some of the sides together, she’s the one responsible for getting the fire extinguisher out. As this is practically expected at this point, the extinguisher is out and within reach. She grabs it and carries it out to the back porch, holding it out to her grandson.

“What is that? Three this year? He’s going for a record.”

[starkeristheendgame]

Inspired by 9-1-1 (on Fox), which is my current obsession. I highly recommend checking it out and it’s spin-off series 9-1-1: Lonestar. If you already like 9-1-1 and Buddie (Buck and Eddie) then you should check out my new main account @therogueheart. Liberty has been taken with protocols and practices here, but the land of fiction knows no rules.

Firefighter!Tony x Civilian!Peter.

TW: Age difference | Under-negotiated sexual content | Unrealistic practises

“NYFD! We’re evacuating the block!”

“NYFD, are any residents present?”

Peter jerked awake to loud yelling and incessant pounding on his door, flailing blearily in bed for a moment before he fell off the side of in a heap of limbs and bedding, scrambling to get upright.

He shrugged on a hoodie and tripped into a pair of combat boots, stumbling his way sleepily to the door. He was operating on barely five hours of sleep and felt every hour he was sorely missing - though his midterms were a good enough reason to burn the midnight oil.

He wrenched the door open just as a firefighter on the other side went to swing the breach ram into it, letting out a squeak of panic as it stopped mere inches from his belly. The man wielding it was huge; with short blond hair and shoulders that could fit a person comfortably on either side. 

“That was close, I could’ve ruptured your entire torsal cavity and killed you!” the firefighter boomed cheerfully, straightening up with a broad, dazzling smile. Peter let out a faint noise and did his best not to pass out, sagging against the doorframe and gripping it. 

He was wide fucking awake now, that was for sure.

“My name is Thor, I’m with the NYPD, Manhattan division. We’re evacuating the block, there’s been a gas leak on the lower and mid levels and there’s risk of combustion,” the man ordered, slinging the ram over his shoulder and gesturing to the hallway. Peter could hear other voices, all similar conversations amidst the yells of NYPD, open up!

“Uh,” was all Peter got out before he was being ushered out of his doorway. Firefighter Thor nudged him several steps forwards before Peter’s brain finally came online and he jerked to a stop.

“Wait! I need my Adderall and my phone! If I don’t call Aunt May she’s gonna kill me and if I don’t take my meds I’m gonna be screwed!”

Thor looked undecided, brows pinching. “You shouldn’t-”

“It’s okay, Thor. Move onto the North quadrant; I’ll stay with this one,” came a voice from behind them and Peter turned, shrinking in on himself a little. 

Illuminated in the crappy hallway lighting was a man who looked like he’d stepped straight off a movie billboard. He wasn’t as tall or the same brand of clean-cut Hollywood handsome that Thor was, but he was just as attractive. More so, if Peter was going to acknowledge his tendency to lust after men twice or even thrice his age. 

The man had black hair swept into a neat side-leaning quiff, a hint of salt and pepper at his temples. His facial hair had been styled in a way that ought to look ridiculous but only served to give him a unique, sharp look, accentuating the shape of his jaw. 

The man winked at him and Peter realised he’d been staring. When he glanced to the side Thor had already moved off out of sight and the firefighter left behind gestured to Peter’s door, which was thankfully still open ajar from where he’d been rushed out.

“Uh, thanks. Thank you...Sir? Officer?” he cringed at his own awkwardness, shuffling past. The man looked amused, quirking a brow and pursing his lips a little, even as something indescribable flashed in his eyes. 

“Sir works just fine, if that’s your thing. But for the record - I’m Captain Stark. Pretty boys get to call me Tony, though,” the man winked again, teasing seeping into his voice as Peter flushed and beelined for his bed, grabbing his phone from it’s charger and scooping up his bill box and keys. 

He lamented not being able to grab anything else, but he knew better than to put himself (and someone else) at risk by lingering. Tony ushered him out of the door with a hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the stairwell. Peter could hear noises and voices on the lower levels but realised with surprise that they were the only two left on the topmost floor.

“You were dead to the world, kid. Thor was banging on your door like crazy. We almost gave you up for not in,” Tony voiced, seemingly understanding his realisation. Peter flushed again and mumbled something about studying, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as he could, Tony a close and solid presence at his back.

It wasn’t until the cool, outside air hit his legs that he realised he was still only wearing a thin hoodie and the shorts he’d gone to sleep in. He shivered in dismay, wrapping his arms around himself. He wasn’t the only one who’d clearly been dragged out of bed - there were people milling around in robes and pyjama sets. 

One poor man was even shivering in a ratty blanket, suds dripping from his hair and into his eyes. 

“What happened?” he asked, doing his best to stop his teeth from chattering. 

“Residents on the lower levels reported strong smells of sulphur and gas. We think it’s a line rupture or faulty heater somewhere. Full evac is protocol until we know for sure and can get started on a fix,” the fire Captain answered, steering him a little away from the main crowd and to one of the trucks. 

“Take a seat, kid,” Tony offered, gesturing to the step-up of the truck. Peter did, flinching as his bare skin met the icy metal. The man left him there, turning away to resume his role as he barked orders and disappeared off into the fray. Peter busied himself with his phone, only looking up when Tony’s voice boomed out over the crowd sometime later. 

“Alright, everybody listen up!” the man yelled, clapping his hands. “We’ve located the source of the gas and the good news is that it’s a relatively easy fix. The bad news is that it’ll take a minimum of four hours. In the name of safety, none of you can return to the building until it’s deemed safe to do so. Your landlord and building technicians will get in contact as soon as they’ve been given the okay for you to return home. In the meantime, I suggest you go visit friends, family, or find a nice coffee shop while you wait!”

An immediate chorus of groans, complaints and angry remarks bubbled up, the firefighters all doing their best to marshal the situation and contain the displeasure. Peter shuffled where he sat, chewing his lower lip in frustration. 

Aunt May was half a city away and on shift; Ned was visiting his Grandma and MJ’s girlfriend had stayed the night, meaning if Peter valued his eyes he couldn’t show up at her door. 

Which meant he was probably going to spend the next four hours shivering at a Starbucks and studying on his phone. 

Great. 

“You good, kid?” the voice was joined by a pair of turnout clad legs and Peter looked up, tossing his phone between his hands. Out in the natural light Captain Stark was even more handsome, a strange mix between rugged and polished. 

“Um, yeah. Just...Trying to decide which coffee shop I’m gonna move into,” he sighed, offering a weak smile. The Captain looked thoughtful. 

“Little thing like you, Mom and Dad weren’t just out getting milk?” his tone was teasing but curious. Peter shook his head. 

“Uh, no. I don’t...I did live with my Aunt. But I graduated highschool early and got a scholarship for the Manhattan Institute of Advanced Sciences. That shitty little studio is all mine,” he rattled the keys in his pocket and shifted. His butt had warmed the step some, but it still wasn’t exactly comfortable. 

As if sensing his discomfort the man shifted, peeling himself out of the huge, heavy turnout jacket. “Here, sit up a little,” the man coaxed, crouching down. Peter found himself enveloped in the jacket as Captain Stark wrapped it around him and tucked it under his ass and thighs, pulling it shut so it cocooned him in the heat. 

It smelt of soap and aftershave and maybe a little bit of sweat, and Peter found himself relaxing immediately, giving a hum of pleased satisfaction. 

Tony was smiling at him when he opened his eyes again and he flushed, saved from embarrassment by a tall, lithe man approaching. 

“Cap, we got ‘em all squared. Company is on the way for the fix. The one-five-nine offered to stay and play babysitter. We’re clear to move out.” The man had a purple band-aid on his right brow and did a double-take when he looked down at Peter. “We get a new recruit, Cap?”

Captain Stark looked thoughtfully between Peter and the man, fingers curling around his waistband.

“Alright. Barton, round up the others, call to move out. Have the one-five-nine use radio line six if they need us. We’re bringing back a station puppy.”

‘Barton’ glanced at Peter again, eyes raking over him before he did something between a smile and a smirk. “Copy that,” he confirmed, spinning on his heel and jogging off. 

“Huh?” was all Peter could think to say. 

“You’ve got nowhere better to go and you’ll freeze without getting changed. I’ve got some spare clothes at the station and you can hole up on the couch until we get the go-ahead to send you home. Rogers can cook, so let’s see if we can’t put a good breakfast in that belly,” Tony responded, nudging him up and out of the way so he could open the truck door. 

And that was how Peter found himself wedged into the truck with Clint Barton, Thor Odinson and Steve Rogers. They crammed a spare headset on him and grilled him on student life as they drove, Captain Stark chiming in from the front of the truck. 

The station they pulled into was huge, newly renovated and vast. Firefighter Thor set two hands on his hips, lifting him out of the truck easily and setting him down on the floor, ruffling his hair before dogpiling onto Steve, both of them stumbling and grappling away, arguing in snippets about door breaches. 

A little dazed, he startled when a hand fell to his back again and turned, flushing when Captain Stark smirked at him and nudged him towards the locker room. The others were already there, stripping out of their turnouts and talking animatedly. 

Peter was divested of the jacket but was given a thicker, warmer hoodie emblazoned with ‘NYPD’ and ‘Stark’, the older man rooting around in a locker for a moment before producing a pair of sweats. 

They were baggy but he double-tied them and rolled up the ankles and found them more than comfortable, shyly thanking the man. Tony was watching him, eyes dark again with that hidden thought, before he seemingly shook himself out of it and herded Peter towards a set of steps. 

Upstairs was a kitchen space and a small common area with two couches and a TV. Barton immediately handed him a steaming mug of herbal tea and Captain Stark ushered him to the table and after several minutes of sitting in their midst and listening to firefighting stories, Steve placed a plate of toast, beans, bacon and eggs under his nose. 

“Eat it before Barton mauls you for it,” Steve advised with a grin, sinking into the seat opposite him and stretching out, one arm slung around the back of Thor’s chair. Peter took the warning and dug in, shamelessly moaning at the taste. The eggs had been seasoned and there was something in the butter on the toast that made it rich and almost a little salty. 

“Better than sex, huh kid?” Tony teased from his side and Clint gasped, throwing his hands over Peter’s ears. 

“He doesn’t know what that is yet!”

After breakfast he was bundled onto the couch, handed a mug of tea to keep his hands warm and the remote to the TV as the others stomped down the staircase, citing organising their gear.

The alarm blared out as he was watching a nature documentary and he leaned over the balcony rail just in time to watch them leaping into the truck, flushing as the Captain shot him a wink before shutting the truck door, it’s sirens wailing and lights flashing as it pulled out of the bay.

They weren’t gone that long, but when the truck pulled back into the bay it was covered in dust and dirt. 

He padded down the staircase, pulling on the sleeves of his hoodie as he watched them all descend from the vehicle. They looked a little dusty and grimy, but otherwise unharmed. 

“Winch rescue up on the hiking trails,” Clint informed him as he jogged past, beelining for a room just past the lockers. “I’ve got dust in places it doesn't belong!”

The worst of them all was Steve, who’d apparently tripped over the winch line and gone tumbling down the hillside. He was largely unhurt, but he was also the last one out of the showers thanks to needing some extra scrubbing. 

“C’mon, kid. Time to earn your keep,” Tony teased once they were clean and dressed in LAFD shorts and shirts. They were filling buckets and bringing out plastic boxes full of soaps and polish, and he almost whimpered when he realised they were going to clean the truck. 

He was practically living a piece of fanfiction. 

Or torture. Either one was applicable. 

It took exactly ten minutes for someone to lose their shirt. Peter didn’t know if it was fortunate or unfortunate that it was Steve, who flexed his pecs with a wink when he caught Peter staring. As if not to be outdone, Thor immediately tugged his shirt over his head, baring an even bigger, beefier torso that fed the red flames burning up Peter’s cheeks. 

“Alright, show offs. Stop preening and get cleaning,” Tony barked at them good-naturedly, rolling his eyes as he handed Peter a sponge and flicked suds at the two taller blonds, who pulled faces but dove into the work with vigor. 

In an attempt to cool down his embarrassment he turned his attention to the truck, scrubbing gently in broad circles to match what the others were doing. He’d never realised just how big firetrucks were and he wondered idly how often they had to do this.

“Hey, shortstack, you wanna be on top?”

“Excuse me?” Peter squeaked, rounding on Captain Stark, who smirked at him and gestured to the roof of the truck and the little side ladder.

“On the roof. Tends to get gritty up there,” the man drawled, eyeing him in thinly veiled amusement. It had to be on purpose, Peter realised. Especially when he moved to the side ladder and a set of rough hands wrapped around his hips, boosting him up several rungs.

He settled down to scrub, listening to the soundtrack of the station and the men below, peering over the edge now and then to watch them or to join in the conversation. It was dizzying - having them all grinning up at him, sunny and sparkling and half-naked.

Mercifully, there wasn’t too much more teasing as they scrubbed and buffed and wiped. He wasn’t sure his cheeks could take getting any hotter - but then, where safer to combust but in the middle of a firehouse?

Captain Stark helped him down from the roof again with the same hold around his hips, thumbs rubbing brief circles along the ridges of the bones before the man stepped aside with a quirked smile.

“Hungry, kid?”

“If I don’t get fed soon I might start chewing off my own foot,” he harrumphed with a grin, ducking his head when Clint barked a laugh and ruffled his hair.

“Kid after my own stomach,” the man drawled, taking the steps three at a time in a way that Peter and his short legs watched enviously. 

Lunch was buffet bits like potato chips and little sponge-cake fingers and fruit, which Peter didn’t mind at all. He threw grapes into Clint’s mouth and arm-wrestled Steve and deliberately paid no attention at all to where Captain Stark’s leg pressed against his own under the table.

In the grand five hour total that he was there they got called out twice more, once for a tree rescue (a man who’d tried to save money by cutting his own yard tree, not a cat, much to Peter’s disappointment) and a small kitchen fire that left them bitching for a full hour afterwards about how people needed to stop trying to be Gordon Ramsey when they could barely cook packet ramen.

And then, just when the others were beginning to get shift about nearing their time to come off rotation, Peter’s phone rang. 

It was his landlord, sounding gruff and disinterested as he informed Peter the apartment had been deemed safe to re-enter, although all aparts were going to be required to keep their gas appliances off for the night and their windows open.

The others had stopped milling around in the locker room and listened in with thinly concealed interest, offering nods and smiles when it was revealed Peter was safe to hit home.

“Just on time, huh?” Steve beamed at him, ruffling his hair. 

“Aw, man. Do we have to give him back?” Clint whined in protest, swooping down to wrap himself around Peter like a clingy mink shrug. Peter giggled, tucking himself into the hold and putting on a pretend pout.

Truthfully; he didn’t want to leave. At first he’d been apprehensive about being stuck in a building with a bunch of strange men, but over the course of the day he’d come to cherish their family dynamic and the easy, comfortable companionship.

“You knew he was on loan, you layabouts,” Tony chastised them fondly, rolling his eyes. When his crew had been bullied into resuming their prep to leave, Captain Stark sank onto the bench next to Peter.

“You want a ride back, kid? I live past that area anyway and it’s my fault you’re so far out from home,” he noted with a warm smile, tugging on a boot and stooping to lace it.

Peter bit at his lower lip. Technically; he should say no. He didn’t actually know this man, and being a firefighter meant nothing for how trustworthy he was.

But…

“You don’t mind?” he asked lightly.

“It would be Captain’s honor,” Thor assured him with a wink. And that was that, the others finished dressed and they moved out to the parking lot as a herd, Peter trailing awkwardly along behind Tony towards a sleek, red and gold Audi.

He was hugged and ruffled and treated to a sizable farewell from the others, each of them pointedly telling him not to be a stranger as they piled into their vehicles and drove off in a cloud of muted music and squealing tyres.

When he turned around Tony had slipped over to the car and stood with the passenger door open, stooped into a half bow.

The interior was crisp and clean and smelt like fresh linen when he sank into the seat, tucking his legs in carefully. Tony slid into the driver’s side like he lived to be behind the wheel of a flashy car, slipping on a dark pair of shades and letting his window slide down.

Tony switched radio on to a smooth rock station and Peter let himself relax in the seat, phone still clutched carefully in hand just in case, but thoroughly enjoying the rumble of the car and the way Tony looked behind the wheel.

They didn’t speak much on the way but Peter snuck several glances at the other man, shivering through a bolt of unsteady heat each time Tony caught the motion and tipped his head, smirking at him from behind those shaded lenses.

The apartment building loomed up on them far too soon, signalling the end of a day Peter was confident he’d keep in his memories right up until his last breath.

(And if it tempted him to maybe one day set fire to his kitchen a little bit, well.)

Tony pulled the car to a stop in the parking lot, leaning casually back in his seat. 

“Maybe you should, um, check my apartment?”

It took Peter a moment to realise he was the one who’d spoken, mortified as Tony pushed down his shades to peer at him over the rims with an arched brow.

“To, uh, um…” Peter squirmed on his seat, doing his best not to think about how it was the other man’s clothes he was wearing. “Make sure it’s safe. I mean, I’ve built up a little trust. With you. Who knows if the other guys missed something?”

And what he wouldn’t give for a sinkhole to just swallow him up right then.

But to his surprise Captain Stark just peered at him for another moment, then smiled. “Sure thing, kid. The other’s’d never forgive me anyway if I let you die off in the night.”

With cheeks hot enough to sear a steak, Peter slipped out of the car and practically ran for the building, hyper aware of Tony’s presence beside him as they ascended the steps. God, he was so fucking stupid. Tony was probably going to poke around the apartment a little, open the window then skip on back home and tell his wife all about the strange kid he’d had to babysit all day.

His hands were shaking as he unlocked his door but if the man noticed he said nothing, stepping in behind him and pushing the door gently shut. Peter toed off his boots by the door and turned, watching the man roam the apartment, sniffing here and there and opening the window in the kitchenette.

“Hey, come here,” Tony’s voice called when he was plugging his phone in. Jamming the cord into the device, he bounced out of the room and slid to a halt next to Tony, who held a hand out to steady him. “Do you feel that?”

“What?” Peter asked in confusion, head tilting. 

“Sexual tension,” Tony grinned at him, winking terribly. 

“Wha-- Oh,” Peter rocked back on his heels, cheeks blazing. 

“You’re not subtle, kid. I got ribbed the whole day out over it,” Tony teased him, reaching out to ever so gently tuck one of Peter’s mahogany curls behind his ear.

“Sorry?” Peter tried, fingers curling around the cuffs of his - Tony’s - hoodie.

“I know a way you can make it up to me,” the only man purred, leaning in a little closer. And then all at once he softened, head tilting a little. “Only, of course, if you want to.”

“Aren’t you… Married?” Peter asked hesitantly, even as his heart kicked up a notch and heat gave a lazy spark between his lips. Tony’s brows shot towards his hairline.

“Not since I last checked, no,” Tony answered, sounding terribly amused. “Where did you get that thought?”

And oh, no. The last thing Peter was going to do was tell Tony he thought the man was so attractive it was feasibly impossible for him to not be taken. His ego would get so big he’d float off to space and then where would Peter be?

Instead of answering he shifted, bracing his hands on Tony’s chest and rising onto his tiptoes so he could press a chaste kiss to Tony’s mouth, the man’s stubble tickling the corner of his mouth before he pulled away, shrinking in on himself and rubbing at his lower lip.

Tony blinked down at him for a moment. Then he shifted, leaning down to wrap his hands around Peter’s thigh and hip, lifting him up with a flex of work-honed muscles. Peter clutched at his shoulders, legs automatically wrapping around Tony’s waist.

It was a new kind of novelty; to feel thick, corded muscle beneath his palms, to feel the cut of it between his thighs, to feel the scrape of stubble over his jaw and his mouth. All of Peter’s other partners had been close to his own age and relatively close in terms of build and body.

A few strides had Peter’s back pressed against the wall where he let his head fall back with a thump, mouth falling open on a whine.

“Look at you having your five minutes of bravery,” Tony teased him, shifting one leg so his thigh helped to hold Peter’s weight, fingers flexing against his skin. “What happened to the quiet little kid who burnt up anytime he looked my way?”

Peter had nothing to say, shivering through a hiccupped sound when something thick and hard rode the crease of his thigh and hip, hot between the layers of fabric that separated them. Instead of answering he pawed at the man’s shirt, desperately wanting to see the carved flesh beneath it.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll give you what you want,” Tony soothed him, adjusting them both before he helped to tug on the fabric, muscles shifting and bunching as he worked it over his head and threw it off somewhere to the side.

“Oh,” Peter choked, setting his palms down on the plane of Tony’s stomach. He was beautiful; tanned skin marred with a smattering of scars that stood out pink and pale. He knew better than to focus on them but he couldn’t help running his thumb over a half-moon scar at the bottom of Tony’s pectoral.

“Emergency field incision,” Tony murmured, nipple peaking at the close touch. “Had to mesh-wall my heart.”

Peter had no words for that, either. In all the fun of the firehouse he’d almost forgotten the reality of such a dangerous job. He ran his thumb gently over it again, as if to kiss it, and tightened his legs to bring Tony into him again.

It made them press together in a delicious, warm friction, Tony’s pupils dilating further when Peter tried to stifle the noise the touch prompted. He was squeezed back into the wall as Tony leaned down, catching his mouth in a slick, gentle kiss. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony murmured against his mouth, leaning back just enough to speak, teeth scraping over his swollen lower lip.

“Hm?” Peter whimpered, trying to tilt his head to reach him again.

“You wanna see why they call me Captain Firehose?”

Peter’s lashes fluttered as he looked up, mouth dropping open for a moment of pure, unadulterated suspense.

“That was awful,” he groaned with a giggle, tickled by the cheesy line and rendered pink-cheeked by the soft, fond look at Tony fixed him with.

“Made you smile, though,” Tony purred, adjusting his hold as he ducked down to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek, lips trailing over the warm skin before he pulled back and away, muscles flexing as he held Peter up without the support of the wall.

Blushing harder, Peter wound his arms around the man’s neck. “Okay, Captain. Show me how to handle your hose,” he whispered, yelping and laughing when Tony spun them around towards the bedroom with a grin.

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter 3)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Does fluff warrant a warning? Well, before we get into the gritty mission, here be some fluffy fluff. Oh, and language. Because I speak that shit.

Thursday came sooner than anticipated, and with it came that awful rush of dread that enveloped you each and every time you set foot in an airport. You’d think you’d be over this by now, your job shuttling you off to the far corners of the Earth, making it so that the only way you could ever get to where you needed to be – Bogota, Juarez, Islamabad, home – was by plane. But… no. The fear of plummeting to an inevitably fiery death inside a giant can filled with the recycled breath of dozens – even hundreds – of strangers was one you were simply never going to get over.

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Benny barks out amid a thunderous laugh as he watches you down another pill and chase it with a tiny bottle of vodka. “Is it even safe to take Xanax with alcohol?” he asks, his face screwing up in confusion, a hint of concern breaking through the amusement. “Are you so scared of flying that you’re willing to risk an OD?”

“Seems strange, given your profession,” Tom mutters as he sidesteps Ben to slide into the row of seats behind you.

You offer no reply, instead blinking your eyes shut in an attempt to block out the awful activity of preparing for takeoff. The doors haven’t even closed yet, people still steadily boarding the plane, your new teammates still stowing bags and chatting merrily around you, and yet you’ve already buckled in, pulled the lap belt as tight as it will go, and downed your second Xanax in an hour.

“She’ll be alright,” you hear from above. You crack open a single eye and look up to see Santiago looming over the back of your seat. “Fish,” he calls out, tossing a quick glance at the man still struggling with fitting everything into the overhead compartment. “You sit with her. Tell her about all the times you’ve flown. Keep her calm.”

“I’m calm,” you mumble under your breath.

He looks down at you and raises a brow, gaze holding yours even as he tells his friend, “And don’t let her pop any more pills.”

“No shit,” Ben chuckles as he steps out into the aisle, relinquishing his seat just as Frankie finally slams shut the door on the overhead bin. “We’ll have to scrape her off the floor otherwise.”

Frankie slides in next to you, the tiny armrest barely allowing for any space between you and the scorching heat radiating off of him. Normally you might be okay with that, it certainly felt good in the chilly parking lot the other night. But right now you’re feeling flush and hot and on the verge of possible combustion, the odd suck and click sound of the plane’s door shutting and sealing you in causing a bead of sweat to begin sliding down your temple.

“Truth be told, I’m not too wild about being on flights where I’m not the pilot,” he says, his soft voice pitched perfectly to sound just over the hum of the plane, the new buzzing in your ears, and the sudden woosh of air from the vent that he reaches over to switch on above you.

“Comforting,” you mutter, shutting your eyes against the harsh, dry air blowing down on you, but inclining your head back into the steady, cooling stream just the same.

“Just don’t tell her about how many times you’ve crashed, Fish,” Ben laughs from across the aisle. You bolt upright and crane your neck around the man beside you so as to stare the giggly child down, wide eyes gleaming with a very real threat that actually causes his smirk to break and a subtle, “sorry,” to slip past his lips.

Frankie takes your hand, pries it away from the armrest that you’d been holding in a death grip, and he gives you a little nudge with his elbow, encouraging you to lean back in your seat. “I’ve never crashed,” he corrects, shooting Benny a swift, reprimanding glare before turning back to you. “I’ve just… had a couple of rough landings. But each time everyone walked away fine.”

“Yeah?” you question, critical brow cranking high. “And how often do people walk away from rough landings on a commercial airplane?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Not often,” he admits. “But they also don’t go down often, so there’s that.”

Your eyes blow wide, slight gasp catching in your throat as you eke out, “Are you trying to jinx us?”

He twists in his seat to look at you, his fingers wrapping just a little bit tighter around your hand as you inadvertently shake in his grasp. “Trust me, princesa, this is the least dangerous thing we’re gonna do this week.”

The heady bolt of fear subsides a bit, quickly replaced by a tinge of confusion – princesa? – and a hint of irritation. Your face twists into an overdone pout – “Don’t call me that.” – but you can’t deny that his words do, somehow, put you at ease. Or perhaps the Xanax is just kicking in. Either way, you find yourself settling back into the seat, body and mind both suddenly sluggish and heavy. You twist towards him, away from the window and the blinding glare of the early morning sun as it reflects off the stark white wing of the plane, and you let out a small disgruntled grunt as the too-tight lap belt digs into your hip.

Frankie easily contorts himself in his seat so that he’s able to face you bodily, smiling – perhaps teasing – eyes never disconnecting from yours as he too settles in and reclines his head to the headrest. “Gotta have some kind of callsign over the radio,” he states, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a coy, crooked smile. “You don’t like princesa… how about loquita?”

“Fuck you,” you bark out amid a snort of a laugh, the offended pitch to your voice and wide-eyed stare setting him to very nearly vibrate with stifled giggles.

He takes a moment to swallow down his obvious amusement, holding your gaze all the while. Then he clears his throat and pulls his features into a stern set. “Don’t take it personally. I’d call anyone who hates to fly crazy.”

You issue out a short, incredulous scoff. “Maybe if I were the pilot, I’d like it. If I were in control.”

“Yeah,” he admits with a nod and a sigh. “That helps.”

But the truth is, you don’t actually think it would help that much. Because, well… “What person in their right mind thinks, you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to ignore the fact that God gave me legs instead of wings and I’d like to leave the ground. I mean… the ground is the safe place, man. What are you thinking?”

He smiles over at you, a soft, tender expression that sets off a flutter deep in your core. “What kind of person wants to stay on the ground with everybody else when they can climb into the heavens and move through the clouds?”

You bite back the grin that begs to break out and instead flatten your face in the most deadpan expression you can muster. “Are you fucking with me right now?” He merely shoots a wink in response, the light from outside your window reflecting in his deep brown eyes as they pierce into you. You roll your own eyes, but can just barely hold back the quirk to your lips as you say simply, “You’re the crazy one.”

He lets loose with a soft chuckle and shifts further in his seat so that he’s entirely facing you. “You never wanted to play in the clouds?” he asks, grin pulling wider. You feel a new heat – a welcome and comforting one, not the panicky, dizzying burn from before – blossom inside of you as you notice a single dimple cave in on the side of his stubble-dusted face.

A long sigh escapes you. “I mean, I did watch a lot of Care Bears growing up,” you offer, working to keep your expression still and set. But his smile simply grows and it’s just a breath of a moment before you break and let loose with a beam of your own. “God,” you nearly whine as an airy chuckle spills out of you. “Play in the clouds? You’re so cheesy.”

“Hey, I happen to really like cheese.” He raises a rather serious brow as he asks, tone low and sincere, “Can you imagine what the world would be like without cheese?”

You force a stoic glare, bite back a smile. “It’d be terrible. No nachos or pizza…”

He shakes his head slowly, sadly. “All the macaroni would be naked.”

You release a soft sigh. “One third of those popcorn tins would be empty.”

“Or filled with, I dunno, kale-dusted popcorn or something.”

You snort out a laugh, nose wrinkling in disgust. “What would we eat with tomato soup? Grilled eggplant?”

He shrugs. “What would Green Bay fans wear to the game?”

And again, you laugh, this one full and buoyant. “Poor Wisconsin, their entire economy would collapse.”

“What about the French?” he asks.

And it’s your turn to offer up a shrug. “They’ve still got wine.”

He stares at you for a lingering moment before his eyes flicker just past and out the window. “Maybe it sounds a little cheesy,” he begins, ticking his chin towards you, towards the tiny airplane window behind you. “But look out there and tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to climb out there right now and bounce through those fluffy little bastards.”

Your brows pull tightly together, a quick flicker of pure shock shooting through you and causing you to whip around so fast that a crack sounds from your spine. Outside the window are, in fact, hordes of white puffy clouds peppering the bright blue sky. “What…?” you choke out, utter confusion lacing the word.

When had you taken off? When had you reached altitude? How had he managed to distract you so effectively as you climbed thousands of miles into the sky in this deathtrap tube?

You stare out the window for a long moment, giving yourself time to breathe, to comprehend. Allowing your fingers – which had just clamped painfully down on Frankie’s hand yet again – to slowly relax and loosen their terrified hold. No, there’s no part of you that wants to go out there and bounce around in the damn clouds. No. Way. In. Hell. But there is a part of you that begins to get lost in the soft, subtle beauty stretching out all around you. It’s still scary as hell. But it’s also… amazing.

Frankie watches as you continue to gaze out at the sprawling sky, bright blue on this beautiful day, a day he’d like nothing more in this world than to be out in, flying through the wide-open sky. Your hand remains wrapped around his, even if the intense grip has slackened. And your shoulders are still nearly pressed to you ears, so tense and taut. But there’s a sort of wonder wrapping about you now too, a look of, if not joy, at least appreciation.

“Los cielos,” he mutters from behind, seemingly to himself, his tone dreamy and airy and full of something like… wonder. You toss a glance over your shoulder and catch the way the sun lights his face as he stares just past you, his eyes fixated on the world beyond. You stare for perhaps a beat too long, not realizing until his gaze slowly shifts from the window to you, catching you in the act. The dimple caves again, wide smile pulling once more as he locks onto your eyes, light laughter bubbling out of him as your gaze pings away in a swift moment of embarrassment. He squeezes your hand, tightening his grip on your fingers for a single, quick, perfect millisecond before he utters, honeyed voice once again carrying more than a hint of teasing, “Cielo.”

Confused, you look back up at him, your brow twisting. But you let out a groan the moment he tenders another wink, the moment you realize that he’s just offered up another ridiculous callsign suggestion. You roll you eyes again, but make no move to pull out of his hold nor turn from his heated gaze. “So much cheese…”

He laughs again, his grin pulling tight as he watches you settle back into your seat with an exhausted sigh. You raise a brow in question, in challenge. And the smirk fades to a stony façade as he gives a single, definitive nod and declares, as though all has been settled, “Cielo.”

000

The flight knocks you for a loop. Less than an hour in, you’re passed out, snoring away on Frankie’s shoulder. You wake at one point to discover a pool of drool leaking from your gaping mouth and soaking through the shoulder of his button down, but you don’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed, nor the grace to apologize. Instead, you lazily swipe at the mess and turn with an incoherent mumble before dropping your heavy head against the cool glass of the window. You’re pretty sure you hear the tinkling of laughter coming from across the aisle – pretty sure that’s the sound that woke you from your drug-induced slumber to begin with – and you can definitely discern the throaty whispers of shut the hell up and you’re an asshole, Ben coming from the man by your side. But you’re too laden with sleep to really process or care.

For the next however many hours, you dream. Dream of bouncing through clouds in a bright blue sky. Dream of slinking through the jungle with strange men by your side. Dream of falling and floating and somehow rising to fly. You sleep and dream – and snore and drool – until an all-too familiar laugh sounds from above, a barking command of, “Hey, get your ass up, agent,” echoing in Santi’s exasperated – yet amused – tone. You blink open your eyes, tilt back your head, and see both him and Tom glaring down at you as they stand – bent awkwardly from the low ceiling of the plane – in the row behind. “Everybody else is already lone gone, bonita. Get your ass off the plane.”

Your brow furrows and your middle finger rises steadily upward, but somehow the rest of your body feels too heavy to move and it takes a kindhearted gentleman in a tattered old ballcap to ease you to your feet and out into the aisle.

“The second one was a mistake,” you mutter wearily as you nearly faceplant into Frankie’s chest.

“Yeah,” comes from behind in an annoyed scoff as Santiago reaches over to collect your bag from beneath the seat. “I’m confiscating your Xanax.”

The ride to the run-down inn and resort – far from the city and cheap as all hell – passes in a blur. But by the time you arrive and check into your little bungalow, you’re feeling, if not refreshed, at least awake.

Everyone agrees to meet up at the tiny restaurant at the edge of the grounds in about twenty minutes, just long enough for a quick rinse and wardrobe change. And somehow you manage to be the first one there, allowing you the opportunity to have a quick chat with the bartender – which results in a free, giant fruity concoction – before settling into a table in the corner. You let out a relaxed sigh and breathe back in the humid jungle air, realizing only in this very moment that a part of you actually missed this place. That a part of you might just think of the Amazon as home. You glance around, take note of your surroundings – as you always do, always have done, even before your law enforcement training – and begin to watch the rather handsy young couple at the bar as they giggle and swoon.

It isn’t long before Benny jogs up behind you and drops into the seat on your right. He sets down a fruity drink that looks suspiciously like yours, making you wonder if the bartender treats all tourists to a free, sugar-fueled beverage and perhaps your flirting earned you nothing at all. But as the others meander in and join you, all with mere sweating bottles of beer in their hands, you decide instead that you and Ben must just be the most special of the bunch.

Of course, that notion begins to chafe once Benny turns to you with a wicked look in his eye and pulls his phone from his pocket, nonchalantly swiping though a parade of terrible photos with an all-too delighted smile. The first few show you passed out on Frankie on the plane, mouth gaping wide as you spill drool into his shirt. “Oh, God!” you gasp, only just now recalling the brief moment of near lucidity from earlier in the day. “You took pictures?!”

You give him a quick slap and try to grab the cell from his hand only to have him rear back and laugh out, “Wait, wait, these are my favorites,” before scrolling through the next dozen or so, each picture showing a steady progression of your drowsy head falling from Will’s shoulder down to his lap as the two of you sat in the back on the drive in from the airport.

“You talk in your sleep,” Will states plainly from across the table, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

You cock your head suspiciously at him, gaze narrowing. “Liar,” you accuse despite knowing full well that it’s true.

The corner of his mouth quirks into a crooked grin. “Something about… sliding down rainbows?”

“Ooooh,” you drawl out, nodding your head. “Yeah, that makes sense. Frankie kept talking to me about Care Bears on the flight in.”

The man to your left takes a steady gulp from his beer, a swallow so huge it makes you think he’d been navigating the desert all day, desperate for a drink. “You were barely conscious for more than five minutes on that flight. You don’t have a clue what I talked to you about.”

“Better not have been anything dirty,” Santiago interjects pointedly.

You turn and pin Frankie down with an intent yet amused stare. “I definitely remember something about playing in the clouds.”

“Naked?” Ben asks as he jostles your other side with his elbow.

“Ahora, eso seria realmente el cielo,” Frankie mutters softly, ducking further beneath the bill of his hat and trying desperately not to laugh as you level him with an astounded glare.

By the time the food comes, your table has managed to outdo the small group of college students in the corner in terms of noise, filling the only partially walled-in establishment with a relaxed sort of banter and the occasional booming laughter. Benny continues his jokes and playful ribbing, eagerly pulling you in to blend with his tightknit group. Will and Frankie both remain mostly quiet, despite their comfortable-looking grins and occasional bursts of laughter.

Tom’s demeanor is similar, perhaps a bit less relaxed, a bit more guarded. Even after claiming to be cool with your presence on this little escapade, he’s anything but warm and welcoming to you. It doesn’t escape your notice that he continues to pull Santi aside to whisper what you can only assume are either covert sweet nothings or – far more likely – mission-related thoughts and plans that he still doesn’t quite trust you with. You shrug it off… it’s fine, really. You’ve had to slip into other cliques and clusters before, wedge yourself into a special operations task force or try to integrate in with local police to gain access to intel. This wasn’t your first rodeo. And frankly, compared to the Federales in Juarez, all of these guys had welcomed you into the fold with wide-open arms.

It isn’t long – or it doesn’t feel like long, anyway – before Santi rises and tells everyone that he’s heading to bed. A shit-eating grin passes over his face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, familiar looking pill bottle. He shakes the remaining Xanax around and states simply, “For once, I’m actually gonna sleep great.”

Tom follows hot on his heels after issuing out – in a tone equal parts dad and captain – “We’re up at 0500 and I don’t want any of you to be dragging ass.” Everyone nods their assent, but the moment he and Santi are out the door, Ben promptly buys another round and the four of you who remain settle into a new rhythm that lasts until the tiny restaurant and bar finally shoos you out so they can close for the night.

The lot of you wander the grounds of the inn for a bit after that, indulging in the cool breeze after hours of sweltering heat, and continuing to laugh and talk. But as you make it back to the bungalows, the brothers break away, Ben disappearing into his room without so much as a grunt of goodbye, and Will raising a pointed finger high and telling you and Frankie both to, “Get the hell away from these mosquitos and go get some sleep. Otherwise, Redfly’ll be raining down shit on everyone in the morning.”

But you’re now more awake than you’ve been all day, sated from a too-large dinner and positively sloshing with alcohol, well-rested after your many-hours-long nap during your travels, and you just can’t seem to make yourself shut up, not even once you arrive at your door.

And Frankie seems to welcome it, listening intently as you babble on, filling the gaps with assertions of his own. Now that Ben’s no longer around to monopolize the conversation, you and Frankie develop an easy back and forth, the dialog taking on a soft, steady, even cadence. You talk about everything, the two of you. About Mexico, because you spent nearly four years in different parts of the country, and he still has family in a few of those areas. And you talk about all the places you’ve been, you with your sprawling career and general lust for travel – Road trips are more my thing though… and camping, hiking… Have you ever been through Bryce Cannon? God’s country. – and Frankie with his time in the military and more recent contract work – Yeah, nature’s great and all, but have you walked through the bazars in Marrakesh? Unbelievable. Though I wouldn’t say no to a day of fishing off the Gulf.

You talk about Santiago, each sharing stories of the man who had only just become a trusted colleague and friend for you over these last few years, but had been one of Frankie’s most beloved people for well over a decade. And that leads you into asking about the other guys too, each of whom you find yourself getting to know better and better from even just the few stories he shares as you two recline back into the railing of the bungalow’s small porch. He even manages to get you comfortable enough to share some stories about your own comrades over the years, the good, the bad, and the ugly… and the long-time partner who bled out in your arms following a bust outside of Albuquerque. Though you don’t spend much time on that, eager to move on almost the moment that your partner’s name passes through your lips.

The look on his face, though – as you share those sparse details from that most awful day – tells you immediately that Frankie understands exactly what it’s like to lose a partner, a brother in arms. And while that isn’t a surprise in the least – he had just gotten through telling you that he spent fifteen years in the special forces after all – that knowledge does cause you to feel a whole new pull. It makes you scoot a bit closer, makes you drop your hand easily atop his, your sweaty palm gliding along his warm skin before he reciprocates by slowly turning in your grasp and twining his fingers with yours.

“So,” he breathes out after a moment. “You’ve been out here for… three years?”

You nod, a soft smile blooming as you think about this bizarre and stunning corner of the world. “About that.”

His gaze travels out into the lush jungle located just beyond the row of bungalows, small porchlights illuminating just enough of the canopy to remind you both of where you are. “What’s the city like?” he asks after a beat.

“It’s nice,” you rush out. “Small, relaxed…” Your lips purse together as you think on what to say, how to describe this place that has been your home for three years now. “Lot more tourists than you might think. It’s funny, even the people who live here – in the city at least – a lot of them are transplants from Bogota.” You give a nonchalant shrug – “The streets flood a lot. That’s not always fun.” – and relish the deep chuckle emanating from the man by your side. “There’s a legend about how it got its name,” you say suddenly. “I’ve never really gotten any details about it, but supposedly a Colombian soldier fell in love with an Amerindian woman…”

“Leticia,” he supplies, the name slipping from his tongue in a perfectly accented drawl, falling out into the dark night in a soft, low rumble.

You nod. “And he named the city after her.”

Frankie huffs out a small laugh, a light and airy rumble. His gaze continues to wander, dark eyes shifting along the barely perceivable horizon. “Must’ve been a hell of a lady,” he mutters absently, giving your fingers a squeeze.

You watch him closely, his features soft and relaxed in the low light, the slightest hint of a smile still riding his lips. “Yeah. Must’ve been.”

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44 @mrscrain-x7 @kyjoraven@elephants-are-a-thing @nakhudanyx

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: Another Mother's Breakin'

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

"Jane."

The recruit let the knocking go on for a third round, slowly shaking herself from the rickety cot. While these digs were nothing as fancy as the bunk back at the mall, the privacy was a paradise. Blank, dull, metal-lined walls were a price she was willing to pay over the colorful and plant-lined walls of the barracks. The humming noise of life rebuilding, no she belonged in the silence.

"Jane." This time her name was a statement, backed by a hint of threat.

"Just a moment," she groaned, rubbing the crust from the inner corners of her eyes, pushing sore muscles upright and forcing a shirt over her head but allowing it to fall at its own pace. Her pupils narrowed at the sudden influx of light filling her half of the crate, "morning?"

Helen looked her up and down, that damned frown a returning friend, "you should put a comb through that hair."

"For fuck's sa-"

The woman made a sudden jerk, but it stopped with a simple raising of her arm, brushing aside a fallen lash, "language, dear."

"Sorry," Jane's eyebrows narrowed, had she forgotten she was not a child, "why are you here?"

"Because we are going out."

"Don't I have three more days?" Jane returned.

The older woman in a rare admittance of defeat sighed, offering back a raised eyebrow, "you're well aware that was a ruse."

"I knew it!" she didn't.

"Yes, let's be proud that you are stubborn as they warned," Helen retorted with a hint of a smirk, "but you should be ready. I'm not going to let you slide and get breakfast, either!"

Yes, this encampment was a military installment, but it gave no reason to ready herself with the rest of the soldiers. Since Rahna had given up on her she did little to get out of her bunk. So far, her secret remained, but pushing it by becoming a regular around camp seemed too big of a risk. Evelyn gave her some reason to get out, but the kid quickly found friends. Within days she was no longer needed, though the shit still visited at least once a day that prodded her into some form of semblance. The lack of duties cemented her decision to remain secluded, bidding her time with the running videos in her head.

"So why me?" Jane pressed once they cleared the base by a few thousand meters, pulling the ration bar from her mouth.

The woman's dark eyes turned cross, "and don't you waste those rations."

"You'll never want them again after fresh produce," Jane murmured, swallowing down the bland brick of nutrition in three bites.

"The second reason for coming out here," Helen handed over a pistol, "fresh meat and pest removal."

"You know, someplace on Illium would sell Varren skewers as a delicacy," Jane overlooked the pistol with a grin, "man, could that krogan grill up a mean varren skewer."

"The pistol is back up; you should use biotics. No stunts," she warned without heed of her companion's previous comment.

"I'm a paragon of caution," Jane mumbled in response, deciding then it was best to follow after the woman in silence. Pausing only as her leader stopped.

"No stunts," a finger waggled at her, "that kid and her grandfather want you back, and I intend to see that through, despite your best attempts."

Jane giggled, "the LT would love that one."

"Dismiss it all you like, whinge that someone cares about your sorry hide," the woman spat, "you're being selfish. Everyone is hurting if you haven't noticed."

Jane's face drew blank, "while it's true, doesn't it feel better to be pissed off? To be angry that everything is changed? Fuck everyone else. I'm hurting." She looked over the horizon, directly into the blue beam that connected to the Citadel. It seemed so tiny from here, so insignificant.

Helen's gaze followed Jane's gaze, "trying to remember how much worse it could be rarely helps."

"I like to make myself feel better by telling myself that I'm angering out of grief; it's one of the stages, right? But what is there after it? I don't want to let it go and accept my world is gone," Jane's voice mellowed to a whisper, "acceptance is terrifying. It means you have to move forward."

They shared a silent moment together, connecting with a brief touch—neither alone as they thought.

"Who did you lose?"

"My heart."

"Who did you lose?"

"...my heart."

Horizon- Horizon was an awkward fumbling in the dark. An overhanded display The Illusive Man decided to lord over her. He knew her strings and just how to pluck them to make her dance to his tune. Pulling Kaidan into the entire mess with the Collectors was a threat. But as messy and powerless as the knowledge of what the Illusive Man would take from her was the undercurrent of hope. It was foolish to be caught up in the giddy excitement of returned love, But Kaidan loved her. The first confession and bitter tug on her heart. She should have told him then.

Mars- Mars was just as awkward. Running, sliding, and dodging bullets after months of being cooped up in a small apartment awaiting trial. Sideways glances, and a Major who wouldn't stop dogging her every step. He questioned, prodded, and accused her of terrible things. Granted, she well deserved it. He was so close, so in sync as if the years were mere minutes... yet the distance between them was a canyon wide. But the Major loved her, even if it was once upon a time. A lighthearted exchange broke some of the tension, but she still should have told him then.

The Citadel- "What's up" had to be the lamest greeting after an armed standoff. Not a clasping hug, not a gentle smile, instead she vocalized her worry that he was angry. She hadn't taken the shot at Udina, and she had made Kaidan make that impossible decision. To trust her word, to trust an ex-terrorist. It was too much to ask of anyone- but now she was someone he was in love with. Not a past tense, a was, but a current thing. Still, she fumbled, asking him to let her have it and killing any hope of a romantic reunion. Her stolen glances at his backside caught in the act gave him a sheepish glance away and not the confession he was owed.

The Citadel Pt. II- After a shamelessly little amount of convincing, she had found herself in a dress. It was supposed to be simple- a snack on the Citadel. But she had hoped for more, the flirting, the longing stares, compliments, and a little bit of girlish enthusiasm from Kaidan she dared to think they had a chance. It was the first 'I love you' the extra 'I always have' sending her heart fluttering into erratics that she fought to control, lest she make a scene. The graze of his tender lips against her palm relinquished any grasp she had left on that errant heart, the thundering of the heartbeat clouding her brain. The jealousy the rest of her skin felt for her palm stealing another confession.

2181 Despoina- Kaidan would always rue his attraction to adventurous women. Not the woman, but the spark that drove him there. She was always at risk; her daily amount of adventure qualified as a heroic event for most other citizens of the galaxy. For her, it was a normal Tuesday night. But still, he worried, and still, he continued to love her for the constant stress she brought him. Loved her recklessness because it was as much part of her as her freckles. In the wordless hours of the night, his grip always tighter after a harrowing encounter, she was silent.

The Normandy- Neither of them wanted a quick drink. It was a little silly, after all these years, after all his confessions, to still feel insecure about inviting Kaidan up to her cabin. Instead of being direct, he invented the excuse of a short drink to see her. To comfort each other- when they both knew they needed it. Everything felt so final, the end a ticking bomb, an end to the short time they had together. She found strength in him, a safety in knowing she had someone that would catch her. He loved her openly and proudly. He loved her without needing the words returned.

London- It was unreal, after three years finally approaching the finish line. Loss and love in equal measure. Now, it was time for her to go it alone. It was unnatural, and she fought against the notion. She didn't want to be alone- not at the end. Not after this blissful glimpse into the way love had brightened every facet of her being. Kaidan would gladly face a bitter end with her, going arm in arm to meet Garrus at the bar. But it was a fucked kind of love that pushed her to make him leave. The same love that screamed at him to get the hell off the Normandy, the love that now albeit gently pleaded with him to live. It wasn't a roar or a cry of victory but a rumble- a tender declaration. Kaidan knew, even if it took him repeating his love a thousand times over. Six was a good number, short. The heart knew it was needed.

"So refresh my memory," Jane questioned in a whisper, trying not to draw the entire den of Varren upon them at once, "just how many we are planning on bringing back?"

"Are you that keen on vaporizing them all?"

"I certainly can."

"Wouldn't that defeat one of our goals?"

"Well, I don't think you accounted for the transportation of a Varren," Jane noted, looking behind them at the lack of vessel to transport said game.

Jane was ignored with a huff, the woman peering around a blockade, "I want that one."

Jane took a look, the brown striped specimen had to top the list of heaviest varren she had seen, "seriously?"

"Yes. Jane."

"Aye, Aye, Ma'am."

There wasn't time for a seething look or the smarmy reply that would have followed. The creature floated, air-bound as if the weight of the animal defied gravity. It kicked at the air, unable to stop itself from moving toward the barrier that blocked the scent of view of its hunters. Jane yanked her hand forward, dragging against the invisible weight. It felt good, if not for the shred of panic that she might lose time again. The tell-tale sign of blood was not forthcoming.

The blast of sound ricocheting through the plaza quickly overcame any remaining fear.

"Whatever you do, do not approach these things," the recruit barked, yanking the older woman into the corner spot, "they will overwhelm you if they get close."

"Aye, Aye, Ma'am."

The pack burst from all corners, running full boar in the direction of their fallen packmate. Several running members fell in the chaos, while a line of biotic energy sent the group careening into nearby walls and structures. For what inexperience was worth, Helen held up well, keeping up trained focus on the beasts. The old lady had precision aim, wasting hardly a clip during the charge. Jane didn't have to pick up much slack. Now, if there were a third member, everything would be peachy.

The square was silent for a count of three before a single varren cried out loudly.

The alpha was on scene.

While she had not promised to keep from committing to a hair-brained stunt, biotic shockwaves and lifts were boring. A teenage biotic could perform these moves without a sweat, a N7 needed a challenge. She needed the thrill. Blue waves coalesced and pulsed around her form, the familiar vibration against her skin pleasurable. A fluid vault over the barrier propelling her charge into the lone Varren, sending it toppling from the blow. Jane dove for it, pummeling it with blasts of biotic energy until her knuckles bled.

This was no longer a stunt but a method of release.

"Seems those biotics are back online," Helen murmured, wiping something from her eyes.

Jane cocked her head, "where'd you learn to shoot?"

"That? Oh. I thought they'd go out like a coyote."

The blonde smirked, dismounting the alpha's corpse, wiping her fists against a clean portion of the animal's hide. Nothing from Tuchanka went down quietly.

Helen stood over her prize, after a long minute she looked at Jane expectantly, "aren't you going to grab that?"

"Your trophy, your struggle," Jane folded her arms in return, a sly grin crossing her face, "besides, by the way we snuck out of that base, I don't need any more blame for this... what would you call this, stunt?"

"We did not sneak-" but the woman's face betrayed her guilt.

"Yeah, it's normal procedure to hop a barricade at the precise moment the guard changed," Jane knew a thing or two about sneaking out. She'd even stolen a ship twice.

Helen didn't have to struggle with the corpse long before Jane took pity on the woman; she had an unfair advantage anyway. Genetic enhancements, bone grafting, and a little biotic lifting. Unfortunately, she would still be sore when they got back to base.

"Why the need to sneak out anyway? I'm sure you could have roped anyone into helping you," Jane was under no illusion that the woman had any particular like for her, if anything, the woman looked at her with increasing scrutiny.

"None of them would dare."

"Oh?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Jane understood the sentiment completely.

[halfway-happyyy]

Hold You in My Arms

AN: This is short ‘n sweet and soppy as hell, and inspired by this lovely little ask that I got a little while ago. Hope you lovelies enjoy. TW: pregnant reader, mentions of pregnancy.

It is late into the evening when Alexander arrives home and you do not really tend to sleep well when he is gone, so you are already awake when the sound of him creeping his way up the stairs finds you from your cocoon of blankets. He hesitates outside of the bedroom door, deciding whether he is going to risk rousing you from your already troubled slumber. You hear the creek of the opening door a second later, see the sliver of yellow hallway light spill open through the crack and smile softly to yourself. Alexander pads over to your closet, loosening the tie from the collar of his white, starched shirt as he does so. You can tell from the sound of his gate that he’s indulged in a few cocktails this evening; this being his first public event since the pandemic took hold, you aren't at all surprised. He removes the clothing wordlessly from his body, draping them over the chair in there, and disappears into the on-suite bathroom. A second later, the tap begins running and you hear him spit into the sink a couple times. He emerges a few minutes later, the waft of mint toothpaste hangs heavy in the air behind him. He sidles down in the bed beside you, and relief washes over your very being like a tidal wave. Alexander reaches for your hand beneath the covers and grasps it tightly; he’s surprised when you grasp it right back.

“You’re awake?” He asks, sleepily.

“Yes.”

Alexander turns to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he does so. “Mm, it’s good to be home kid.” Instinctively, his hands move to the curve of your burgeoning belly, where they caress the bump slowly growing there. “Hi baby,” He whispers.

It's the little things you'll miss the most when he's back on set.

He peppers gentle kisses around the hollow of your throat. "Is there anything I can get you?"

As if on queue, a ripple runs rigidly along the inside of your belly- featherlight, but definitely the product of a miniscule finger. “You know what I could go for right now?” you ask, and you can almost feel Alexander beam into the crook of your shoulder.

“What's that?”

You rub the roundness of your belly lovingly. "We would kill for a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Alexander lifts his head from your shoulder, expression amused. “You and our unborn child, hey?”

You nod sleepily. “With pitchforks and everything.”

Alexander lets a small puff of air escape his mouth in the shape of a low whistle. “I better get on it then, hey?”

You squeeze his hand gently. “I’ll come down and keep you company.”

Following him down the stairs to the darkened kitchen, you are in mild anticipation for the midnight snack you are about to recieve. Alexander is entirely too gifted a cook and can slap just about anything together, and have it be delicious. “How was your night?” You ask, stifling a yawn.

He sets a small frying pan atop the bottom right burner and heads to the fridge for the butter. “It was good to see everyone again,” He muses while the gas burner flickers to life. “I had forgotten how nice it felt to put on actual clothing and to just be in a completely different setting…” He cuts a large portion of butter from the block and drops it into the pan, the satisfying sizzle of it causes your mouth to water hungrily. “Quite a few people asked about you,” He murmurs as he slices two pieces of fresh, homemade sourdough bread. He sets the first piece into the pan of scorching butter and slices a few pieces of aged cheddar cheese, laying them on top of the crisping bread. He places the other piece of bread on top of the cheese and turns to you, a large smile in place on his face. “Not that I’m surprised in the slightest,”

“Surprised about what?”

Alexander shrugs. “That you were asked about multiple times this evening. You’re pretty fucking awesome.” It is never lost on you how loved he makes you feel; that someone could look at you the same way that he is looking at you now- that someone could love you enough to make you a grilled cheese sandwich at an ungodly hour of the evening, is still an insane notion. “Almost there, kid.” He announces a few moments later. You watch him in the golden light of the kitchen lamp, the way his hair is still done up and full of product from hours before. You notice the way the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple and flex as he flips the sandwich in the pan. His sweatpants, the ones he owns multiple pairs of and has only really worn them during quarantine, hang teasingly low on his hips. He reaches for the cupboard to his left and produces a plate, which he dumps the sandwich onto expertly. Next, he grabs the ketchup bottle from the fridge, squirts a large, squiggly heart next to the grilled cheese and places it gently on the placemat in front of you.

You peer down at the crispy, glistening masterpiece in front of you and rub a thumb over the back of Alexander's hand. "This smells amazing, thank you my love." It's quiet in the kitchen as you sink your teeth into your first bite of food. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with you,” You throw a cheeky wink his way.

Alexander leans back in his chair, a small smile tugs at the edges of his lips as he shakes his head in mild disbelief. “Me neither, kid.” He cocks his head to the side, his face brimming now. “Quarantine has offered me so much time with you, and I feel like one of the luckiest men in the world.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I’m not exactly sure why!”

Alexander gestures to the clock above the stove. “It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning on a Sunday morning and I’ve just made the love of my life, who happens to be growing our baby in her belly, a grilled cheese sandwich.” His eyes are wide and glassy, his expression slightly incredulous. “For the first time in my life, I can say honestly that there is no place I would rather be than right here.”

You swallow the last bite of food in your mouth, and curse for the millionth time during your pregnancy, the hormones that have wreaked havoc on your already fragile emotional state. “Alex, I-

“I mean, I have been with you every step of the way for this new journey. I haven’t missed a single doctor’s appointment, or phone call… this is living, kid. This is it.” And there is really nothing you can say at this point because Alexander has succeeded once again, in rendering you utterly speechless. He takes the empty plate from you and deposits it into the sink with a dull thud and then turns and heads into the living room. You follow him wordlessly, watching with a small smile as he turns on the record player in the corner of the room, next to the bay window. Ray LaMontagne’s beautiful voice suddenly comes to life above the muted scratch of the needle. “Dance with me?” He asks, quietly.

“Of course,”

He holds you close to him, his warm hand rests easily against the small of your back, but your bump presses against his stomach and he can’t help but glance down and laugh a little. “Hi baby,” He murmurs, and it causes goosebumps to rise in patterns across your body.

“You’re going to be such a wonderful papa,” You whisper into the warmth of Alexander’s bare chest.

Alexander kisses the top of your head; lets his lips linger close as he speaks. “I can’t wait to meet them…”

You sway like that for what feels like hours, not at all aware of when the record finished. “Thanks for staying up past our bedtime with us, Alex.”

He beams down at you, and your breath hitches in your throat as you watch the way his blue orbs glitter wildly. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, humming contentedly to himself. “Kid, I’d stay up past your bedtime with you a million times if it meant that I got to slow dance with the two of you,” He splays a warm palm against your belly. “A million times, just to feel even an ounce of this happiness.”

It is the little things that you will miss the most; and right now, you are all too content to live in this moment with him forever.

[alolowrites]

A Late Night Promise

Summary: Much to your dismay, you share an elevator ride with Shouto after staying late at the office one night.   

Author’s Note: Saw a prompt with just the word “elevator” and my mind came up with this. It’s been a while since I wrote a long-ish fic for Shouto. One last thing, everyone is of age. 

Enjoy!  

“So what do you say?”

“Oh…I don’t know…”

“C’mon.” Saito leans against the doorframe. “I promise we’ll have a great time on Saturday night. I know this fantastic hibachi restaurant in the city. The chef is also a close friend of mine. What do you say?”

“That does sound like fun.” What’s not to love about watching an experienced chef perform their tricks on the grill? The excited yells, the sleek spatulas slicing on the metal ice, the delicious food sizzling to perfection. Your mouth waters at the mere thought of it. And yet, “Can I let you know tomorrow? I just gotta make sure I’m free.”

“No problem,” he smiles at you. “Text me when you’re ready.”

Waving goodbye, you walk away. Few employees are working late tonight at Endeavor’s agency, especially if they are network engineers such as yourself. You don’t mind staying behind to help. It means spending more time in the server rooms. Each one is like a fun maze where you purposefully try to get lost in. They came in handy after enduring a painful heartbreak.

The hallway runs for miles. Lights flicker above you and the low buzz tickles your ears. You can’t shake the growing feeling of someone watching you. Pausing mid-step, you peek over your shoulders with weary eyes. A janitor pushes his cart around the corner. His whistles echo down the hall until they fade away.

You relax.

It’s a false alarm. Shaking your head, you stride towards the elevator. Cool air bursts from the vents which is a blessing. Outside is a nightmare with all the humidity. From the corner of your eye, you see a storm approaching. The wind howls in between the trembling leaves. Dark clouds gradually engulf the entire block like the Blob Monster. And soft thunder rumbles in the distance.

Perhaps it will rain tonight. Lord knows you desperately need it to rain. After suffering under humidity’s tyrant rule, you are ready to be saved.

The button turns yellow. You wait for the elevator by scrolling through your phone. Instagram is a bore. Snapchat’s hourglass reminds you to keep your fiery streak alive. And, unsurprisingly, Chargebolt is trending on Twitter. Just as your thumb hangs above the screen, the strange feeling returns.

You glance to your left and nearly drop the phone. Shouto is marching down the hallway. Panic hits as you pound the button multiple times. Seconds are ticking by. Precious time is fleeing. Where is the damn elevator?!

Ding!

You immediately dive inside. Lurching forward, you attack the button until the doors start closing. A hand slices midway and everything stops. Shouto saunters inside; the elevator groans under the newly added weight. You scuff back to the center. He dusts off the invisible lint on his black dress shirt. He gives you a once over before standing besides you.

The elevator moves.

No music plays from the speakers. The box is so quiet, but your mind is on overdrive. It’s as if someone accidentally disconnected a cable and now the network system is malfunctioning. Only you couldn’t fix this mess. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea answering those emails; they kept you behind an extra ten minutes. Too late to change that now.  

You glimpse at the black screen above you. The dwindling numbers keep you sane even if you’re hanging on by a thread. Once the ride reaches the lobby, you will block it from your memory. Until then, all you need to do is ignore him. It should be easy enough.

“You’re leaving late again.”

Shoulders back.

“It’s not good for your health.”

Eyes front.

“Will you please say something to me?”

Lips shut.

Shouto takes the hint and backs off. He rethinks his strategy in silence while your eyes are fixated on the elevator’s doors. His body is partially blurred. Although you couldn’t see his face, you know he is frustrated; the clenched fist gives it away. Your phone vibrates in your grasp. A soft smile tugs on your lips as you read the sweet message.

Shouto scoffs. You frown.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shoves one hand in his pocket. You suspiciously eye him before turning your attention to the phone again.

The blue light flickers with each floor change. A finger taps against the side of his leg. Time is running out for him. He must act quick. Who knows when he will be this close to you, and alone, ever again. Shouto thinks back to your answer and nearly cries; he craves to hear the sound of your voice—it’s sweet and addictive.

“Are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Go out with him?”

“How did you—did you spy on me?!”

Shouto bites back a grin. That’s six more words than the last response.

“I wanted to know if you were okay.” He shrugs as if he did nothing wrong. A migraine knocks on your forehead. “Your team has been working diligently on installing the new security firewalls. After all, my father wants to make sure everything is secured.”

“Forget about your father’s insane demands!” You thrust a finger his way. “How long have you been spying on me, huh? Tell me right now!”

His mouth is glued shut.

“Shouto!”

“Since you started talking to Saito!” Embers flicker off his hair. He towers over you, but you do not flinch away. One hand rushes through his locks. “He kept getting close to you. I wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“Like you didn’t hurt me?!” You dryly laugh. Your icy glare almost gives him frostbite. “You’re the one who broke up with me!”

“I did it to protect you!” Oh here we go again, that same old excuse. You pace around the elevator to avoid his nonsense. Shouto does not back down. “There are villains who want to kill me! If they ever found out about you—”

“You don’t think I know that?!” A foot harshly stomps on the floor and rattles the box. “For crying out loud, Shouto, I work for your dad! This whole freaking office is a prime target!”

The numbers continue climbing down.

“I knew the risks that came with dating you. I’m not stupid, but you—” a finger jabs his shirt “—made the choice to leave me. You decided to end things without even considering how it would have hurt me.”

His eyes flicker between your finger and fiery daggers.

“It was hard getting over you.” A cold, haughty chuckle rings into the air. “But now that I’m ready to start dating again, you decide to spy on me? You have some nerve!”

Another stab to his chest.

“It’s over, Shouto.” You boldly stand your ground. “I suggest you move on and forget about us.”

A thin line appears on his mouth.

Shouto marches towards the front and smashes the emergency button. The elevator abruptly stops. For a few seconds, it shakes like an aftershock from a larger earthquake. You yelp and stumble, but catch yourself. Shouto’s hand slips down. The unbearable humidity returns, only it feels worse, like standing in the middle of the Amazon rainforest with no escape.

A pair of eyes focuses on you. He’s like a jaguar who briskly stalks closer to his prey. Out of instinct, your legs stagger away from him until you hit a wall. Two large hands slam against the metal plate. The shockwaves roll down your back as his arms cage you in place.

When Shouto leans forward, you swallow a hard gulp. Apparently there are two storms happening tonight—one outside and the other thrashing inside his eyes. You’ve only seen this look a few times; it never fails to make you shudder with anticipation. Soon a small flame ignites deep in your soul.

It grows at an alarming rate. A cool sensation trails across your jawline and down your neck. You restrain yourself from biting your bottom lip. The air swirling around becomes unstable. Your breathing quickens its pace. Your throat dries instantly. Your heart beats uncontrollably. Shouto amusingly peeks at the bag and the pitiful distance it puts in between you two.

“You said to move on and forget, but there’s one small problem…” His gravelly voice makes your legs quiver. He tilts his head so your noses brush. You could almost taste the peppermint breath flowing out from his parted mouth. It fails to cool down your flushed face. After the brief pause, he rasps, “I can’t and I’ll show you why.”

Lightning finally strikes.

Without warning, strong lips crash against yours. They are desperate for you. Starving even. His actions reawakens a long forgotten feeling in your core. The small flame transforms into a powerful wildfire ravaging everything in its path. You wither under the heat. At this point, nothing holds you back and fully give in.

You kiss him. Hard.  

A cool touch makes you gasp. Shouto wastes no time devouring the inside of your mouth with his tongue. The movements are precise, yet reckless. A wave of pleasure spreads throughout your body as your eyes roll back. The bag drops to the floor and Shouto effortlessly kicks it behind. With the only obstacle gone, he collapses his entire weight on you.  

You yank away to catch your breath.

Large hands seamlessly wander down your body. They are painfully slow for your liking. Shouto smirks when your fists fervently tug the collar of his shirt. He stops torturing you by swooping his hands underneath your thighs and lifting you up. Eager legs wrap around Shouto’s torso to hold yourself steady.

After weeks being apart, you miss his touch. You miss exploring his lean muscles bulging through the fabric. You miss inhaling his unique cologne scent. You miss digging your fingers through his sleek hair and disrupting its neat form. You simply miss everything about him.

Shouto hears you beg and fulfills your wish by deepening the kiss. It is more animalistic, more ferocious than the first one. Shouto shoves you further up against the wall for better control. Ironically, he is fighting to keep his composure together. Your tantalizing lips, however, pushes him over the edge. Lustful thoughts consume his mind as he praises every inch of your body. His mouth attacks your neck while you sing against his ear.

He almost loses it when you breathe out his name.

Meanwhile, his searing touches threaten to unravel the last string of your sanity. You guide his mouth back to yours as you are hungry for more. The storm charges through with no end in sight. Shouto’s satisfying groans blurs with the thunderous applause exploding among the thick clouds. Time is nonexistent. Your focus is on Shouto who pours his entire heart and soul into each blazing kiss. They are chaotic, but divine. You surrender yourself to the madness and transcend into a state of euphoria.

Oh how you wish you could stay there forever.

As the kisses weaken, you sink back down to reality. Through your heavy eyelids, you see Shouto pull away from your plump lips. Both chests heave like two runners who finished a grueling marathon. There are no crowds of people cheering for you two, just your heart. A soft sirocco wind passes by as Shouto tiredly presses his forehead on yours.

He croaks, “Now you understand why I can’t move on and forget about us?”

You do.

Shouto searches through your overwhelmed eyes for an answer. He gently caresses your face like the precious treasure it is. The hero savors your lips one last time and etches them into his memory. Fighting against his wish, he carefully puts you down. Your legs wobble and you don’t trust yourself to move. Shouto walks to the front and press some buttons.

The elevator roars to life again.  

You tuck in your blouse and pathetically fix your disheveled hair. A bag appears in your sight. Grabbing it, you choke out a quick “thanks” to Shouto. Both of you return to your original positions as if the passionate episode never happened.

No music plays from the speaker, but it is far from quiet. You hear your heart racing and the electric sparks buzzing in the tensed air.

“I’m sorry,” Shouto whispers. You stiffen at the sound. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I was inconsiderate about everything…especially your feelings.”

You lower your gaze.

“I won’t stop you from going on that date.”

Your ears perk at his statement. Ignoring all warnings, you stare at him. Something indescribable swirls in his eyes. You realize they only appear when he’s preparing himself for battle.

“It is still your choice to make, but,” Shouto holds your hand in his warm grasp. The sheer determination flaring through his gaze takes your breath away. “Please know that I will not rest until I win your heart again.”

Ding!

The doors open, but you don’t exit. You’re still trying to process his words—his declaration of war for whomever decides to challenge him. Closing your gaped mouth, you glance between Shouto, your hand and the empty lobby. You numbly step off the elevator and lumber away.

Rain droplets cover the glass doors. Everything is quiet outside. The storm is gone and off to torment another city. You can finally breathe since the air is lighter. As you take a whiff of the earthy-musty scent, you feel the back of your hairs rise. Your eyes peer over your shoulders to see Shouto watching you.

He proudly stands tall.

A giddy sensation rushes down your spine. You grip the handle to keep yourself steady. Overwhelmed, you release a shaky sigh before exiting the building. In the lobby, Shouto curls his fist without looking away.

“I promise to win you back.” His lips curve into a small, but confident smile. “No matter how long it takes.”

Shouto will make sure of it.

As always, thank you for reading!  

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

What are some characters you wished interacted more in Adventure/02? I always wanted to see more Joe/taichi (because wow they both have some shit regarding responsibility) and sora/koushiro! Also in 02 I wanted more sibling moments between the Yagami and Ishida/Takeshi siblings :’)

Immediately Sora/Kou and Joe/Taichi jumped into my head before I even finished reading so like same

Your icon is super cute btw!!

Sorry if all of this is a mess apparently if you give me a platform I just spout nonsense about digimon for days lmaoo

TL;DR: Sora/Kou, Joe/Taichi, Mimi/Yamato, the siblings but with maybe some closure to the Yagamis on some level if that makes sense at all

I feel like Sora and Koushirou were the two characters who believed in Taichi the most and really stuck by him, and supposedly knew each other before the digital world, but it’s honestly hard to recall any scenes where they acted incredibly close to each other? I know she defended him when Taichi was teasing Koushirou and trying to whack his computer and they also shared their opinions on Taichi during the Skullgreymon issue. There might be some scenes, but I’m honestly blanking. Yet I can think of specific examples for Taichi and Koushirou and Taichi and Sora off the top of my head (the gate episode for the former and Taichi saving Sora from nanomon). So maybe the series didn’t mean for them to be very close friends (I think there’s a chart and they aren’t shown with arrows between each other), but I always felt like they would mesh well together even if their main reason was just to bond over Taichi. But I think Sora has shown and would be open to just listening to Koushirou and encouraging him and I think Sora is mellow enough for Koushirou to be comfortable around. I actually kind of wish Sora and Koushirou had gone together in Adventure to look for Taichi because it seemed important to both of them, though I get narratively why they wanted everyone to split up. I kind of wish there was just more Sora, Taichi, and Koushirou being tight-knit overall and something more of an overt trio, since again they were the one’s who already knew each other more closely iirc.

I agree on the Joe and Taichi bit, too. I think there could have maybe been a few more instances where Taichi, well, relied on him and the two kind of commiserated about everything. Joe clearly had a lot of worry for the team and was willing to like risk his own life for Takeru and stay beside Mimi a few times because as her counselor he felt responsible and Taichi had a lot of baggage trying to do right by everyone all the time and wanting to be The Very Best and it felt like sometimes he could kind of feel the heaviness of it especially when Hikari came in; it just felt like they should have a late night therapy session together and there could have been some times when Taichi turned to Joe for some advice. If there was more than once I don’t really remember it right now? I know Taichi had a support pillar in Koushirou and Sora and Yamato at some point, but I honestly think it would have been nice to sprinkle in more of Joe there, and maybe have Joe even gain more confidence in his role in the team to just put his hand on Taichi’s shoulders and say, “Take a break,” but instead it always felt like he micro helped, which I guess was big, but idk Taichi should have his mom bake Joe a cake just to say he’s swell. But I also think it would be nice if Taichi could be a pillar back in kind. I don’t really remember if anyone was specifically there to support Joe back when I think about it except maybe Sora when she helped at the diner arc?? I also think this would have been nicer to explore in 02 and have Joe help herd some of the new youngsters more, but it kind of felt like by Our War Game Joe was a little more… not around? Was always kind of weird to me that the “reliable” one was never around. I know his crest in some iterations is honesty or sincerity, so maybe that’s why haha, but he did always come off as trying to be reliable, so I always fall back on that.

Also Mimi and Yamato would have been interesting to see…. interact at all?? I think in the novels he makes her cry at one point iirc and there was the scene at the graves of the fallen digimon, but I can’t recall any other impactful scenes where they straight on interact?? I feel like the scene where Sora breaks down and Yamato is pretty understanding could have also translated into some scenes with Mimi, like he could go from being annoyed by her and agitated to accepting her strengths and maybe through her find that being more emotional isn’t always a weakness, idk. I also remember Yamato once grilled a fish and so I always thought he’d end up being the cook of the group down the line so when it was Mimi in the epilogue I would kind of imagine her having him on her show for a segment, like cooking in rough conditions or something and talk about the food he eats in space idk it was a weird thing that stuck with me as a kid and it’s hard to kind of forget…

Overall with 02 I really wish there was just more of the original cast and they expanded their relationships from 01. Maybe not get rid of the new 02 cast members because I do really love them, but just integrate the original digidestined in more. I get that it’s hard to balance a large cast, though, so I get why they didn’t. I really feel like Sora, Joe, and Mimi just got forgotten about in the full narrative, though. I also would have still liked more relationship building between like the siblings as you said as well. Family was a pretty integral part of the original series in many ways and while they did seem to kind of bring it back in the ending iirc, there was a HUGE emphasis on the sibling dynamics in 01 I felt was kind of dropped by 02. Like it was even written in a prophecy?? I will admit my memory of 02 is fuzzy and due for a rewatch but I recall Hikari getting something of a developing episode re: her attachment to Taichi or some comparison she was making towards him about herself that I don’t remember, but I’m pretty sure he like… had no part in it really? I think even the dub just was like, “Let’s not even write in that issue.” I could be wrong on that, though. It just felt like Taichi was more distant than he had been at the end of 01 and maybe that’s just age and he grew up, but I still feel like it needed a resolution and he could have either had residual fears or at least have a “letting go” episode maybe so they could both grow together or something for the audience to bare. I felt like if anything Taichi and Hikari’s arc should have ended with him trusting her more and I guess he kind of does since he leaves the fighting to the new kids on the block but it was more like… he gave the responsibility to Daisuke (not a bad choice, this is nothing about Daisuke ofc). It just would have been more full circle imho if he maybe gave Hikari the goggles or something— like she didn’t have to be the leader I guess but it would have been kind of symbolic of him seeing her as strong finally and acknowledging her, you know? That’s probably a different road entirely haha Hikari and Taichi just had a really sweet bond in 01 so I remember it being a little jarring when I watched 02. I can’t remember much about Takeru and Yamato together either so :(

I think they balanced a lot of relationships and backstories and a huge complicated plot pretty well in general just overall and they made the characters so goood but I guess that’s on my essay on some of the things I would change re: their relationships i’msosorry

[hobohumanitarian6]

This is a long post so please be warned!!! I need to get some things off my chest....

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING POSSIBLE⚠️

Feedback to this post is open-ended. You cannot offend me and will not be blocked.

⭐ So here's the thing: one of my late grandmother's friends just posted that her 29 year old son died in his sleep with seemingly no explanation. This really shook me I guess. For one, I used to hang out with this kid during the summers a lot. My specific memories are very vague, but deep in my consciousness I know that I have called him friend in the past. For another, many things lately have been prompting me to ask the difficult questions ie

Why in the fuck am I here?

What's the meaning of it all?

When is my life going to get better?

How do I prepare myself for better things?

Am I blocking me or is something else blocking me?

What am I doing wrong that the universe doesn't think I'm ready for a new chapter?

Am I really with the right person?

What about the afterlife?

Am I going to be silenced or speak out?

What if I can't do some of things I want/dreamed of?

What is going to satisfy me if my future doesn't go as planned?

⭐ I've been doing quite a bit of soul searching through all of this, established the framework of the person I want to be and

BAM! 🧱 💥 🏃🏻‍♀️

Straight into a fucking. Brick. Wall.

⭐ I am in one of the worst continental states in the US (by even statistic) and before all of the shutdown and pandemic began, I had plans to be relocated with my new job, a place to call home & reunited with family by June 1st. Clearly that didn't happen....

⭐ I am spending $900 a month for a 250 ft² motel room just so I am not out on the streets.

Homelessness. Can we talk about that for a second? People getting arrested for being out past curfew because they don't have a place to go, put in jail because they're in the way, not tested or treated for the virus because they generally have no insurance, giving people loads of food stamps so the emergency assistance funding is broke-

600 dollars of groceries is a lot if you have a fridge, freezer, microwave, oven, toaster, etc not if you have to buy your food from overpriced convenience stores and gas stations and fresh food from grocery stores that 70% of the price is for the packaging it comes with!!

Soup kitchens closing because they don't want to risk contamination. Who's feeding those without a hot meal? Do they realize malnourishment is the quickest way to get sick with any pathogen!?

Shelters closed because of overpopulation. Domestic violence homes turning battered women and children away because there's too scarce of resources and funding. Yet people care about big corporations going bankrupt? Please tell me what the difference is between a goddamn human fucking life and a couple lawsuits because you didn't know how to prepare for an ever-changing economy.

Thank the universe i am sheltered with minimal resources to take care of myself and I have a steady job due to an enormous company's "chance on a down-in-the-dumps contractor." This job I have held steadily for a year despite chronic health issues has been the best thing to happen to me by far in a long time. I am definitely not by any means complaining about my job or that I even have life necessities right now. Several million don't have that.

⭐ The problem with this state is there are no resources for a person who's struggling to make an honest living. I lost my apartment two years ago because I had to take a medical leave of absence at my job then, got behind on rent and was evicted without a chance to catch up. The power was cut three nights before I had to leave, and I owe a deposit on the electric company to get any type of service back in my name. The realty company who owns the apartment complex will not allow a payment plan without a fraction of the principle paid down, so therefore I cannot apply for private or realty housing and I have been on the waiting list for federal housing assistance for 3 years without a single word. I also had my bank card stolen with my ID when I was trying to catch a bus to work a few weeks after that so whoever it was made small purchases that my bank applied interest and late charges to so that is also standing in debt. Thank universe my current employer allows direct deposit to a savings account at a bad credit institution or I'd be royally fucked.

⭐ Before I made the hard decision to doll out almost a G a month just for a room, I tried sleeping in my pickup. I even took the effort to pallet it for a platform bed & make benches to live in free campgrounds, cemeteries, truck stops, boonie dead ends, and behind abandoned buildings. I had a 12V converter that I connected to a rice cooker and made a tin can stove to grill small portions of meat on a single-egg mini skillet. I kept getting chased off by rangers, cops, annoying people trying to do crack and not get their lives better, and eventually violently detained for "suspicious activity" - I was thrown on the ground, put in handcuffs, patted down by a male officer with no female present, searched my vehicle without consent & written a citation: this was 2 am, I had a campsite reservation, I was clearly sleeping & my vehicle was current. The officers did not give me their name or numbers so I could not make a report.

⭐ I have chronic health issues - hip dysplasia & hyper mobility (not severe enough to be EDS), anemia, rexhia (NOT PRO ANYTHING), pre diabetes, H.S, BPD, PTSD, endometriosis & chronic migraines. I have filed time and time and time again for medical assistance but have always been denied. Every time I try to see a doctor, they claim I have this-or-that infection caused by this-or-that disorder, sent to an overpriced pharmacy with illness-irritating antibiotics that just keep me in an unending cycle of flares and barely-managable pain. Do not let anyone privileged or wealthy confuse you - you are not treated the same if you don't have coverage. Sorry to say but it is indeed a fact.

⭐ With this job I work 40-50 hours a week, eat as healthy as I can on a dime sized budget, and cover all my expenses. Yet I cannot move forward in this state on to better things. I want so badly to have a family, to go to college, etc but I cannot do this with living month to month someplace that isn't even my own.

⭐ The emotional affect this has had on me is tremendous. I am embarrassed of my situation, and never allow any guests in fear they'd judge me. I never take any photographs, which is heartbreaking because it has been one of my long-time hobbies. I am extremely guarded and I lie about small details to protect myself. I have severe trust issues and I always hold a dagger at my waist because I have to assume any minute you'll pull out a Glock.

⭐ Naturally I am an empath and this has brought me more compassion and understanding than I ever thought possible. The police brutality against people of color and racism in socio-economic programs truly breaks my heart because as a white female and all the struggles and discrimination I've endured, I can only begin to understand it's 1000x harder for people of color especially. I stand behind your protests 100%. I beseech you, go fight for what you deserve! I will be begging higher powers for your protection indefinitely!

⭐ I have gained a new perspective on non-profit organizations and volunteer work. Some are truly amazing and their stories move people to tears; others are truly wicked stealing from the poor, embezzling cash flow for their own vanities. Please please please research the charity you are interested in thoroughly before getting involved. Volunteer work will always be appreciated- and will teach you many invaluable lessons. If you help these organizations and need help yourself: respect yourself, hold yourself high, and ask for the assistance. They will generally be more inclined to help. If you are turned away, try not to be bitter. Administrators only do as they see fit.

⭐ That's another thing - bitterness. This has been the most vile and roughest character default I've ever had to battle with myself. When you've been through the shit and you can't see the sewer (sts) it's so easy to stay in the dumps. It's so easy to feel entitled because you've clawed your way to the top. It's easy to feel angry with everyone because it's you vs the system. It's so fucking easy to give up completely and stop trying and just lay down and die. It's easy to step in front of a two ton bus, oncoming freight train, taking the entire package of extra strength Excedrin not because you have a migraine, but just not to feel a thing, go completely numb for one single second. It's easy to go down to the head shop and get a nickel bag of weed to chill and get a 5$ pizza and forget you have responsibilities.

IT'S SO FUCKING TOUGH MAN

⭐ Growing up strictly religious, I tend to shy away from Christianity or other "preachy religion" now. I hate having Jesus shoved down my throat at a service before a hot meal on a Tuesday night and the "speaker" automatically assuming I need to stop smoking crack and going to jail and get my life back on track and God will bless me when I'm in the 46% who has never been to county and hold a job while trying to get back on my feet.

ADDICTION IS NOT POVERTY GUYS

I still support people who go to church and speak in tongues if that satisfies them. I still support people who are strictly vegetarian and make a pilgrimage to the mecca if that satisfies them. I still support people who have 7 two week long feasts a year for something that happened 4000 years ago if that satisfies them. I still support people who believe in baptisms for the dead and not drinking coffee if that satisfies them. I still support people who call Jesus the Nazarene and believe that Lucifer the Dark Lord will prevail if that satisfies them. I still support people who call down the power of the moon into their plant babies and give thanks to the triple goddess if that satisfies them. I support religion or practices of all kinds.

I believe I was meant to be tolerant and be good to others. That this life will give back what you put in. That there is a higher power that governs all and it is up to you to determine just what that is to you. Not to tell people what is wrong with their lives just based on your personal story.

⭐ During this pandemic, I have done a lot of soul searching. Journaling, listening to podcasts, listening to seminars on values I'd never know existed, trying to discover who I am. This journey has included empathy training, reiki, yoga, somatic movement, feldenkrais methods, and astral meditation. I just have a list of these questions I'd like answered or given suggestions to:

What do you believe is the meaning of life? Is there any philosophers, speakers, teachers, theologians, writers, musicians etc that can help answer this?

What is your definition of religion in it's rawest form?

Do you know of any resources I may not have thought of?

Is there any criticism you can give good or bad?

Am I focused on one thing and neglecting another?

Do you have any further opinions on the topics listed above?

Do you have a suggestion of the next right step?

Do you have ideas on how I can help with the aforementioned problems?

How do I stop feeling like I'm wasting my time?

How do I find contentment in everything should I die tomorrow?

What is your opinion of the afterlife?

How do you find happiness in the midst of bullshit?

What did a friend/relative/mentor tell you when you were going through an existential crisis?

Have you felt trapped too? Due to the covid or otherwise?

Any curse words, songs, books, movies, etc of use?

🌸🌸I sincerely appreciate any feedback 🌸🌸

[fangirlingatstuff]

Ultrogon meet v. 1

(So I have multiple versions of how Rogon and Ultron meet, and Im bored so Im gonna post the first one here)

That night was hard.

Rogon could barely feel her legs as she dropped herself onto the floor of her cabin, hidden from the rest of the world.

Her spines shivered as she crawled, closer and closer to the couch in the middle of the room. The blood leaking from her side smeared on the wood floors, staining the carpet.

She finally clawed her way to the sofa. With a grunt, she pulled herself up to it.

Pain flared in her side. How stupid. How stupid was she to be caught in a storm, of all things?

Derecho had her laid out on a butchers block.

The pain nearly faded away the longer she sat still. Her tail was stiff from the fight, burning from the jerk on her spine.

How did she get into this? This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t on the field, she wasn’t even in enemy territory.

She was just trying to relax for a while, while her body heals from her prior...episode.

And yet, they followed her here. To the middle of nowhere Eastern Europe, in the middle of winter.

A tear slipped past her eye.

Her aching back made her grind her teeth, and for two hours, she sat on the couch, without moving.

She hasn’t responded to any reports. Hasnt responded to any messages, hasnt responded to any notes or letters or questions.

Where are you?

Rogon, where did you go?

Are you okay? Are you safe?

Please tell me you’re safe.

Ro, come home, please.

It killed her not to answer. It killed her to take a breath and look away from the screens.

But now, at this moment, she couldn’t risk her cover being blown. Her location leaking out to the rest of the Brood.

She rolled onto her side, tail flexing in pain. “Ow...” she groaned. Did she really have to be thrown into a tree? Hm? Was that necessary?

Tink.

Her ears shot up. Immediately, every scale, spine and hair stood on end. Something moved.

She shoved herself up and looked behind her. The back door was open, just slightly.

She always locked her doors, always kept every window sealed shut, but she did leave one door unlocked in case she needed to get away.

There were some tracks leading away from the door. They seemed human enough, thank Hell, but still. Any kind of compromise could spoil her location.

So, she rolled off the couch and landed on the ground without making any noise.

She sniffed the air. The smell of metal and smoke wafted through the air, so faint, yet still recent enough. She frowned and followed the prints to the stairs.

Was someone trying to escape the cold? If so, this was the worst place to be. She had no heaters, only surviving off of her own warmth, her millions of sweaters and blankets, and the fire that blazed in her throat. Everything smoldered to an ash the moment she left the house.

Her steps barely made a creak on the wood. Her tail slowly retreated and melted away, spines digging under her skin.

If it was a human, she’d hate to be caught.

Or, she could have a fresh meal. Grilled lumberjack sounded good, just about now.

Rogon made it up the stairs and slowly creeped down the hall.

There was a door open.

A door she didn’t remember opening earlier.

Her hand pressed against the door. “Alright,” her voice snarled out in a choked static, “alright...if you’re in here to kill me, clap your hands!”

Clap clap

“Oh bullshit,” her feet left the floor and she nearly jumped the entire staircase.

“Wait wait! I was joking!” She stopped, glancing at the door. It was a masculine voice. Rich, but glitchy.

Rogon took a few steps back to the door, and lightly pushed it open. The creak did nothing to calm her nerves, and neither did the bright red eyes staring at her.

Her face fell, “Holy shit.”

In the darkness, she could see a broken yet complicated frame. Sparks flew off of its side, metal plating its body.

A machine.

No, she thought, a robot.

“I’m sorry for the lack of lights,” it waved a servo around. Its voice was fuzzy, like it was being projected from a speaker. “But this house is horribly equipped.”

She sneered, “What are you doing in my house?” Her hands clawed in her gloves.

It must have noticed her reaching for the pistol on her belt, because it quickly raised its hands. “Please please! I promise, I don’t mean any harm!”

She scoffed and looked it in its blank red eyes. It looked very much like one of the Stark’s drones, but with some artistic liberties added to it. Its face was one single plate, with the same basic concept of Stark’s helmet, but an open jaw, and more narrowed optics.

“And what’s one of Stark’s drones doing with an AI attached to it?” She lifted her head up, looking down at the drone with enough malice to tackle an elephant.

It stood up quickly. “I am not one of Stark’s drones!” It snapped.

“No, but you are controlling one,” she snapped right back.

“...fair enough,” it relaxed, and she could get a better look at it as it was standing before her.

One leg was nearly completely locked up, with all that’s left of its right arm being a bunch of dangling wires. The side of its body was blown up and burnt, its shoulder plate torn off.

“Woah,” she snorted, “what kind of hell did you crawl out of?” She entered the room entirely, looking the machine up and down.

It shifted its weight, the floor creaking as it did so. “I didn’t know any one lived here.”

“Well, someone does,” she raised a brow. Her sides tightened as she crossed her arms.

“I just need a place to stay, to regroup,” it said. “I will not cause any damage—“

“You broke into my house.”

“It wasn’t that hard. The door knobs are broken.”

Rogon narrowed her eyes and cursed just as the chill of ice cold wind broke through the window. “You opened a window?!” She yelped and rushed over. The slam shut rattled the entire house. “Are you mad?! It’s cold as hell out there!”

“It was open when I came in,” it snarked. “The wind must have blown it open.”

Rogon breathed out. This was going to get her killed, wasn’t it? Oh well. Curse her pitying heart.

She looked over her shoulder. “Do you...have a name?”

She heard the sound of whirring machinery as it shifted again, “...Ultron.”

“Ultron? That’s a typical robot name.”

“Wait, do you not recognize it?” It sounded incredulous, like she had to have heard it before. “Do you not watch the news?”

“Do you see a tv anywhere?” She asked, gesturing around.

“No phone? No computer?”

“No. I use radio services,” she pulled out a walkie talkie from her waist clip.

The robot looked at her in what she deemed to be surprise.

She never heard of it before. “Okay, Ultron,” she turned around and sighed, putting her hands together. “I’ll let you stay here. But you have to promise me you aren’t some kind of, oh, I don’t know, spy software or some shit.”

It tilted its head at her, “Are you one of those government conspiracy fanatics?”

She scoffed, “No. I’m from Russia.”

He made a sound like he was clicking his tongue, “Ah.” Yes, that always makes total sense. “No, I am not any government intelligence software. I promise you that.”

Rogon nodded with a hum and started to walk out the door. “I hope you don’t need to eat,” she said with a laugh, “because I do not hunt for others.”

It chuckled lightly. “Oh no, I prefer my rabbit without fur. Or meat. Or bones. Really, I don’t want anything on my rabbit.”

She almost laughed at that. As she went down the stairs with a very visible limp, she heard it walk out of the room. The heavy clunks would have to take getting used to. But she wouldn’t be staying for long. “Are you hurt?” It asked.

“No, I walk like this for fun,” she grunted. With her entire weight on one side of her body, she was stretching her limits out thin. Usually, she’d be walking on her wings.

But she couldn’t risk that kind of exposure.

“Are your legs always like that?” She heard it begin walking down the stairs.

“I was thrown into a tree,” she quipped, walking to the couch. “Now, if it please you, Ultron, Imma fall asleep.”

The walking stopped. “Now, how rude would it be if a host didn’t give her guest her name?”

She stopped and looked at it. Did she give him her real name? She supposed it wouldn’t hurt. She technically didn’t exist to humans, anyways.

“My name’s Rogon,” she said and lied down. Her spines stretched against her back, and she was completely uncomfortable all throughout the night.

[master-sass-blast]

Wet T-Shirt Contest

This was written and edited on Benadryl. Goob luck.

Summary: You beat the heat again --and get very wet in the process.

Rating: G. This is a wholesome fic. Basically no warnings.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Set after “Suck It.”

Taglist:   @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things

You’re dying.

Well, okay, you’re not dying –but you’re suffering enough that you may as well be.

The heat wave is still marching on, scorching everything in its reach and making your life exceptionally miserable. It’s too hot to be outside most of the day –and forget flying, because you’re liable to get burnt.

Worse still, the weathermen were wrong about the rain; there hasn’t been so much as a wisp of a cloud in sight for days. The normally well-kept gardens that dot Xavier’s property are taking it on the chin as the landscapers and residents do their best to keep up with the sun’s oppressive reign.

Thus, you’ve been cooped inside, relegated to languishing indoors while the thermometers tick ever higher.

And you are bored out of your skull. There’s only so much drawing, sparring, TV watching, cooking, general mischief-ing, and fucking –yes, you even have your limits there—you can do before you start losing your mind.

But, just when you thought your brain was going to start leaking out your ears, relief presented itself in the opportunity of pranking your beloved boyfriend, Piotr (aka Colossus).

As it so happens, it’s been dry enough and hot enough that there’s an official fire risk warning. Fireworks have been banned by the local authorities (and even Wade is following it, which means it’s serious), the fire chiefs have advised avoiding grilling, and Russell and all other fire mutations have been on a strict “indoors only” restriction to avoid any sort of random incident.

And, as it also so happens, the wooded area at the back of Xavier’s property has a fair amount of brush in it. Very good for maintaining the natural hummus and the animals that live there, very bad for fire situations.

And, as it also (also) so happens, there’s a limited number of people that can handle being out in this kind of heat while clearing the brush –and one of them is your boyfriend.

Fortunately, for your steel sweetheart, his armor also leaves him relatively invulnerable to temperature spikes. His armor might get extremely cold or extremely hot –which presents various challenges and dangers to those around him—but he himself suffers no ill effects from the temperature shifts, including when he armors back down. Combined with the fact that his mutation includes having a lower dose of exhaustion chemicals running through his system while armored up, and there’s really only one candidate for the job.

He’d still opted for today, when the temperature index had lowered a little –not by much, albeit—to clear out the worst of the brush, which had given you time to prepare.

It hadn’t taken much to sell the more playful of the adult residents, the college students that summer at Xavier’s, and the permanent residents on the idea. Apparently, you’d all been going a little stir crazy.

The lot of you have prepared for the entire week. Water balloons. Getting the hoses set up. Squirt guns. Moving the sprinklers. Everything you could possibly need for a massive water fight, you have.

It’s basically a wet t-shirt contest, and your boyfriend is the primary target.

You stifle a giggle as you crouch behind a bush, alongside Ellie and Kitty. You’ve got a stash of squirt guns and a bucket of water balloons between the three of you, and you’re ready to wreak some serious havoc.

Piotr emerges from the tree line at the back of the property, already armored down and clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He doesn’t look too much worse for wear, but he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the heat, either.

“Alright, remember: I’m gonna get him first, and then you come out with everyone else once the sprinklers go off.”

“Totally,” Kitty says, bobbing along to whatever song is blasting through her earbuds at the moment.

You regard her for a moment, then turn to Ellie. “Okay, you remember.”

Ellie smirks and nods.

You grin back, grab a couple water balloons, then dart towards Piotr.

He sees you coming –you’re not trying to be stealthy either—then shouts when the first water balloon hits him square in the chest. He raises his hands, laughing as he tries to block your shots, but he’s kind of hard to miss.

He regards his now soaked shirt once you run out of balloons with a chuckle, then looks up at you with a mischievous grin. “Hug time.”

“No!” You squeal and try to turn, but between his stride and his long arms, he doesn’t have trouble catching you (not that you were really trying to escape in the first place). You squirm against his chest as he scoops you into his arms. “Babe! No!”

Piotr merely kisses your cheek. “Now we are both wet.”

“You always get me wet, baby,” you tease. You loop your arms around his neck and lean in to kiss him—

And then the sprinklers turn on.

He yelps and almost drops you when he gets hit square in the back with a jet of cold water. “D’ermo!”

Everyone else bursts out from their respective hiding place then, shrieking with delight, firing squirt guns, and pelting each other and you and Piotr with water balloons.

You laugh, grab a water balloon, and pelt Piotr straight upside the head.

He sputters and swipes at his face, then grins at you and gives chase again.

It’s nothing short of spectacular. There’s water everywhere. The entire yard devolves into complete chaos as everyone slips and skids all over the place. Water balloons sail through the air, littering the grass with neon colored bits of plastic after they burst. Squirt guns are fired and refilled –and a few tossed aside after they flat out refuse to work.

It’s amazing.

By the time the sprinklers shut off, you’re all soaked, panting, and feeling much better from having been cooped up all week.

Piotr starts picking up the worst of the water balloon remains and tossing them in one of the empty buckets while the others start migrating towards the house. “Did you plan this?”

“It started as a way to prank you,” you admit, not the least bit sheepish. “And then it turned into a good way to relieve some cabin fever, considering we’ve all been stuck inside with this heat wave going on.”

“Well, it was very good idea, myshka,” he says as he tries to wipe his hands dry on his shirt, then stops when he realizes his shirt is wetter than his hands. “Though I think I will need to change now.”

You cock your head to the side and admire the way his shirt, now basically see through, clings to his pecs and reveals the varying lines of his chiseled musculature. “I don’t know. I kind of like it this way.”

He smirks and lets his gaze flit over your body –which is when you realize your shirt is equally as wet, clinging to the curves of your waist like a second skin and showing off the lines of your bra in full detail. “I figured as much.”

“Well, duh.” You grin cheekily at him. “We should probably get dried off, though.” You hold your hand out to him. “Care to help me?”

He grins and scoops you into his arms, carrying you back to the house bridal-style. “It would be my sincerest pleasure, moya lyubov’.”

You giggle as you wind your arms around his neck, then lean in to kiss him.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Deacon St. John || Phantom in the Night [1/5]

A/n: This'll be a short series. There are spoilers, so I'll put a spoiler warning before you read.

⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

I hope you all enjoy! Love you all!!! ••••••••••••••••••••

***HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD! PLEASE NOTIFY ME OF ANY ERRORS!!!***

***** Prompt: A mysterious woman with a mask has been traveling around the regions taking out whatever evil she comes across. When Deacon meets the woman behind the mask, his entire world changes. *****

~3rd Person POV~

The moment Deacon set foot in Copeland's Camp, he saw the entire encampment gathered in between the kitchen and the bounty stall. Mark stood in the middle as he addressed his fellow men and women. "I understand your concern, but we've no need to worry. Phantom means us no harm."

"What if she does target our camp?" A woman asked nervously.

"I assure you she will not. Now get back to work!" Mark shouted. Everyone headed back to their posts, a suffocating air lingering throughout the camp.

Deacon was perplexed as to why the entire camp was acting strange. He wake sober to many, greeting the mechanic. "Hey, Manny. What's going on here?"

"You haven't heard?" Manny inquired.

"Why the hell do you think I'm asking?" the drifter scoffed.

"Recently, there's been this girl spotted out in the shit. She wears this creepy mask and black clothing. No one knows who she is under the mask. People around the camp are afraid she'll attack us next," Manny explained.

"I didn't come here to listen to the camp's problems. You got anything new for me?" Deacon asked.

"Sorry, Deek. Nothing today."

"Alright, thanks."

Manny watched as the drifter mounted his bike. "You're leaving so soon?"

"Like hell I'm sticking around." Deacon started his bike and took off.

<———————————<<<<<<<<<<<<<

As Deacon was riding through Belknap after accepting a job from Tucker, he was ambushed by marauders. A bullet pierced his right shoulder, knocking him off his bike. The motorcycle scraped against the asphalt as Deacon landed on his back with a painful grunt. "Fucking marauders..."

Four marauders charged at him, their weapons raised. The sniper tried to shoot him again, but the man in the tree suddenly was shot and screamed as he plummeted towards the road.

Deacon grabbed the bat hanging on his bat, ready to defend himself. Before he could even swing it, all the marauders were killed. The gunshots rang through the air, but the drifter was unable to locate his savior.

Suddenly, a figure climbed down a tree by the highway and landed a few feet away from Deacon. By the stature, he knew it was a woman. She turned around, revealing the mask concealing her face. 

The sniper in her hands alerted the drifter, but she lowered and slung it across her back. Deacon was still on high alert as she walked towards him. Standing directly in front of him, she pulled down the hood and took the mask off her face. (H/c) hair tumbled out of the hood as she pulled at the strands to straighten them out. "I can help with your shoulder if you'll let me."

"Uh..." Deacon wasn't sure what to think at her offer. He was still puzzled at her sudden appearance and how she saved him. Now, he wasn't sure what to think of her offer, but he decided to accept her help. "Okay."

"Follow me." The woman guided him to a nearby bush where she fetched a backpack. She rummaged through it and pulled out what she needed. "I know we just met and all, but I'm gonna need you to remove your shirt."

Deacon glanced at the woman with a stoic expression. "You're serious?"

"No, I'm gonna patch you up magically through your shirt," she sighed. "Yes, I'm serious. It's my fault you were shot, anyway."

"How is it your fault?" The drifter questioned as he removed his cut, jacket, and shirt to allow the woman access to the bullet hole in his shoulder.

"I watched the bastards set up the ambush. I should've taken them out the moment I saw them." The woman began examining the wound before cleaning it thoroughly. "Good. The bullet passed straight through. Name's (Y/n), by the way."

"Deacon," the man gave her his name. "Phantom, huh? What are you—some masked vigilante? Never thought I see one of those in the middle of the apocalypse," Deacon commented after he let out a faint grunt of pain.

"Is that what people are calling me? And no, I'm not a masked vigilante. I go around taking out Freaks, Marauders, and Rippers. A few Squatters here and there, but mostly Swarmers and Newts."

"Why the mask?"

"Easiest way to take down a bunch assholes is to infiltrate their own ranks. The mask is so they don't recognize me and report who truly is behind the mask to other marauders. Even with most of the world's population being Freaks, rumors spread like wildfire out here in the shit." (Y/n) bandaged up his shoulder before placing the supplies back into her backpack. "There. It should heal in a week or two since it didn't hit anything major."

"Yeah, uh, thanks." Deacon put his clothes back on while (Y/n) slung her backpack over her shoulder.

She nodded and smiled. "You're welcome." Swiveling on her heels, she began making her way down the highway.

Something inside Deacon nagged him to tell her to stay. He cleared his throat and called out to the woman. "Need a ride somewhere?"

"Actually," (Y/n) spun back around to face him. "I do. You know where Black Crater is?"

Deacon nodded. "Yeah." He went over to his bike and hauled it off its side. "I'm heading there, too."

"Oh," she smirked. "You after the Rippers camped out there, too?"

"Guessing that's why you need a ride there," Deacon said. "And yeah. Those bastards keep ambushing supply runs for the Hot Springs."

"And Tucker asked you to do the dirty work for her," (Y/n) stated matter-of-factly. "Not surprised. Hope you're willing to have a partner on this endeavor."

"For once, yeah. Hop on."

(Y/n) secures her backpack against her back and mounted the bike. She placed her arms around Deacon's waist with a smile. "Let's go kill some Rippers."

<————————————<<<<<<<<<<<<

Eight months later, Deacon and (Y/n) found themselves at the Lost Lake Camp. They were forced to bring Boozer to the encampment due to blood poisoning from where a few Rippers had torched his arm. He was currently unconscious in the infirmary while Deacon had been dragged off by Skizzo.

(Y/n) sat at a picnic table, fiddling with a single bullet. She had used nest residue to create a single berserker bullet and was dying to test it out on anyone. While her gaze was focused on the bullet, she didn't notice Rikki sit down across from her. "It's (Y/n), right?"

"And you're Rikki. Nice to finally put a face to the name," the woman responded.

"You've traveled through Belknap and Cascade. Heard any interesting stories about this so called "Phantom?" I heard she wears this weird mask and goes around killing people."

"I've heard about her a few times during my trips. Not sure about the mask, but I heard she's been focusing on hordes recently."

Suddenly, the two women heard someone clear their throat and they turned their heads. At the end of the table stood Deacon, who was glancing between (Y/n) and Rikki. "Sorry, Rikki, but I need her right now."

"Y'know, Deek, I always took you as the loner type. I never expected to see another woman by your side with... you know..." Rikki's voice trailed off.

"Jesus, Rikki," Deacon exhaled. "We're not doing this shit again."

"I know, I know. I was just... surprised, is all."

The drifter grabbed (Y/n)'s upper arm and tugged her out of her seat and away from the picnic table. The woman already knew about Sarah and how Deacon had finally managed to get over her death a couple of months after their first meeting on the highway with her help.

The drifter released (Y/n) as they stood beside his bike. "Hop on. We're going to pay the Rippers a visit."

"What did Skizzo say to you?" The woman asked as she mounted the bike behind him.

"A plane carrying supplies for the Red Cross crashed in Iron Butte. If Boozer's wants a chance to survive, we have to get that medical supplies."

"We're heading straight into Ripper territory. Are you sure you want to risk the peace treaty Iron Mike has with Carlos?"

"That fucking treaty is already falling to pieces. We're getting that supplies one way or another." Deacon revved the engine and took off out the gate.

It was a thirty minute ride to their destination, which was a bridge connecting Lost Lake and Iron Butte. (Y/n) glanced up at the watchtower built beside the bridge. I don't see anyone on duty." Deacon contacted Skizzo, learning the post was unmanned on purpose. With no one on watch, it made it easy to infiltrate Ripper territory.

"Shit..." (Y/n) groaned as she spotted a car blocking their path. They quickly hopped off the motorcycle as Rippers shot at them. Taking cover behind a truck, the duo gladly responded with their own frenzy of bullets.

"Join us and we will—!"

(Y/n) emerged from their cover, shooting the woman in the head before she could finish her sentence. "I'd rather die than join a cult. I also kinda like having hair."

Deacon killed the last Ripper and they focused their attention on the car wedged in the opening between the makeshift walls. "Help me with this."

The woman placed her hands on the grill of the car beside Deacon's and they pushed the car to make room for the motorcycle. Once the vehicle was no longer an obstacle, the two returned to the bike and took off deeper into Ripper territory.

"Snipers!" (Y/n) shouted as she saw two Rippers and scanning the area with their weapons. Even though they had been spotted, the enemies' aiming was terrible and off the mark every time. Not wasting any more time, they drove past the assailants and to the crashed plane.

Dismounting the motorcycle, Deacon and (Y/n) climbed up a ledge and found the plane. From the wreckage, a Swarmer was tossed as if it were light as a feather. A thunderous roar caused both of them to hide behind a boulder.

"Great..." (Y/n) huffed under her breath.

Deacon watched in horror as a large creature emerged from the crashed plane and tore the Swarmer limb to limb. "The hell is that thing?"

"Never seen a Breaker before?" She whispered.

"Wouldn't be asking if I did," the drifter retorts, eyes plastered to the large Freaker as it stomped around the crash sight.

"Set the brute ablaze and let loose whatever ammo you have left. He'll be tough, but we can take him."

(Y/n) went to sneak up behind the brute, but Deacon grabbed her arm and forced her to remain behind the boulder beside him. "You're staying here."

"You're talking to a girl who's taken down plenty of these things by herself and who hunts down hordes in her spare time. I can just add another Breaker to the list of things I've killed. It's more of a tally than a list at this point."

"No," Deacon hissed.

"At least let me get the supplies while you fight the big guy," she whispered back, a hint of anger in her tone.

Deacon glanced between the Breaker and the plane before agreeing to her suggestion. "Alright. I'll distract it while you get the supplies."

"Just remember what I said, Deek. Fire makes it vulnerable." With those final words, (Y/n) broke off and headed around the other side of the boulder. She waited for the drifter to grab the Breaker's attention, which he did with a molotov. She sprinted to the plane in search of the medical cache and couldn't help but hear Deacon struggling against the large Freaker.

Once (Y/n) locates the supplies, she was disappointed to only find one remaining. Although, she was grateful there would be enough supplies to heal Boozer. She had only met the man a month after knowing Deacon. Now, it had been seven months since then and the two were practically friends. Of course, she and Deacon have spent almost every day the past eight months together taking jobs from Tucker and Copeland after learning how well they work together when they took down the Ripper ambush camp in Black Crater together.

A loud, painful groan tore (Y/n) from her thoughts. She ran out of what was once the cabin of the plane and saw the Breaker stomping towards a cornered Deacon. Grabbing the knife attached to her belt, she held the hilt tightly as she charged towards the shirtless brute. She leapt on its back, startling the large monster. Raising the blade, she plunged it into the side of its skull as it tried to grab her with its large hands. A simple blade to the brain was all that was needed to kill the Breaker.

(Y/n) unlatched her body off the Freak's back before its heavy body collapsed to the ground with a loud 'thud.' She wipes the blood off her knife before sheathing it.

Deacon got to his feet, running a hand across his neck as he coughed. "How the hell did that work?"

"Breakers have relatively tough skin and the muscle underneath makes it difficult even for bullets to pierce. Even with headshots, they're still not easy easy to kill. With fire, the skin burns and becomes brittle. In all honesty, the victory goes to you."

"Nice to know," Deacon sighs. "You find the medical supplies?"

"There's only one cache left, but it'll be enough," (Y/n) responds.

"Grab it and let's get the hell outta here."

Once the medical supplies was strapped to the back of the bike tightly, (Y/n) hopped on and they headed back to Lost Lake. When they crossed the bridge, they had an encounter with Skizzo and Rikki soon arrived on the scene. Surprisingly, she didn't scold either one of them for entering Ripper territory to retrieve medical supplies.

On the ride back, Rikki has taken them on a detour to the sawmill not far from the encampment. On top of a roof, they overlooked a horde wandering around the old sawmill. (Y/n)'s eyes narrowed as this horde was much larger than the ones she has faced before. She hadn't realized Rikki had left until Deacon called out to her. "Don't even think about it."

(Y/n) turned her head, showing the smirk on her face. "You know me so well."

"Yeah, well, Boozer and I are the only ones who know you're really this "Phantom" everybody's scared shitless of who goes around taking out hordes without a care in the world."

"Hey, I've taken out plenty of ambush camps, too. Not once have I attacked an encampment."

"You're unpredictable to them. That's why they're scared," Deacon said.

"Then I better give them a reason to trust me. And to do that, I'm starting with the sawmill."

"Hell no. You're not taking out a giant fucking horde by yourself."

"You're not gonna stop me, Deek. You should know that by now. Anyway, you should head back to Lost Lake. I'll be there shortly."

The drifter was confused as to what she was planning. "How do you plan on getting back?"

"Walking. It's not far from here. I can manage."

Deacon shook his head in disbelief, but he knew he couldn't force her along. "Fine. Radio me if anything happens."

(Y/n) offered him a gentle smile. "I will."

Deacon hopped off the roof and headed back to the camp.

The woman leapt down from the roof and grabbed her backpack. She pulled out her mask and change of black clothes she usually wore to accompany it. Changing her attire, she shoved her original outfit into the bag and departed to Lost Lake Camp.

The moment the guards saw (Y/n), they shouted for Iron Mike. The men and women kept their weapons aimed at the woman as she waited patiently for the gates to be opened. She could hear people in the camp scurrying around and could see a few gathering in front of the gate through the chain link fence.

The gate finally opened and Iron Mike cautiously stepped outside the camp with a stern expression. He stopped a few feet away from (Y/n), staring through the dark eyeholes in the creepy mask. "What brings a woman like you to Lost Lake?"

"Simple." The mask muffled her voice slightly, but it was enough to disguise it so no one could recognize who was under the mask. "To help."

"With what, stranger?" Mike responded cautiously.

"Hordes, ambush camps, infestations... you name it, I'll do it."

Rikki was intrigued by her offer and stepped outside of the camp to stand beside Iron Mike. "You wanna help? Start with that damn horde at the sawmill."

"Let her in," Iron Mike declares, shocking everyone in the camp besides Deacon and Boozer.

"You really think we can trust her?" One of the guards expressed his doubt.

The leader of the encampment spun around and faced the man. "If she was a danger to us, she wouldn't be making the roads safer to travel." He and Rikki walked back into the camp with the masked woman close behind. They sealed the gate and everyone stared at (Y/n) as she passed them.

Deacon suddenly appeared, blocking her path and glaring daggers at her. "Can I talk to you in private?"

"I know you're mad, but—hey!" She whisper-yelled when the drifter grabbed her arm and dragged her to the cabin he and Boozer were assigned.

Inside, Deacon slammed the door shut and pushed her against the wall by grabbing her upper arms. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"Can't I help the camp out?" She retorts vehemently.

"You can help without that fucking mask."

"I'm trying to build a good reputation so I don't end up getting shot in the shit by someone from one of these encampments."

Deacon squeezed her arms tighter, causing her to wince. "What happens when people start wondering where (Y/n) goes when Phantom's around, huh?"

"Cover for me. Tell them I went on a supply run or to check in with another camp," (Y/n) replied.

"You are just—never mind." Deacon released the woman, allowing her to adjust her mask. "If you're taking on the horde at the sawmill, you're not doing it alone."

"Sorry, Deek, but I need to do this alone. I better get going before it becomes night." (Y/n) saw the concern written all over the drifter's face and sighed. "I'll be fine. If anything happens, I'll radio you."

Deacon nodded. "Just come back in one piece, alright?"

(Y/n) smiled gently. "I promise."

[salmonthestoryteller]

Afraid

Animal Kingdom Fanfic

(Fair warning! I’m only halfway through season 2. This is set in S1, but I probably still have errors because I don’t know about things referenced in the  later seasons)

The thing was, Adrian had never been afraid of Deran.  He’d known what he did - what his family did - to maintain their lifestyles. No details, of course. No one outside the family had details. People whispered about the possibilities behind their palms. Each guess more outlandish than the next if the drinks and drugs were flowing.  But nobody actually knew anything.  That was pretty much the point.

Adrian had fallen in with Deran and Craig in school and in those days the three of them had gotten into all sorts of trouble. When they were younger Deran used to say that Adrian had one of those smiles that made all the women coo and made the cops say, "Are you lost, son?" instead of, "Clear out, you punks!"

He'd been scared of Pope since they were young.  Pope was always a little off, and he spooked him. "He sees everything, you know." Julia remarked one day. That had him looking over his shoulder for weeks afterwards until Deran finally asked him what was wrong. When he'd finished laughing, he'd told him Julia had been messing with him. These days he wondered if Julia hadn't been right.

Baz he hadn't been scared of when they were kids. Baz had always seemed careful with all of the younger kids. Gentle even. Then puberty had hit and Baz was both less gentle and more attentive to what they were doing. Puberty was a mess for every kid, but Adrian spent his figuring out that his friends slowly hardening physiques were much more attractive to him than any of the skin mags Craig kept shoving at him. He'd asked Deran about the skin mags, and when he'd admitted they didn't do anything for him either it had given him a false sense of security. Hindsight had 20/20 vision.

Craig had shot up like a beanpole - no muscles at first and clumsy in his new height. It made him stick out; drew attention. Made it harder for them to be covert about pulling stunts and shoplifting. Deran didn't gain height as fast but was slowly gaining muscle in a way that Adrian thought was both unfair by comparison and distractingly attractive.

Deran was the one who thought to use Craig's new height to distract the cashier while he himself did the five finger discount.  Adrian had never stolen anything before - he'd always been lookout and distraction. Having his best friend shove his hand down his pants to hide their shoplift goods had made him a nervous wreck in more than one way.

Having to confess to Baz what they'd done didn't help. Baz had started pushing back against Pope's until then unquestioned authority. One of the ways he did it was by grilling them about their mischief and giving them a hard time for it.

Having a sexuality crisis over your best friend in front of said best friend's elder brother? Baz had kept glancing at him, and his cheeks had flared red in shame every time. There was no polite way to explain he'd popped a boner over having Deran put his hand down his pants. He kept saying he'd never actually participated before. Being jeered for being scared was better than what Baz might do to him if he knew the truth.

Baz and Pope's rivalry made him see him in a new light and it wasn't pretty. So, yah, he'd been afraid of Baz before.

Craig made him nervous when he got too high, but the only time he'd probably actually been scared of Craig was in high school. He hadn't come out, but there had been plenty of whispers. Then he'd lost his virginity to a foreign exchange student and Craig had found out.  Craig had grown into his height in high school. No longer clumsy, and with new muscles to match.  Being friends with him and Deran made people think twice about laying into him despite the rumors.  A part of him figured once Craig knew the truth that would change.  That he may even target him the way he picked on some of the other students when he needed to make it clear he wasn't someone to mess with.

When Craig had cornered him on the beach to ask about the rumors he honestly thought he might beat him up, and he'd been scared.  He still looked him in the eye and admitted to fucking the guy.  Craig's response had been so anticlimactic to his fears.

"So you're like gay?"

"Yah."

"Huh."

"That a problem?"

"Well, I don't dig guys so I don't know the guy's number.  I mean, should I be riding you for giving up your V card to a dog or congratulating you for losing it to someone hot?"

If his laugh was slightly hysterical he decided he couldn't be blamed. This was not the conversation he'd expected. "He was hot."

"Well, alright, man, way to go." He'd pulled him into a headlock to noogie his head hard.  He'd given a shout, and struggled despite knowing he was no match for Craig's new muscles.

His throw away comment at the end was, "Hey, see if you can get my baby brother to finally lose his virginity. He's so damn frigid."

He'd thought at the time he meant to encourage him to hook up with one of the girls that were always at Smurf's parties. Years later he wondered if Craig hadn't been suggesting something else entirely.

Deran and he had fought over the foreign exchange student. They were on the outs for over a week about it and he didn't understand how it was his best friend who had the issue with his sexuality and not Craig. Then Deran had cornered him late one night in the showers on the beach and stuck his tongue down his throat. Apparently they'd been having two different fights.

Despite the kiss, they didn't hook up in high school. Deran refused to talk about the kiss and things between them grew tense. Then a group of homophobic assholes had decided to try to corner him at school. Deran had broke in - fists flying and together they'd taken them down. They'd both gotten weeks of detention for fighting, but it was better than suspension and it had resolidified their friendship.

If "just friends" was something he wasn't sure he wanted from Deran now that he'd kissed him, he'd pushed it down. Deran never came out and continued to hit on girls. Given Craig's reaction and Deran's "Fuck Baz. Fuck Pope." attitude he didn't think it was his brothers' opinions holding him back. It was Smurf's.

Smurf terrified him. Not when he was younger - when it came to kids Smurf knew how to make them love her. As he got older, though, and understood things better, that changed. As did the way she looked at him. He wondered if she suspected his feelings for her son. If she secretly knew Deran's orientation and either blamed him or considered him a security risk. Someone Deran might dare to care for more than the family. More than her. He knew what could happen if you made Smurf an enemy. Julia and her falling out made it clear even her own family wasn’t immune to her wrath.

He’d run into Julia one day by chance years later.  High as a kite by the bridge late at night.  “Still staying on Smurf’s good side by not fucking my brother?”  She’d asked him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  He’d replied, because Deran wasn’t out and had made it clear he never intended to be.

“LIke hell you don’t.  Our baby boy Deran always looking at you like he wants to eat you.  Smurf always glaring at you like it’s your fault.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her words made him nervous.

“You can fuck him, you know.  She doesn’t care about fucking.”  She had waved her hand as if dismissing the idea.  “And you can even love him.  You’re not family, so it’s okay if you love him.”  She’d leaned in close then, as if sharing a secret. “The problem is if he loves you.  Cuz family isn’t allowed to love anyone but Smurf.”

There had been something manic in her eyes that night.  Something that reminded him suddenly that she was Pope’s twin.  “I have to go.”

Julia had stepped in front of him, blocking his way, an unpleasant grin stretching her face.  “Holy shit, he loves you - doesn’t he?  That’s why you aren’t fucking.”

Belize was years in the future, and he had shaken his head at her words.  “You’re wrong.  About everything.”

Julia shook her head.  “Nope.  See it wasn’t the drugs - Craig can be as bad as me.  It wasn’t the stealing - her baby boy - ha! - your baby boy skims the top sometimes. It was the love.  I was supposed to be like her.  They were supposed to love me, but I wasn’t supposed to love them.  I wasn’t supposed to have favorites.  Everyone was supposed to think they were the favorite.  That’s how you keep them in line.  If you can’t do that.”  She shrugged.

“You’re high.  You should sleep it off.”  He’d try to get around her, and she’d grabbed his arm - leaning into his space to whisper in his ear.

“Baby bro always got mad when he saw you with one of your boys.  Glaring like he wanted to fuck you right in front of everyone.  Maybe you’re right to not let him.  Maybe you should be careful. Codys don’t like to share.  If you let him fuck you, that’s it.  You’re his.  Never forget that.”

Julia scared him that night.

But Deran?  Deran didn’t scare him.

Even when he had J help beat him because J had caught them together and Deran was desperate to cover it up.  He wasn’t scared of Deran for that.  He was furious with him.  Then he’d had the gall to ask for the rent?  Fuck that, and he’d told him so. Deran had backed down.  Had covered the rent - must have stolen it from one of Smurf’s hidey holes.  He calmed down, but he knew things couldn’t be the same.

Belize had been a dream, but everyone has to wake up from a dream sooner or later.  He’d been caught in a haze since.  Sneaking around with him.  Weeks between seeing him.  Watching him make out with numerous girls in front of his brothers to maintain his facade.  Somehow the dreamy feeling of Belize hung on his peripherals, blinding him the moment Deran touched him.  But the beating was a wake up call.

They didn’t want the same things.  Deran would never make a life with him, and he wanted that.  So while Deran stayed away as he healed up, he’d run into Dave.  He was far from perfect. Couldn’t surf worth shit.  He was a good guy, though. He was also out.  There was a chance for a life there.  Then Deran had started coming around again.  Not for sex at first - just a check in.  To see if he’d broken their friendship when he’d broken his ribs. He’d cared for Deran too long to stay angry.

Then Deran met Dave and things went south fast.  He’d been scared before he knew it was Deran that night.  The moment he’d seen his face, though, he wasn’t afraid anymore.  Apparently having Deran break into his house in a jealous fit over him seeing another guy was a turn on. Who knew?  He’d been as angry at himself as Deran for the lapse.  He was supposed to be moving on with Dave, not falling back into things with Deran.

And the way Deran spoke pissed him off.  Reminded him of why this couldn’t work.  He wanted someone to have a life with.  Deran didn’t want that.  Was too ashamed - too scared - to try for it.  So he’d lashed out.  Dragged up the spectre of Smurf between them, where it had probably always been but never been spoken of.  He’d thought when Deran left, that would be it. That would be the end.

Then he’d gotten a call from Dave who was at the hospital.  He didn’t even need the whole story to know who was to blame, but he’d listened anyway.  He’d also hated himself a little for thinking - you barely made it two miles?  Because he knew he could go longer.  He reminded himself comparing Dave to himself, or Deran, always Deran, wasn’t fair, but it was there in his head anyway.  ‘Deran and I could have gone twice that length.’  They’d done long distance swimming for training in Belize.  He’d never forgotten, and he was sure Deran hadn’t either.  That was one part of this message - this chump isn’t good enough for you.

One mile most people could have managed with their lives on the line.  Farther than two would have been a death sentence for a lot of people. Two was stretching it, and dangerous for someone without practice.  If Dave had been a poor swimmer he could be dead and not just shaken.  He reminded himself of that. Reminded himself what the other part of the message was. This was Deran saying if Adrian didn’t get Dave out of the picture, he would.  That he could.  It was easy for him.

Still he hadn’t been afraid of Deran.  He’d been angry.  Storming to the beach to face him down with what he’d done.  Angrier with every mile because Deran had no right.  He hadn't even come after him - he’d come after Dave.  He’d known him long enough - knew all his weaknesses - he had known that would be a far more effective message to him.

He’d try to act clueless, but Adrian wasn’t buying that shit.  Furious, he’d dragged up Smurf again.  If he pushed hard enough, he could push him away, right?  Make him lash out.  Just end things once and for all.  Fucking him wasn’t more important than him insulting his family.  Because to the Codys family was everything. Apparently he’d miscalculated somewhere along the line, because instead of lashing out Deran had been smug.  “I’ll see you tonight.”

A part of him was shaken.  What the heck was this?  They’d been friends since childhood.  No matter what sexual tension had threaded that friendship through adulthood, they’d stayed friends until Belize.  Belize had felt like a romance, but since returning to California that feeling had curdled.  Stolen moments of passion.  Nothing more.  Nothing deeper.  He’d thought at the least their old friendship meant more than their fucking if he ended things.  Instead, for the first time, Deran was using his family’s power against him to make him do what he wanted. Making him jump like a puppet on a string.

Julia’s words played in his head on repeat. “Codys don’t like to share.  If you let him fuck you, that’s it.  You’re his.  Never forget that.”

And the crazy thing was, he still wasn’t afraid.  He was confused, and hurt, and angry. He didn’t understand why Deran, who was terrified of discovery, would insist on binding them together this way.  Why it was more important than their old friendship, even.  Deran could find someone else to fuck. To pay off for their silence.  Why twist their friendship, their relationship, this way?  And how could he think there would be no consequences for trying to twist him into his plaything?

Bringing up the notion he’d use Pope against him had been a knife of his own choosing. A part of him knew that he would never actually send Pope after him like he had with Dave.  That hadn’t been the point.  He hadn’t wanted him injured, he’d wanted him punished. He wanted him to… to what?  Stay with him? Be with only him? But not openly with him. How did everything get so messed up?

Deran hadn’t kissed him since Belize.  He hated him for kissing him that night.  For his desperate plea for them to be okay after he’d twisted them into such strange ugly knots.  How could they be okay in that moment? How could anything be okay?

Julia’s words were in his head again.  “You’re not family, so it’s okay if you love him. The problem is if he loves you.”

No, he wasn’t afraid of Deran.  But with Julia’s words in his head, the Codys power more evident than ever to him, and his and Deran’s relationship twisted and rotten between them, he realized he was a little afraid of himself.

Because despite all that he still loved Deran.  Even as he told him he didn't. Even as he finally found the right words to make him walk away.

Fini

If there was something that struck me about the unhealthy twists and turns Adrian and Deran's relationship took in s1, it was at no point was Adrian afraid of him. Not after he'd beaten him to hide their relationship, not after he had Pope dump his boyfriend in the ocean. Each time he confronted him, and he was angry at him. Never afraid.

I rewatched their final S1 scenes, wondering if he was afraid then, especially since he brings up the possibility of him setting Pope on him, but once again his stance isn't one of fear. Frustration, because Deran refuses to even care about what he did. Hurt that Deran would do this to them. Resentment that he was trying to force him to do what he wanted

But once again he doesn't seem afraid to me.  He's not afraid to tell Deran to his face he can order him to do whatever he wants because his family's power, but that power will never make him love him. (Which is essentially what he's saying when he says "you can't make me have feelings I don't.'')

I also think he was lying. He very much had feelings for Deran still. He wouldn't be so hurt if he didn't. I don't blame him for saying he didn't, though.  Not with Deran's actions during s1.

I didn’t need to fall into another show, but here I am.

[notapaladin]

me: I love the James Asher vampire series but it’s obscure and hard to tag so I can’t find the fandom!

also me: I WILL BUILD THIS FANDOM FROM THE GROUND UP.

With that in mind, have a snippet of a modern AU! No vampires, but Simon is certainly more than human (and also an assassin bc you Gotta Have The Murder). Different AU snippets/etc can be found on my AO3.

&

>simon

>simon are you there

>SIMON WHEN YOU SEE THIS CALL ME

The phone rang once. Twice. Simon Ysidro gently shoved an inquisitive cat away and closed his eyes, breathing out hard through his nose. For the first time, he began to wonder if a proper, permanent cellphone might be an acceptable risk in his line of work. It was something he’d never considered before meeting the Ashers—no, he corrected that line of thought, before befriending the Ashers. One tended not to trust the man holding you at gunpoint and demanding your aid. That they trusted him now was a miracle. That he in turn extended his trust to them…

(A cheap motel in Budapest, all three of them crammed into a single bed. A train to Istanbul with Lydia’s head on his shoulder and her hair a crimson glory spilling over his coat as she slept, trusting him to keep her safe for the night. Waiting for rescue in a Chinese mountain cavern, knowing they wouldn’t abandon him. The first time he and James had broken out of a cramped London basement together, and he’d looked at the man in the moonlight and thought--)

Lydia’s voice snapped through the connection, a leash wound tight around lurking panic. “Jamie is gone.”

No. He clenched his free hand into a fist, nails digging sharply into his palm. “For how long?”

“Since I messaged you!” She sounded close to screaming. Or sobbing.

Three days, then. “...Ah.” He’d been on a job; he cursed it now. Lydia had needed him, and he’d been busy. ‘Twould serve him right if she blocked him on all her social media. Jesu Maria, I really ought to get a proper cellphone. “I assume he did not vanish at the very instant you typed those words?”

There was a faint noise. He suspected she was biting off all manner of foul language, but when she spoke her voice was admirably controlled. Still, he knew this didn’t mean he was off the hook. “No. He went to work—as you’re quite aware, we do have actual jobs—and then he never came home.”

Neither of them needed to speak the words. The cabal calling itself the Hand of God had tried to kill each of them before; after they’d been stopped from slaughtering Simon’s compatriots in a bid to reverse-engineer the serum that had given them their unique capabilities, he suspected they held a grudge. He should have shot them all. “Have you a list of their likely safe houses?”

She took a deep breath—calming herself, he thought. “I’ve been able to narrow it down to three based on Blaydon’s last known aliases, but I can’t...”

She was no trained killer. The closest she had ever come were cadavers on the dissecting table. Simon’s eyes were vaguely focused in the direction of the far wall, but his mind remembered the way she and James smiled at each other, how they held hands when no one was looking. How once, in Budapest, they’d tugged him onto the bed between them when he would have taken the floor. “Lydia.” Emotion threatened to choke him, and he swallowed. “Send me what you have. I will find him.”

--

James Asher knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the men calling themselves the Hand of God were going to kill him. They’d been almost polite at first once the chloroform had worn off, but that hadn’t lasted long. In truth, he was surprised they hadn’t finished him off already; his ribs were surely bruised if not broken, and they’d seen to it that his left eye was entirely swollen shut. Always the same questions, and he could never answer them.

“Where is the serum?”

“Where is Subject No. 1555?”

Subject No. 1555. Of over a thousand subjects, less than two-thirds survived—and less than half of that lived long, once the scientists that had made them realized their supposed “genetic reconfiguration” made them into near-silent, near-unstoppable killing machines. Ysidro had been one of the few to survive the grinder of the initial training; James shuddered at the thought of the Hand of God getting him in their clutches again. The mental image of those glittering eyes dulled and drugged, his hands meticulously flayed open for Blaydon to see how the nerves connected—a pointless cruelty, there were no physical differences—made him long for a pistol in his hands.

He wasn’t even sure he could hold one now. One of the men had stomped on his dominant hand; by the swelling and the stiff agony every time he tried to move it, he was sure some of the bones were broken. That had been the second day. And still they asked the same questions every time they brought him food, and even if he could answer, he knew he never would.

Lydia. Lydia, darling, I’m sorry. Ysidro…

He closed his good eye and rested his cheek on the cold stone floor. His thoughts shimmered hazily; there, Lydia carefully applying her makeup in the morning; there, the cornsilk of Ysidro’s hair against his cheek. Their voices, low and indistinct over his head as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness in an abandoned graveyard.

The sound of a gunshot.

Awareness returned, bringing pain with it. Movement was slow and excruciating, and even if he’d been able to sit up the door was utterly free of any sort of grates, grilles, or bars which would have let him see what was going on. Instead, he focused his ears; the house they’d taken him to had remarkably good acoustics, even if the vents had been made annoyingly too small for even Ysidro to possibly fit. By the sounds of it, the Hand of God was under attack; there were a few more gunshots, scattered and wild and likely to attract police attention if they hadn’t taken him out of the city entirely. Something hit his door with a thump and a choked-off cry, and he braced himself for a struggle. An enemy of his enemy wasn’t necessarily his friend.

The door swung open. At first James only registered the basics—pale skin, pale hair, dark clothing, blood and the glint of steel—and then the figure in the doorway resolved itself into a young greyhound of a man striding towards him with a smirk on his narrow lips.

“Why, Mr. Asher. We really must stop meeting like this.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Simon.” Too late, he realized he’d never called Ysidro by his first name; by the color in his cheeks and the fractional widening of his eyes, Ysidro knew it too. Still, it was too late to take it back—and they had more pressing concerns. “What are you—how did you find me?”

Simon knelt by his side, eyes soft and joyous. “Your wife is a marvel, and you are the luckiest man in the world to have her. Come—can you stand? I have dealt with the Hand of God, and we have transportation waiting.”

He took a shallow breath, braced himself, and attempted to sit up. He made it perhaps a few inches off the floor before he couldn’t suppress his cry of pain, and then Simon was there with strong, cool hands steadying him. “I—think—“

“You cannot.” Sighing, Simon moved; James was cognizant only of a moment of disorientation and brief, vivid pain, and then he was being lifted to his feet. Though he instinctively put an arm around Simon’s shoulder, he knew it was a formality. Simon would never let him stumble.

Not even over the corpses of men with their throats neatly slashed. He grimaced as they skirted a spray of blood; the Hand of God had taken his shoes. “And you’re sure they’re all dead?”

“Stairs.” It was a while before Simon spoke again, letting James catch his breath on the landing. “I have slain every man stupid enough to be present in this building. Looking at how they’ve treated you, I would do it again.”

His voice was so quiet and fierce that for a moment, James wasn’t sure he’d heard it; when he risked lifting his gaze from the floor to meet Simon’s eyes, the heat in them made his heart skip a beat. “Simon...” I would do the same for you seemed paltry. Thank you seemed worse.  Not for the first time, he remembered a morning in Budapest with Simon curled against his chest and Lydia’s arm and hair flung over them. Not for the first time, he thought I really need to talk to Lydia about this.

Simon turned his head away even as he took James’s shoulder again. “Come. We haven’t much time before the police get here.”

By the time James was buckled securely into Simon’s utterly nondescript gray car—nondescript, that was, unless you looked at the engine—he’d filed all thoughts of emotions away for a time when he could mull them over properly. When he could think rationally about the future, instead of dwelling on intertwined fingers in Paris and the messages he’d seen on Lydia’s phone.

Lydia. She’d be clear-minded, surely. She’d tell him Simon was their friend and nothing more, that even friendship was a risk to their lives and livelihood. She’d be sensible about it.

--

sdcY has joined the chat!

>Hello, Professor, Doctor. Are you both quite well?

>simon we were talking and

>we were thinking that after you’ve been such a good

>My wife and I were discussing the prospect of...ah, I will let her say it.

>friend

>to us

>Did you disconnect? James, has Lydia dropped her phone?

>Lydia and I were wondering if you would like to go to dinner with us. Venue and time at your discretion.

>thx darling

>hsd.fsdfge;[68

>Forgive me, that was the cat.

>I THOUGHT WE BROKE YOU.

>I assure you, it would take far more than that to break me. I must, however, question: is this intended to be merely a meal?

>no

>...If you would prefer that.

>I think I would prefer to have this talk in person. To better ascertain your intentions, you understand. I will be there in half an hour.

>sIMON

sdcY has left the chat!

>Ysidro pl—damn it.

[bookcrook]

Absolutely Smitten

Dang. I really suck at keeping my word, don’t I? Whelp, for those who care, it’s here now! This is the first of I don’t know how many parts of “Six Foot Seven”, a new series/book thing I’ve been working on lately, requested by @i-cant-reach-im-too-short! The entirety of the series will be based on her real-life love story, as well as a playlist she gave me. First song was Absolutely Smitten by Dodie Clark. Hope you all enjoy! :)

“Teddy, come eat!” I call out from the kitchen, rattling his food around the large metal bowl. I wait a few minutes before yelling out his name again. “Teddy! Teddy Bear! C’mon! I have to leave soon and you need to eat.” Still no response.

And so begins my daily game of “Find the Giant Dog Hiding in my Tiny Apartment and Hope He Didn’t Run Off and Start the Zombie Apocalypse Without Me”. Such a great way to start my day…

I search behind couches and loveseats, inside closets and my bathroom only to find absolutely nothing. “Where, oh where has my Teddy gone, oh where, oh where could he be,” I sing softly under my breath, “In the closet he’s not, with me he’s… Also not, oh where, oh where could he be.” I continue with my non-rhyming song, raising my volume a little as I get closer and closer to my bedroom, the only other place he could be hiding. 

When I finally reach the doorway, I hear a playful bark come out from beneath my bed. I lower myself down to my knees, pull up the flashlight on my phone, and put my right cheek against the carpet. And, sure enough, I’m staring into the eyes of my slightly-obnoxious-but-still-very-lovable German Shepard. Who also just so happens to be stuck underneath the bed I just got. 

How he got there is beyond me and getting him out is going to be a serious victory on my end. As in, the kind of victory that deserves a pint and a half of double chocolate chip ice cream and a box of Cheez-Its after work. I try coaxing him out, seeing if he can squeeze himself just enough to remove himself from the tight spot. I bribe him with treats and squeaky toys, but he doesn’t move a muscle. So, I move on to what I knew was, ultimately, inevitable and would no doubt break all of my limbs off of my body.

Have you ever seen a 5’2 Asian girl trying to lift up a Queen size metal bed frame (with the mattress on top of it because she had just woken up half an hour ago and was still extremely tired, so she wasn’t smart enough to take it off) at least a foot off the ground completely and utterly by herself? I haven’t, but God damn it must be hilarious to look at. Actually doing it, though? Terrible. Absolutely horrid. The worst thing I’ve ever done in my 22 years of living. I mean, seriously. What is this thing made out of? Steel with a brick-filled mattress? Ridiculousness, I tell you!

Twenty minutes later, Teddy is roaming free around our brand new home while I’m lying on my bedroom floor exhausted and trying to find a will to live, which immediately comes with an alarm going off on my phone. Who would’ve thought I’d be so ecstatic to leave the comfort of my apartment for an entire day of work behind a desk only running on four hours of sleep. I force myself up and attempt to wipe as much dog hair off of my once clean clothes, abandoning hope soon after---there’s just no escaping it.

Collecting my things, I make my way toward the door, glancing quickly at the clock on my stove. Right on time, I think to myself. Waiting for the elevator was maddening. Come on... 

I mash the button impatiently, muttering curse words under my breath in frustration. I do the same when the doors finally slide open, revealing a small family of three with a tiny puppy on a leash. The slow background music only fueled my anxiety. 

Before the doors are even wide enough to accommodate an entire person, I slip through the tiny gap and race outside. I flatten my hair and my eyes immediately dart to the left, finding exactly what---or, more specifically, who---I was looking for walking toward me.

“Holy shit,” I murmur softly. How is it possible for one person to look so amazing just walking down the street? I soon realize I’m staring like a literal stalker, so before I’m caught, I turn and start walking swiftly in the same direction he’s going.

“Megan!” I hear a familiar, deep voice call from behind me, “Wait up!”

“Not a chance! I’d say you’ve got long enough legs to catch up to me,” I respond, an air of fake confidence in my voice. I slow down only slightly, despite my original statement, and, sure enough, Owen manages to reach me in a few long strides. 

“You’re difficult, you know that?” he laughs softly. I pray that no one saw my insides turn into literal jelly. What am I even supposed to do? My legs keep moving, but my mind is such a jumbled mush that it can’t comprehend anything around me. Which shouldn’t be happening. I’m a strong, independent woman---I don’t need him telling me if I’m pretty or not. I don’t.

So, as we walk, I begin concentrating on not concentrating on him. I quickly find that doing so is no use to me and caused me to not hear a single word Owen just spoke.

“You still there, shorty?” he teases, poking the top of my head.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah! Sorry. Just a little out of it, I guess.” Which was true, to be fair---I just decided it would be better to give him only half of the truth, for my heart’s sake. “What’d you say?”

Owen’s shoulder bumps into mine slightly, “I asked if you were eating in the office today. Thought I’d join you, but it looks as though you’re empty-handed.”

I stop in my tracks as he finishes speaking. “Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I whisper to myself, hoping he doesn’t hear me. Because my luck is shit today, he does, and he seems to believe I was talking to him. 

“Excuse me?” Owen laughs nervously, surprised by my comment.

“No!” I exclaim a little too loudly, “Not you! I was talking to myself. Didn’t realize it until you mentioned it, but I forgot my food at home; it’s been a crazy morning, so I didn’t really think about grabbing to before I left.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, nothing important, really. Just stuff with my dog…” I wanted to add ‘and you’, but it seems a bit… Forward. Creepy. Stalker-ish. Take your pick. “Made some grilled chicken, noodles, and asparagus last night, too. Looks like it’s the vending machine for me today! Yay.”

“I mean, you don’t have to…” Owen looks away slightly as his sentence trails off.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Unless you’re suggesting that I turn back and risk being late just for a bag of mediocre food, I’m afraid I do.”

“Fair point, but no. ‘Tis not what I mean by that, miss,” he taunts, putting on one of the worst fake British accents I’ve ever heard. It’s something he does often. Why? No clue---not even an inkling of an idea, but it makes my heart melt every time.

“Then what do you have in mind?”

“We could always go out to lunch. There’s this cafe-diner-thing a block or two down from the office that serve the best grilled cheese known to man. If you haven’t tried don’t think I won’t drag you there myself,” Owen laughs. I can feel my eyes light up at the prospect of that. “It can be a group thing or something.”

My shoulders deflate just a tiny bit. I knew it wasn’t going to be a date---I’m not that stupid, but I hoped it could at least be just the two of us. It’s okay, I think to myself, taking in a deep breath, It doesn’t matter. We’re just friends. I force a smile before agreeing. “Oh, yeah. Totally! Sounds great. I can see if Laura and Chelsea want to come.”

We’d finally reached our destination when the conversation began and are now parting ways as it ends. “Awesome! See you then?”

“Definitely,” I say softly. Despite my disappointment, I’m able to produce a small---but very genuine---smile.

I’m practically floating as I make my way to my tiny desk and collapse onto my rolling chair. Slumped completely down (in a way that is terrible for my back), I let out a startled screech as a voice, seemingly coming from nowhere, scares me senseless.

“You’re late,” Chelsea teases in a sing-song tone from above me.

“...No I’m not.” I point at the large clock across the room.

“How…” she stumbles over words, “How do you know I didn’t come in early and change the time on all of the clocks because... Pranks?”

“Chels, you’re still wearing your coat.”

“It’s cold.”

“How about the fact that, one, your coffee is still steaming and you refuse to drink the tar that they have here. Two, you don’t wake up any earlier than you absolutely have to because you’re the definition of a night owl. Or, and I’d say this is my most convincing argument, three, you just don’t care enough to do that.” I sit up as I rest my case and begin pulling out my things for the day.

“You’re no fun,” Chelsea pouts, lowering herself behind the cork board wall that separates us.

Ignoring her very hurtful words, I continue the conversation as though nothing happened, “Has Laura come in yet?”

She scoots her chair over to your side as she answers, “I don’t think so. Or if she has I haven’t seen her. Why?”

I let out a groan and drop my head onto my desk, smashing the keys on my laptop. “Great. I needed her to help me make some copies because I have to meet with some clients later today and I have no clue how to work that… Thing.”

Chelsea opens her mouth, prepared to offer help, but I cut her off before she can, “Don’t. I love you, but she’s the only one who can tame the beast. I swear that if anyone looked at it the wrong way it would set the entire building on fire. Especially if it were either of us.”

“That’s fair,” she relinquishes. Suddenly, a tornado in human form tears through the office dropping a pile of things on Laura’s desk and races into a conference room, all in a matter of .04357 milliseconds.

“She’s here,” I chuckle slightly.

Twenty minutes later, Laura races back into the room and all but sprints to her desk. Thinking she might actually be done in there, I try to ask for her help. And, before I’m ever able to finish saying her name, she explains, “Can’t talk right now. Still doing the presentation; just forget some papers.”

Not long after that, Laura is finally free and snatches my papers from my desk, taking them to that dreaded machine and returning with 15 more than I need.

“Sorry about the extras,” she sighs as she drops them in my lap, “There was an error with the copier, but at least you have those if you need them.”

“Thank you!” I exclaim in a hushed voice, “You are a life saver, I swear!”

“Are you just now figuring that out?” Laura laughs.

I stick my tongue out at her before continuing my work.

I later feel a light tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I find Owen standing there, a large stack of papers in his hand. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I was just on my way to steal Anthony’s copier, but I thought I’d let you know that James, Benny, and the others can’t make it to lunch. Any luck with you?”

Before I can even consider speaking, Laura immediately turned the focus of the conversation to Anthony. “Wait. Wait just a second. Anthony’s been hiding a perfectly working copier from us?!”

“Guess so.” Owen gives a small shrug.

“What the hell!” she exclaims angrily.

To avoid the situation from escalating, I direct us back to our original topic. “I completely forgot to ask about lunch. Umm… Chels, Laura, either of you doing anything for lunch? I forgot my food this morning, so we thought it’d be a fun idea to get a little group together to go out.” My friends share a conspiratorial look when I’m finished. 

Chelsea’s the first to respond. “I really wish I could, but,” she pauses, “I have to run home and feed Pepper. Planned on just stopping by McDonald’s or something on my way back.”

“Neither can I,” Laura sighs with an ingenuine sadness in her voice, “Thomas wanted to take me out at that new sushi place across town. Sorry. Hope you guys have fun.”

A smile twitching on his lips, Owen turns back to me. “Just the two of us, then.”

“Yep,” I mumble quietly, my face growing warmer by the second.

“See you in a bit?” 

“Yep,” I repeat myself. His smile was now a grin as he left. Once he’s gone, I snap my eyes back to the two girls, glaring.

“What the fuck was that about?! First of all, you,” I point at Chelsea’s floating head, “Don’t a cat. Or a dog. Or any kind of pet! As for you, Laura. Don’t think I don’t know that Thomas won’t be home for another week. That’s all you’ve been talking about since he left!”

“It’s a week and three days,” she corrects me.

“Exactly my point!”

“Sorry, but we had to!” Chelsea cuts in, “You’ve had one of Cupid’s little arrows stuck in your ass since you started working here two years ago!”

“Not to mention the fact that this is probably the happiest we’ve seen you since your sister made you move out all because what’s-his-name told her to,” Laura adds.

I sigh, sinking into my chair for the second time today. “I know you guys are just trying to be nice. And, you’re right; I have been. He just makes me feel all kinds of weird inside. It’s like I can’t control anything when I’m around him, but that doesn’t mean I need your help with him.”

Laura scoffs and Chelsea rolls her eyes at my obvious lie. “Okay. Fine, I do. But don’t do it so obviously next time!”

My personal matchmakers lower themselves back down and I spin back to my computer. Just another hour to go…

                                                   🔹🔹🔹🔹

Lunch seemed to fly by quickly. As we waited on our food, conversations were had about simple, silly things like our favorite color, or how we drink our coffee. Others were about how work had been going and what movies we’d watched recently.

“Okay...” he pondered as he took a sip of his sweet tea, “What’s your favorite scary movie?” Shocked by the question, I couldn’t come up with an answer, so I gave him the most definite one that I could. Kind of. 

“Probably anything but the Chuckie movies,” I laughed.

The moment that sentence left my mouth, he immediately corrected me. “It’s Child’s Play, you know?”

“What?”

“The movies.”

“Whatever it’s called, it scarred me for life, and I want absolutely nothing to do with it.” I crossed my arms and shuddered at the thought of even possibly watching it again. I knew it was a terrible movie, but that didn’t change anything.

The stroll back was uneventful, but peaceful. And, now, as we wait out the last couple minutes before we had to return to our respective desks, Owen and I have found ourselves walking slowly back to mine, trying to make our time together stretch as long as possible. 

Suddenly, Owen grabs my arm gently, pulling me to a stop just a few feet short of my destination, and leans in. My breaths shorten and my body goes frigid as he does so.

His lips brush against my ear as he says softly, “Please don’t think I’m weird for doing this, but Laura and Chelsea have been eavesdropping since we were within listening distance. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d maybe like to go out to dinner tonight? Or this weekend? Or just, at any point in time that would conveniently work for you?”

I let out a chuckle---no, a giggle---at his awkwardness, but then I’m immediately hit by butterflies flooding my stomach as I take in his words. Once I finally come to my senses, my head is frantically bobbing up in down in complete and utter agreement. 

After we shared out little… Moment, I make my way to my desk. At this point, I’m not even trying to hide the giant grin on my face. Or my blushing cheeks. Or the fact that my heart is thudding in my chest with pure excitement and joy.

Chelsea and Laura don’t bother pretending that they didn’t see what just happened, and they were sure to let me know about that. 

“Did you see the way he was looking at you?” Laura gushes, “And that smile?! What’d he say?”

“What are you even talking about? It was nothing,” I roll my eyes at the rambunctious, gossip-hungry pair, but tell them anyway. “He just asked if I wanted to go out for dinner sometime.”

“Nothing?” Chelsea practically yells, “Are you kidding? There’s no way he doesn’t like you!”

I roll my eyes yet again, knowing not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help but wonder. I’d like to believe I’m not completely clueless; it’s obvious he just asked me on a date, but will it actually go anywhere? 

The days that followed were spent trying to coordinate Owen and I’s schedules on the way to work, and deciding where we could go. We also found ourselves around each other outside of work more than usual as we waited for the day to come.

One more week… That’s all I’ve gotta do; make it one more week and I’ll know for sure if this will work out.

[greene73014453-blog]

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[meteora-writes]

Could you do a trick request where there is no apocalypse and Madison hires Troy to be kind of a caretaker for Nick while he goes through recovery and gets clean, because She and Travis need to work, and Alicia has school. Troy would basically be like a best friend/baby sitter where he keeps Nick company and helps him throughout the day bcuz detox sucks, and makes sure he doesn’t run off to do drugs anymore? and they become bffs?

I like this prompt. It’s nice to get a friendship one for a change =) So, yeah, I can def do this.

~~~~~

Unlikely Friendships

Paring: Troy x Nick friendship

Warnings: Modern AU, No Apocalypse, Nurse!Troy, angst, fluff (kind of), mention of drug abuse 

~~~~~

Nick was laying in his bedroom with the lights off and a small fan going for white noise. Every fiber of his being ached. He’d just taken his detox meds not even half an hour ago, but they didn’t feel like they were helping at the moment. He desperately wanted to take a nap, but until his meds kicked in all he could do was lay there and listen to the soft hum of the fan.

Much to Nick’s displeasure, a soft knock came at the door before it cracked open so a sliver of light hit him right in the face. He groaned and turned away from the annoyance, burying his face in his pillow as his mom opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside.

“Nick, the home nurse we hired to stay with you is here.” Madison said softly as she looked down at her son.

Nick groaned again. “I told you I’d be fine on my own.” He whined, pulling his pillow over his head to further block the light from the hallway.

“No, you won’t. You can barely get around the house by yourself right now.” Madison argued half-heartedly. “Look, he’s just going to sit with you. Make sure you get your meds on time, and make you something to eat when it’s time for lunch. You don’t have to like it, but he is going to be here for the next few weeks. Alright?” Madison said with a irritated sigh.

“Fine.” Nick said after a drawn-out pause. “Can I go back to trying to get some sleep now?”  

“Yes.” Madison conceded, leaning down to pull the pillow away from Nick’s face long enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. “If you need anything Troy will be in the living room. I’ll see you in the afternoon. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Nick replied miserably, pulling the pillow back over his head and curling into a ball under his blankets. A moment later the door clicked closed and he rolled to face away from it on the off chance this Troy person decided to come check on him at some point later on.

After a while he managed to fall back to sleep, only waking up again when his meds started to ware off and he really needed to pee. So, begrudgingly, Nick forced himself out of bed and out into the hallway. He could hear the sound of someone puttering around in the kitchen, but paid no mind as he focused on relieving himself.

Once that was taken care of, curiosity got the best of him and he made his way to the kitchen.

A man was stood at the stove with his back to Nick. He was tall. Taller than Nick by at least 2, maybe 3 inches, with short-cut light brown hair. He was wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt on under an ugly green scrub top. “Finally up?” The man, Troy, asked.

“Yeah… I take it you’re Troy?” Nick said, slowly stepping into the kitchen and moving to the side so he could get a look at Troy’s face.

“Yup. And since there’s no one else here, that would make you Nick. I’m about done making lunch. Was gonna come wake you up when it was finished.” He said, looking over to Nick with a smile. He was handsome, with vibrant blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight that came in from the kitchen window.

Nick found himself blinking owlishly at the guy. “Yeah, cool… So… What are you making?” Nick asked, not looking away from the other man’s eyes as they both stared a moment.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Figured it’d be about all your stomach could handle at the moment.” Troy explained, looking back to the stove and giving one of the sandwiches a flip. He’d made enough food for the both of them.

“Cool.” Nick said, watching as Troy continued to poke at and stir the contents of the stovetop. “So… How long are you supposed to stick around for?”

Troy snorted at the question. “Until you’re not a flight risk.” He said, dishing out the soup and grilled cheese for the both of them before picking up the plates and turning to gesture for Nick to have a seat at the table. “Saw your medical file. You’ve got quite the history for a kid your age.”

Nick scoffed at that. “I’m not a kid. And if you lived here you’d run off at the first opportunity too.” Nick grumbled as he took a seat and eyed his soup suspiciously before picking up his spoon and giving it a taste.

Troy took the seat across from Nick and raised a brow at his comment. “Is it really that bad? Your family seemed nice when I met them this morning.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped Nick’s lips. “They’re alright. They just don’t understand what it’s like for me. I try to be what they want me to, but the fact of the matter is I don’t fit in here. I’m not cut out for going to college and having a normal life like most people.”

Troy just continued to stare at Nick with one brow raised. “What makes you so sure of that?” He asked before trying a spoonful of soup.

“Look at me.” Nick said, waving his spoon for emphasis. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re detoxing. Everyone’s a mess when going through withdrawals.” Troy countered. Ripping his grilled cheese in half before dipping in his soup and taking a bite.  

Nick snorted a laugh at that. “Even when I’m clean I’m a mess. I try to be normal; go to college, get a job. But everything always goes to shit. Things are easier when I’m high. At least then I don’t care that I’m a disappointment.”

This time it was Troy that laughed. “Life’s supposed to be hard. Though, I’ve found it’s better to be a spitefully little shit when a situation gets bad. But, hey, whatever works for you.” He said with a shrug.

“Seriously?” Nick asked, squinting at Troy in disbelief.

Troy just blinked at Nick innocently before speaking around a mouthful of food. “My father raised me to run his militia on his ranch of doomsday preppers.”

“No way! You’re kidding?” Nick asked, setting his spoon down and giving Troy an appraising look.

Troy just grinned in response before going back to eating his grilled cheese.

“Okay, so, how the hell did you become a nurse then?” Nick asked, food temporarily forgotten.

“My older brother got custody of me after he left for college and realized just how fucked up things were back home. After I turned 18 our father tried to convince me to come back to the ranch and take my place helping run the militia and such. Mind you, I’d realized just how fucked up my entire childhood had been by that point and signed up for nursing school instead. Old man just about had a coronary when I told him.” Troy recalled, scratching at his jaw absently before going back to his lunch.

“So, let me get this straight. You were raised to run some kind of post-apocalyptic army, but now you’re a home care nurse.” Nick clarified, a smile spreading across his face.

“That about sums it up, yeah.” Troy confirmed, grinned back.

“And you did this to spite your father?”

“And because I’m good at it.” Troy said with a shrug, dipping the last chunk of his grilled cheese in his half-finished soup. “Now finish your lunch. I’ll get you your meds after an’ we can watch a movie or something till your mom gets home from work.”

“You tell all your patients your life story?” Nick asked before he picked up his grilled cheese and took a small bite.

“Only the ones I have something in common with.” Troy said before finishing off his soup and moving to stand.

“And what do we have in common?” Nick asked, amused at how Troy rolled his eyes at the question.

“We’re both the black sheep of the family. Both from families that don’t understand us. The only real difference between us is that you just wish you weren’t.” Troy explained as he started to wash his dishes.

Nick blinked over at Troy, processing his analysis as he continued to eat his lunch.

After that they moved to the living room and watched a few movies before Madison, Travis and Alicia got home that evening. Troy left, declining the invite to stay for dinner as he had plans with his brother that night. The next few days went about the same. Nick sleeping late, then having lunch with Troy while the two of them hung out. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they sat in silences. Mostly they watched movies together.

By the time the two weeks were up and Nick was officially “clean” they had formed a friendship. Troy gave Nick his number and they hung out when Troy wasn’t taking care of other patients. It made Madison feel better knowing that Nick had made a friend that was actually a responsible adult, and having Troy as a friend made Nick look at things differently.

A month later Nick got a job working for a program that visited schools and talked to kids about drug abuse awareness. After three more months he moved out of his mother’s house (much to her protest) and into the spare bedroom of Troy’s apartment. Things weren’t perfect, but they were the best they had been in as long as he could remember.