#young fogeys

[teenagedirtstache]

[snailstep-and-her-clan]

“What would Snailstep’s life have been like if she had been raised in her Fathers Clan?”

Stagheart would have been OBSESSED with his daughter and spoiled her rotten. Also he would have had no problem naming her 😂

Her name would have been Turtlekit, and her warrior name would have been Turtledove

There would also have been plenty of other kits for her to play with, and eventually plenty of young Tom’s for her to choose from whenever she feels so inclined to take a mate, unlike her life in Shadowclan which was mostly full of old fogeys.

[ladykissingfish]

Could you do sum with this random image i found ??

*Deidara, Itachi and Hidan sitting in the kitchen at breakfast*

Deidara: *mumbling as he aggressively shovels cereal into his mouth*

Hidan: Oi, what’s up your ass, blondie? You’ve been talkin’ to yourself for ten minutes now.

Deidara, scowling: It’s that stupid Sasori, hm. He never listens to me about anything! He never lets me take the lead on missions because he’s older and he thinks he knows better about everything!

Hidan: Ugh, I know what you mean. Kakuzu is the same way. The old bastard won’t listen to a word I say, and just calls me a stupid brat all the damn time. Shit, Leader was really setting us up for some bullshit when he gave us young guys the old fogey partners.

Itachi: You both are frustrated with your older partners as well, eh? You should do what I did; make a “vision board” of your enemy and plot their downfall.

Deidara: … “Vision board”?

Itachi: *gets up* Come and see.

*Hidan and Deidara follow Itachi to his room, where they find every surface of his walls covered with different pictures of Kisame*

Deidara: …

Hidan: W-what the fuck is this supposed to do — ?

Itachi: Easy. You stare at the pictures all day long. You visualize scenarios in your mind that could cause them pain or discomfort. *touches one of the pictures and involuntarily sighs* Like kissing them until they run out of breath and are gasping. Or sitting on their lap and bouncing on them until they get really turned on, then getting up and walking out. Really so many possibilities to teach the other person a lesson.

Hidan: …

Deidara: …

Deidara: Itachi. I … I think that you might be in lo—

Itachi, carefully hanging up another Kisame photo (this one shirtless) in the corner: I hate him, Deidara.

[yacinthemorning]

Bamboozled by the Bird

Chapter 1

[next]

Summary: Tango is the muscle for the Tuff Guys, a gang that deals primarily in money lending. How he got here he can't remember anymore, and his only moments of respite from his awful job is hanging out with Scarland's accident-prone mascot. His life gets infinitely more complicated though, after he's assigned to put the pressure on a new client who seems to know way too much about him. The situation quickly escalates from there in ways Tango could have never imagined.

Ships: Jimmy/Tango (romantic(?)), Bdubs & Etho & Skizz & Tango (frienemies), Jimmy & Lizzie (familial)

Warnings: Mild harm to animals, Attempted animal killing, Organized crime, Violence, Extortion, Threats, Hidden identity

[AO3 Link]

The trash can slammed into the wall, contents scattering across the floor. The punk crawled onto his knees, coughing and clenching at his stomach. No time to catch his breath. He shrieked as claw-like nails dug into his scalp, yanking him up by the hair until Tango could see his face reflected in the man's sunglasses. Tango tilted his head, then plucked the glasses off his nose. Tears filled the dumb kid's eyes, a bruise swelling one half shut. He hissed in sympathy. "That ain't gonna look good tomorrow."

The comment sparked some last glimmer of fight in him, his face twisting into a beaten snarl, "Fuck you-!"

Tango's knee connected with his groin, the punk devolving into a wheeze as he curled in on himself. "Watch your language, there's kids around here." The blond chastised. On cue there was a chorus of delighted screams echoed through the alley. Behind the tall fence down the way the Scarland's infamous Bamboozle Coaster rushed past on its old fashioned wooden tracks.

His target did not seem to care. He sobbed, unable to speak any further. Tango finally dropped him, slipping the sunglasses over the bridge of his own nose. "We're increasing your interest by forty percent."

"For- You gotta be kidding me!" The kid's voice broke as he cried. "How am I supposed to pay that? You old fogies-"

"Hey, this old fogey went easy on you since you’re just a little boy." Tango drawled, playing with his new glasses. He'd had to make some adjustments, but the colour was just his style. "You got one week, and it ain't gonna be me dealing with you if you don't have the money by then. Now get outta here!"

Despite his backtalk the kid didn't need to be told twice to bolt. The alley was left empty, only the mess left behind.

Tango sighed. The audacity of some young folks always shocked him. At least their older customers knew it was their own fault for turning to the Tuff for money. They didn't accept their fate any more gracefully but at least they didn't usually run their mouth.

Ever since Skizz retired, though, it was Tango's problem to deal with the brats he'd accumulated that treated their business like a silly little piggy bank they could borrow from willy-nilly. It was a financial mess and now it fell on Tango to have to clean up. He passed a shop whose front was more mirror than window, forced to get a good look at himself and the several inches most the crowd behind him had on him. There were wrinkles in his bright shirt, something he never quite got out of them. Not exactly the most intimidating of their guys on the case. Then again, they used to think that guy was Skizz.

Well, he supposed Skizz reaped what he sowed. Tango wasn't making the same mistake. He wouldn't give their boss an excuse to stab him in the back. Again.

"Man, I need to find a new job." He grumbled to himself, drowned out by the screams of the roller coaster goers on the other side of the fence. A joke, of course. Like his life. This was a lifelong career sorta gig, unfortunately for him.

An odd commotion broke Tango out of his self-loathing. There was a large double gate open in the fence. One of the staff entrances to Scarland, clearly meant for food trucks to get inside. That was not who occupied it currently. Instead it was a group of college students, led by one Karen-in-training, it would seem, screaming at- a bird. A very large, very blue bird. Solidarity, one of the mascots for the Bamboozler Coaster, if Tango recalled the posters right. Its cheery face bobbled while his arms flailed about, trying desperately to close the gates together if not for the students standing in the way.

"P-Please, I can't!" cried the poor actor, trying to close the gate once and for all. Baby Karen outright put her hand on the gate, then on the mascot.

"You owe us this for kicking us out! We did nothing wrong!" Her voice slurred, and one look at the group's blotchy faces told Tango all he needed to know. At a family park even instead of just going to a bar- though given the fact that it wasn't even noon most weren't open yet. Real classy.

"Please, ma'am."

"At least refund our tickets!"

"I'm not authorized to do that. Please just leave quietly."

Something went flying over them. A backpack. It beamed the poor mascot right in the head, sending him tumbling backwards onto his butt. The group laughed. Alright, now they'd really gone too far.

"Hey! What do you think yer doing?" Tango snapped and began marching over. At first only one of the students turned their head. As soon as they saw Tango their eyes went wide and they quickly nudged their companions. By the time Tango reached where they had been they'd scattered completely, leaving Tango alone with Solidarity.

The guy was adjusting his enormous mask when Tango held out a hand. It took both his wings to get a good enough grip for Tango to pull him back onto his feet. "Thank you. Gosh that scared the life out of me."

"I didn't know being a mascot was such a perilous career path." Tango quipped, eyebrow raised. The actor within muffled a laugh, while his wings brushed the worst of the dirt away.

"It's my fault, I should have called security... I thought I could lead them out quietly." He paused, then hissed. "I broke my tail!"

The bird jerked, spinning to reveal his tail. Indeed, it was bent and torn from the fall, in serious need of a professional. Tango reached out, tugging at one of the massive felt feathers. Solidarity jumped and yelped as if it were his own tail. Wings flew up to cover the break. "Oh, this is going to come out of my pay-cheque!"

"That's fuckin' lame." Tango hissed in... Solidarity.

The mascot jumped again, a pointer feather wagging in front of his beak before jabbing towards Tango, "Language! There's children around here!"

What was Tango supposed to do but burst out laughing? Arguing was off the table when he'd said the same thing not ten minutes ago. And the way the actor shimmied around in the suit was nothing short of ridiculous. Tango could believe he was a real life cartoon character if not for the fact that the costume's expression never changed. So, Tango laughed.

Even if his face was hidden. Solidarity's whole body slumped, wings rocking at his side before they went up to cover his face. "Oooh! Quit it!" He shrieked, shaking like an ice cube was shoved down his shirt. It only made Tango double over. Another whine that sounded far too much like an actual bird escaped the mascot.

"You're a riot, birdie!" Tango finally managed to pull himself together, wiping a tear from his eye.

"And you're something else! I just got attacked and here you are, laughing at me!"

"Well it's not every day you run into a canary getting shaken down."

"Canary! A canary!" Solidarity flailed, as if he would take to the skies any moment. "I'm a parrot, thank you very much! A canary, he says!"

Tango had to admit, he was taken aback by the outrage in Solidarity's voice. It was practically a different man standing before him now than the one who could barely say no to a college kid a few minutes ago. All over a little light teasing about his costume. Talk about mixed up priorities.

"Well, Mister Parrot," He drawls, trying to compose himself. Act casual. "As funny as you are I got business elsewhere. So, unless you got another group of drunk students hiding somewhere I think I ought to get going."

"Oh, um. Okay." The costumed man shuffled awkwardly, as if looking for something. Whatever it was he gave up with a huff and awkwardly bowed. "Thank you, again. I, um, I don't have anything right now but-"

"I don't need nothin', yelling at a bunch of brats after my week was gift enough." Tango assured. When Solidarity slumped in his feathers he spun on his heels, waving goodbye. "See y'round!"

There was a long silence as Tango walked away, before he heard hurried shuffling and a heavily muffled, "S-see you!"

It was, on a grand scale, such a minor interaction. Just a couple minutes at most. Yet Tango couldn't keep it off his mind for the rest of the weekend. The baffling becostumed man was, perhaps, the only small ray of sunshine Tango had gotten in a long time since Skizz was retired.

And how pathetic was that? Getting yelled at for mis-speciesing a bird outfit after scaring a bunch of teenagers. Most people would likely consider it the low note of their week. How bad was his life becoming, really, if that was his highlight. Etho was right, he really ought to start speaking to a therapist or something. Then again, he had no desire to dance around his career with a professional and potentially put them at risk of his bosses' wraths. He'd just live his miserable life and cope on his own, clinging to pathetically tiny moments of joy, like getting yelled at by a mascot.

It helped, a little. Thinking about it while on missions like his current one. Standing outside a sad little trailer that would have been condemned if half the park didn't look exactly like it. Chipped panelling, a cracked window, weeds consuming what ground wasn't tainted by urine from feral animals and grease. There were signs, though. Plastic pots of strawberries that were sad but still blooming. A hosed down litter mat hanging from a fence next to a laundry line of shirts with the pale marks of removed stains. A bike hidden in the weeds from thieves. Whoever lived here hadn't given up, was at least trying.

Shame that trying involved taking an exorbitant loan from the Tuff Guys.

If Tango stopped to mourn every innocent target, though, he'd never get his job done. Then it would be him on the chopping block.

So, tango waited. His target had just headed to the mailboxes and was meandering back, flipping through spam. A tall broad-shouldered man who could have been a celebrity if he ate better and worked out. Instead he was scrawny and pale, with bags under his eyes and his blond hair the only thing that looked healthy and groomed. The poverty wasn't a lifelong situation for him, Tango guessed, but a more recent development.

Not that it was his business. The best it could tell Tango was that the guy might have more vivid delusions that he could ever hope to pay off what he owed. The amount was frankly embarrassing, especially if these were the results. All gone into debts, poor guy.

Tango waited for the man to reach the step up to his door before he went in. There was the click of the lock, then a muffled squeak, shoulders going stiff under Tango's arm- only slightly made awkward by the height difference. "Jimmy, buddy, how's it going!" He drawled, bumping his head against the other's. "Been waiting for you, how you doing?" A small act, something vaguely resembling a natural interaction. Not that the people around there weren't familiar with a shake down.

A shudder had already formed in the man, brown eyes wide. It was lucky he'd already unlocked the door, there was no way he'd be able to get the key in otherwise. He wouldn't last long. A tight smile stretched across his face, some sad attempt at playing along. "H-hey. I- um- I'm..." Tango didn't know humans could even get that high pitched. No, he wouldn't last long at all.

"Well?" He gave the man a small mercy in taking the lead. "Don't be a stranger, invite me in!"

"Righ- Yeah. Right." He nudged the door, the hinges barely moving. So, Tango gave it a kick, and quickly dragged him inside. With one practised motion he threw Jimmy away from the doorway and slammed it closed before leaning against it. No escape.

Jimmy braced against the pantry. The whole camper shook with his weight as he was only kept upright by the tight quarters. Not the worst Tango had seen. It was mostly clean, in that the pile of dishes were properly washed, the papers on the table were in dollar store folders, and the plastic surfaces were mostly stained with aging yellow rather than anything unknown. It still had someone's entire life crammed into a glorified hallway. Only a few pictures graced the walls, most being his target with either a pink haired woman or a brunet man, or both.

There was a smell, a mix of citrus soap, febreeze, pasta sauce, and the slightest hint of litter. From the bedroom a cat meowed. Jimmy only took his eyes off Tango long enough to shush the cat, muttering under his breath, "Go back to sleep, Norman." As if the little creature could understand.

"So, two hundred sixty-k, huh?" Tango said as he continued to examine the home for anything. Any valuables, any luxuries, any vaults. Signs of the money in question. There wouldn't be, in all likelihood. Tango could already tell, whatever this guy needed the money for was earnest. To pay off a different debt, or maybe medical bills. "What's a guy like you need that kinda cash for, anyways?"

"I still have two weeks before my next payment." Jimmy stuttered, pressing himself back against his bedroom door. The cat on the other side pawed under it, but he seemed determined to keep it safe more than even himself.

"Yeah, but y'see," Tango rolled his head to the side and pulled his switchblade from his pocket. A few flicks even a kid could safely do was enough to scare a guy like this. "We've been in this business quite a while, Jimbo, and we're pretty good at feeling out our clients. And you?" He pointed the tip towards the shaking man. "You were nearly late with your last deadline. So, the boss sent me here to check up on you. Make sure you're alright."

"It was just bad timing with my pay-cheque. I'll have the money on time this month."

Tango sighed. Pushing off the door, he wandered up to Jimmy, still playing with the blade as loud as he could make it. Metal scraped metal as the blade slipped into its sheath and sprung back out while Tango put himself mere inches from his target's face. It was a miracle the tears glossing the edge of Jimmy’s eyelids hadn't spilled over yet. "And I'm sure you will." He muttered. "But hey, I'm a nice guy, and don't let my good looks fool ya, I'm pretty good with numbers too. So, maybe..." black painted claws dragged up Jimmy's jacket until they reached his collar. Tango fiddled with the denim for a moment, fraying it more than he fixed it, before he pulled it into a tight fist. "I could help teach you how to budget a bit."

Jimmy shrieked as he was flung across the room, crashing into the linoleum floor. In the same motion Tango tore open the bedroom door and reached down. Maybe in a larger space where the bed wasn't also drawers the cat could have hid, but in the half a foot of space it'd squished itself into between the bed and door it had nowhere to run before Tango latched onto its scruff and yanked it up.

It screeched, but he was surprised to find it didn't lash out. Maybe that startled Tango more than the scratches and bites he expected, but it paused his blade long enough that the sad thing's wide eyes locked with his own. A beast as pathetic as its owner.

It was enough time for Jimmy to clamber onto his knees and shout, "Wait, please!"

Tango glanced over to him. The tears had finally started running down his face. The depth of the terror in his eyes was normally something Tango only saw when he had a weapon against his target's own head, not a damn cat. "Please don't hurt him. Please. I'll have your money, I swear. He doesn't even understand, he’s just a cat. Don't do this, please."

The thing was, Tango knew how to kill. He wouldn't have ended up in this line of work if he didn't. And animals? They were an easy way to get the point across. The difference in expenses wouldn't mean jack, but it got the point across. But Tango also wasn't heartless. More of a dog person than cats, but big beady eyes were big beady eyes, so he'd always done it quick. When the anger of whatever nip they gave was fresh and before he could think.

But what was he supposed to do now, with the tan little creature hanging like a rag, curled up on itself with its tail hugged to its belly and a nervous purr in its throat?

He had a job to do, though. A point to make, money to ensure.

Tango growled, as frustrated with himself as the situation, wondering if he was really doing this even as he unzipped the top of his jacket and shoved the cat down in it. Jimmy was stuck between sobbing and being stunned too much to stop him. Tango kicked him back down to the ground, out of the way of the door.

He gave the man one last glance. "Fifteen in two weeks. Don't give me reason to come back."

There was no time for Jimmy to respond, no time for him to point out it was higher than he was supposed to pay this time. Tango slammed the door shut once more and didn't look back.

The bundle in his jacket struggled and cried, but Tango didn't open it up again until he was sat in his car, doors locked. He deflated against his seat, letting the cat leap into the back seat. "What the hell have I done to myself?" He hissed. No one responded, except for a pitiful little mewl.

[dangermousie]

I decided to sorta-rewatch Gong/Jade Palace Lock Heart which I am old fogey enough to have watched as it aired back in 2011.

The time travel/transmigration ban is thanks to the success of it and BBJX one-two punch combo. Tragic but almost worth it because two dramas are both huge huge faves. Where BBJX is a moody tragic masterpiece, this is just insanely addictive fun.

In the event you were not (1) watching cdramas back in 2011 (2) did not watch this since (3) weren't around when I posted about this before, JPLH centers around our awesome heroine Qing Chuan, who is a modern day owner of an antiques shop and a huge Emperor Yongzheng fangirl, who falls through time and ends up in the Qing Dynasty, during the time of Kang Xi's sons' fight for the throne, a fight that she knows and is happy Yongzheng eventually wins.

She meets and has some epic interactions with hunky YZ, then merely the Fourth Prince (played deliciously by young Mickey He - as always with plenty of chemistry with Yang Mi; they were a tragic OTP in Schemes of Beauty some time before JPLH, the chemistry is still there.)

Today's censors would collectively immolate themselves rather than release this drama - Four is ruthless and scheming and fine with murdering his brothers (and others) on his path to the throne (so like the historical YZ.) There is no noble "I care for the people" from him or anyone, they just want power. He does develop a soft spot for our plucky FL and she has an epic crush on him but...wrinkle. Her endgame OTP is not this gentleman. It's this one:

The immature Eighth Prince, loser in the battle of the princes, her bete noir in the palace and one who is here confusing one of his brothers who does not understand that his bullying is a bizarro form of flirting that even he doesn't get, not a genuine desire to harm.

One of the things that this drama, bubblegum tho he is, ahistorical tho it is (QC teaches one of the concubines to get into Kang Xi's favor by rollerskating!) gets is how bloody and murder-happy that world is. None of these people blink at murdering, maiming or otherwise damaging others

Did I mention that JPLH is a Qing era AU of Boys Over Flowers, btw? With our FL as Makino, Eighth Prince as queued Domyouji and Four aka Yongzheng as an extremely homicidal Rui. I have said it before and said it again - this is the first BOF adaptation that actually makes sense to me in power and character dynamics because of course period absolute royals are gonna be insane, bloody, and get everyone to obey.

This drama has the old school cdrama delicious vibe (that Dashing Youth brought back) of starting light and then descending into hell. It's the best. I love how long it takes Eight to win her. I love the ship and angst and happy ending and why it makes sense for her to take so long to realize it's him she loves (look at his initial behavior, look at her being a time traveler etc.)

This was my first Qing era drama actually. When I looked at Feng Shao Feng not just with the queue but unbound loose hair (with the half shaved look) and went "you know, I don't know if it makes sense, he looks FUCKING HOT" I should have known I was a goner for period cdramas, if I wasn't before.

PS I am old enough to remember FSF and YM having hordes of RPShippers. Oooooold.

PPS Equivalent of Rui's violin:

[coffinup]

Hey! I’m currently in high school and thinking about going into funeral services. I’ve felt with grief for most of my life so I think I could get around it being mentally hard, but I also kind of despise math and have forgotten everything I learned about it this summer. Anything you think I should know about the industry?

I think your experience with grief will absolutely make you the right person for the job. The funeral profession always needs people who understand the struggle and can have true empathy.

So the math thing: there are some US states that require a four-year degree for mortuary science, and some (like mine) that split it up into a separate associates degree and secondary mortuary science diploma. Usually the four-year degrees are attained at universities, and the split/trade style degrees are attained at colleges, trade schools or community colleges. Several colleges have programs you can do hybrid/online as long as you can work at a funeral home. For both you’ll have to do college-level math courses for your gen-ed requirements. BUT something I did for my undergrad is I took a C.L.E.P test for college math so I didn’t have to take a class. CLEPS let you test out of a credit course, so I would look into that if you don’t want to do college math classes. There are study guides for them too. Aside from that, there isn’t much math in mortuary science that goes beyond basic algebra. I had to take an accounting class which required some money-related math, but that was the extent of it. There’s a formula in embalming called the primary dilution formula that is a very basic algebraic problem that’s super easy as long as you understand basic algebra concepts.

I’ll also say a couple things, since you are a young person that wants to go into it out of high school:

-Be prepared to deal with old fogeys that are set in their ways. There will be a lot of them, and the best strategy is to just accept what they try to teach you, and then make decisions based on what you think is best after that.

-Mortuary Science has one of the highest drop-out rates because of the graphic nature of it. About half of my class in the first anatomy course dropped out after we went for our autopsy examination. I think it’s probably stating the obvious that things can get gross, but if you aren’t squeamish and can express and tackle your feelings, you’ll be fine. You’ll be encountering human bodies in various stages of decay, various forms of injury and deformation, and see lots of results of disease. Just be prepared for that! And have an outlet like a trusted friend, therapist or journal where you can talk about your experiences, it’s important to not keep things bottled up!

-Funeral service rarely has an ideal work/life balance. Most funeral homes work on a “10/4” or “2 week” work schedule where you’ll work ten days in a row and get four days off. Some days you’ll work 6-8 hours, other days you might be there all day and night. Something to be prepared for. Larger firms and corporations tend to have more set/defined schedules.

I hope that helps! Good luck on your journey, and I truly wish you the best. Young people being interested in this profession always makes me happy, and I think you’ll do great things. Don’t be too discouraged by your perceived limitations, you NEVER know until you try! And the great thing about being at the age you are is you have ample time to try new things!

Best wishes :)

-Memento Mori

[alliluyevas]

this is going to make me sound like the world's oldest fogey but the church i've been going to in my new neighborhood literally just lets young kids run around during the service like...this one toddler always wandering up by the altar and fully elementary aged kids racing up and down the aisles making a ton of noise. i have NEVER been to a religious service where that happened previously and when i was a kid there is absolutely no way that would have happened. i would have been yoinked back into that pew lol. i like kids but i think it's incredibly distracting for adults trying to focus on sermons and also i don't think it's in kids' best interests to be overly permissive and let them do whatever whenever.

[inexplicifics]

🧡 for Vesemir/Guxart!

There are a lot of things about getting older which have surprised Vesemir.

One of them, to be fair, is that he has survived long enough to grow old. He was a hellraiser as a young witcher, and no one in Kaer Morhen would have put money on his living past his century mark. Hell, Vesemir himself was rather astonished when he hit fifty, and now here he is at something a bit over three hundred and still kicking.

The first time he caught himself scolding one of the young hellions in almost exactly the same words Barmin had used on him decades ago, Vesemir had to go have a drink and run the hardest pendulum course a couple of times to reassure himself that he wasn’t actually becoming an old fogey. These days he borrows Barmin’s lectures shamelessly, and only runs the hardest pendulum course once in a blue moon, when he has to show the young whippersnappers that he may be grey-haired and a little creaky, but decades of practice can in fact make up for the fact that he moves a little more slowly than he used to in his prime.

The years have taught him the value of taking his time on things. He scouts far more thoroughly when he goes out on the Path than he ever did when he was young; he lingers over his meals and his ale, savoring the taste.

And he delights in spending long winter mornings in bed, his Cat sprawled over his chest, sharing lazy, indulgent kisses and the comforting warmth of two bodies curled in his ridiculous heap of blankets.

It’s nothing like the encounters he used to have as a young man. There’s no danger to it - well, aside from sharing his bed with a Cat. He isn’t worried about having to jump out a window, or causing a political incident, or even just having his partner eat him - in retrospect, bedding a higher vampire was not the smartest thing he’s ever done.

Instead, it’s slow and sweet and easy, as so few parts of a witcher’s life are ever easy, and when he was younger he would have been baffled at the idea that he would ever want such things.

Now, though, with Guxart purring softly as they kiss, each lazy press of lips adding to the slow building pleasure of the morning, Vesemir thinks his younger self was very foolish indeed. 

(Or here on AO3!)

[bethanydelleman]

This scene between a brother and sister who have a very strict father was so real:

"My father would never allow you to go to the theatre; and the George Smiths are such old fogeys—they would be sure to tell." "How do you go, then? Does my father give you leave?" "Oh! many things are right for men which are not for girls." Jemima sat and pondered. Richard wished he had not been so confidential. "You need not name it," said he, rather anxiously. "Name what?" said she, startled, for her thoughts had gone far afield. "Oh, name my going once or twice to the theatre!" "No, I shan't name it!" said she. "No one here would care to hear it." But it was with some little surprise, and almost with a feeling of disgust, that she heard Richard join with her father in condemning some one, and add to Mr Bradshaw's list of offences, by alleging that the young man was a playgoer. He did not think his sister heard his words.

-Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskell

[teenagedirtstache]

[antigone-ks]

Lantern of Evil, Chapter Eleven

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER TEN

Chapter Eleven: I’m Still in Love with You on this Harvest Moon

Because I’m still in love with you/ I want to see you dance again/ Because I’m still in love with you/ On this harvest moon

____________________

I’m getting pretty good at this talking-to-women thing, Steve thinks. Of course, he’s been getting a lot of practice. There’s this whole re-getting-to-know-you phase going on, where he tells the truth about stuff that he might have fudged a bit, before.

“I knew it,” your eyes narrow at him, and he shrugs. “I should have called you on it then. Brooklyn Heights was affluent by the 70s and 80s, and there were lots of parks – the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, Cadman Plaza Park . . .”

“I remember when Cadman Plaza opened,” Steve says, “I used to go there and draw studies of the post office across the street.[1] But I was grown when it opened; when I was a kid it a was a mess of buildings that needed tearing down. Wait,” he says, giving you a skeptical look, “how do you even know all that?”

“From my extensive research watching reruns of the Patty Duke Show,” you say promptly. “And then when you didn’t make any sense, I looked up census data.”

He is vaguely, irrationally annoyed that you’d checked up on him, but it’s overridden by the fact that he had been lying, apparently poorly, and by the fact that you look awfully proud of yourself and it’s adorable. He smiles at you, and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re a nerd,” he says, fondly.

You wrinkle your nose at him. “What’s the old-timey word for that?”

“Egghead.” He skips out of your reach, laughing as you swat at him. “You asked!”

“Great; if we’d met back in the day you’d have called me an egghead,” you mutter, but there’s a smile dancing around your lips, so he leans in and kisses your cheek.

“Nah, I’d have told everyone you were a real buttercup,” he whispers, gratified when you start to blush.

“Is that the same thing as a pretty dame?” you ask, then “stop that; they’ll be here any minute.”

He steps back, but not very far. “I hate to break it to you, but they already know you’re my girl. And no, it’s better. A buttercup is pretty and sweet. The kind of girl –”

“The kinda gal who’ll let you take her on a walk in the park when you’re broke and never complain that it’s not a real date.” Bucky’s voice broke in, as he and Natasha walked up. He had a bag in one hand and a picker pole in the other.

“The kind who only dates around a little, and doesn’t compare you to her other guys,” Steve says, remembering some of Bucky’s youthful complaints.

“The kind who’ll go parking with you, but not all the way parking.” Bucky waggles his eyebrows at Natasha, who rolls her eyes and plants herself at your side, clearly forming a united front against the men. “And doesn’t laugh at you when you’re not real good at it yet.”

“You told me you were born good at it, Barnes,” Natasha says, then looks at you. “Thank god you’re here. When they get into old fogey mode, it’s hard to pull them out by myself.”

Steve watches you smile shyly and feels a rush of gratitude toward Natasha. She hadn’t once held the mess he’d made over his head, and she – and Sam, and Bucky (well, not so much Bucky; all of Bucky’s ideas were seventy years out of date, but he was good for commiseration) – had definitely helped dig him out. He’d goaded her, once, before you’d started talking to him again, had defiantly blocked her path and asked “aren’t you gonna say it?” But she’d just patted his cheek and answered, “do I need to?” and he’d deflated so fast she’d given him a brusque hug and then shoved him out of the way.

“I might not make a good ally,” you say. “Old-fogey mode is still new and interesting to me.”

“Riiight.” Natasha gives him an appraising look. “So, how was he at pretending to be young and hip?”

You look at Steve, baffled. “Were you trying to act hip?”

He clutches his chest dramatically and looks hurt. “Oh, I got a mouthy dame, huh?”

“Rude!” you exclaim.

Natasha crosses her arms. “Yeah, Rogers; you talk to your girlfriend like that?”

My girlfriend, my girlfriend, his brain sings. He nudges Bucky.  “Hey pal, some help here?”

Bucky busies himself attaching the bag to the picking pole. “You dug this hole yourself, punk.” He winks at Natasha. “I have learned never to disagree with a lady.”

She snorts. “That’s a lie, Barnes.”

“Yes it is.” He looks pointedly at Steve. “See?”

Natasha grabs another bag out of Steve’s hands and looks expectantly at you. “So how does this go, anyway?”

You look incredulously around the circle. “Have none of you gone apple-picking before? Steve, you said you all loved this place.”

“I, ah. I love the idea of this place. And I really do love apple pie.” In truth, you’d just looked so excited when you suggested it that he’d agreed immediately, and then volunteered Nat and Bucky as a double-date. It seemed like a low-stakes way to introduce you to his team, since they’d be too busy to interrogate you. Much. Probably.

“City slickers,” you mutter, but let him take your hand and lead you into the orchard.

***

You and Natasha concentrate on the lower-hanging fruit while Steve and Bucky manhandle the picker poles with more enthusiasm than skill. First they race to see who can get more apples (Bucky), then they compete to reach the best-looking first (Steve, who plays dirty). After Steve “accidentally” bangs a half-full bag off Bucky’s head, you try to intervene.

“Don’t you Depression types know you shouldn’t waste food?” They turn toward you, identical scowls of he-started-it on their faces. “There are starving kids!”

“Yeah, don’t bruise my apples, Barnes,” Natasha calls, laughing, and it sounds . . . well, a little dirty, to be honest. From the look Bucky gives her, you think it was meant to be.

“Fine,” Bucky says. “You win this tree, Stevie. I’m gonna squire both these lovely ladies to the concession stand.”

You hear Steve mutter something that sounds like “the hell you are,” and he speeds up to walk beside you. He’s got the bag of apples in one hand and the picker in the other, and looks momentarily stymied, until you slip your arm through his. You notice that Natasha and Bucky split the load, each carrying one item in their left hands. You look up at Steve and he rolls his eyes. “Assassins,” he whispers.

Oh, yeah. Everyone here can kill you with their pinky. Probably their pinky toe. But, of course, you can wield an absolutely devastating red pen.

Stop that. He likes you the way you are. He said so.

Grant’s said a lot of things, hasn’t he?

Oh, shut up.

Things have been going so well between you, but there’s a part of you that still feels vulnerable. Some of that is natural in any relationship and might never go away entirely, but part of it is . . . the situation.

And not even the Grant situation, although that has made you cautious. You’ve almost managed to stop thinking of him as Grant; you only slipped up a couple of times face-to-face. You know it bothered him, though, by how he’d so carefully not react when you did. You tried to train yourself out of it by saying his name out loud when he wasn’t around: “I’m gonna call Steve,” you’d say when you were alone; “Going to meet Steve,” you’d say to yourself, heading to your car. And saying it more than a few times when you were extra alone. You haven’t said the wrong name in a couple of weeks, and the soft look in his eyes when you whisper in his ear makes it worth the effort.

But sometimes your brain still pokes at his words, wanting to check up on them just in case. In case he’s lying about something else. In case something isn’t right, and you just haven’t figured it out yet.

In case he doesn’t really want you.

. . . yeah. Which is stupid, because he’s been nothing but thoughtful and patient – really incredibly patient – since you agreed to try again. He’s answered all your questions, even if it made you angry again. He’s brought his friends around, starting with a more formal introduction to Sam, who had so many new kitten videos. He hasn’t re-met yours, but only because you’re both uncertain as to how you can make that happen without giving away any secrets. He lets you set the pace when you’re alone, keeps his hands confined to PG-13 zones, and goes home looking like he might not make it to a cold shower.

So it’s not anything that he’s doing. It’s your problem – your inability to just open up and let him love you the way he so obviously wants to.

Right now he wants to give you a perfect October afternoon, with apple-picking in flannel shirts and apple-cider doughnuts and possibly pie-making when you get home. He promised to help peel the apples. It’s nauseatingly domestic, not really what you expected superheroes to do when they’re temporarily out of villains to fight.

But damn, he looks good in flannel.

The four of you squeeze into a picnic table with a tray piled high with doughnuts and mugs of mulled cider. Natasha’s friendly-but-still-wary spy face breaks for just an instant when she bites into the first doughnut, still hot from the fryer and covered in cinnamon-sugar – the corners of her eyes turn up and you swear her pupils dilate.

Bucky is a lot more effusive. Borderline pornographic. “Oh Jesus,” he says around a mouthful of hot, sweet dough. “Oh god. Oh –“

“If you start naming off saints, I’m leaving,” Steve threatens, then takes a bite. “Ohh god.”

“See?!” Bucky looks vindicated.

So maybe everyone, even superheroes, are suckers for fried dough.

“So,” you say after you wash down a bite with the cider. “Did you two attack each other with fruit when you were kids, or is that a new thing?”

“That’s a new tactic we’re testing,” Bucky says. “Non-lethal force.” He takes two more doughnuts from the pile while Natasha shakes her head, a fond expression on her face. “We didn’t fight much as kids.”

“Each other,” Steve adds.

“Each other,” Bucky agrees, then grins so wickedly you know whatever he says next is going to be good. “Except that one time when I tried to get you to stop fightin’.”

Steve buries his face in his hands.

“You – wait, you fought him because he didn’t want you to fight?” You tug on Steve’s arm, trying to pry his hand away from his face. “You have to tell me about this.”

“Steve was a real firecracker back in the day,” Bucky said. “You know – ‘I’ll whup you, I’ll whup your brother, I’ll whup myself’ – that was Stevie.”

“I did that last one a lot,” Steve admitted sheepishly.

“So we were, what, fourteen-fifteen, lotta guys fight at that age, you got all the hormones and nothin’ makes sense and you just wanna punch something.” Bucky started on his fourth doughnut. “And Steve had fifty pounds of adolescent rage packed down into a three-pound powder keg.”

“You said you never started fights,” you say, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t!” Steve protests while Bucky whoops with laughter. “Hey, you’re makin’ me look bad in front of my girl.”

“Nah, Steve’s right, he didn’t technically ��start’ fights,” Bucky makes air quotes still holding a doughnut. You’ve lost count. “He’d just wait for some chump to step out of line and then he’d bicker at him until the guy busted him up.”

“I could usually duck the first one,” Steve is obviously trying to defend himself, but from the look you all give him, it’s not working. “So Bucky told me to stop, he’s not gonna step in and rescue me anymore – which really made me see red –“

“And the little punk throws a punch at me!” Bucky says, still outraged after decades. Natasha looks delighted.

“It connected, too.” Steve sounds awfully proud of himself, but he had told you that Bucky used to be a boxing champ. And young Steve very much . . . wasn’t.

“Yeah, you were quick as a weasel when a fight started,” Bucky muttered. “Two minutes in and you’d be wheezing like a kettle.”

“So . . . I mean obviously Bucky won,” you say, and shrug apologetically when Steve gives you the most betrayed look and Bucky hoots.

“Kept my hand on his head while he swung at me until he tired out. He didn’t speak to me for two days.”

You stare at Bucky as the scene takes form in your head, then burst into bone-shaking laughter. When you get yourself back under control, Natasha is dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, Bucky is looking supremely self-satisfied, and Steve is red from the tips of his ears down to the hollow of his throat. And probably lower, you think, if you could see it.

You rub his back, running your fingers up to scratch at the nape of his neck. He turns to you, a little dazed, and you whisper, “I’m glad you survived all of that.” As he starts to smile, you add, “Well, it sounds like mostly you survived yourself.”

He slips an arm around you, and you notice the glint in his eyes just before he starts to tickle you.

All told, you fill three bags: two with pie and preserve apples and one with what your grandpa would have called “good eatin’ apples.” You and Natasha concentrate on gathering the best Winesaps for pie while the guys continue their non-lethal weapons research.

“Bet you a pie Bucky pinches him with that picker thing,” Natasha mutters. You consider it; Steve is quick and has great reflexes, but he’s also too trusting – as you watch, he turns his back and present a very tempting target.

“You bake?” you ask, trying not to sound surprised.

“I buy,” she says. “But I’m also not going to lose.” She’s right; Bucky immediately takes the bait and Steve hollers loud enough that the orchard attendant peeks over, frowning.

“One pie,” you agree. “Delivered by Steve no later than Wednesday.”

“You could always come to the compound and bake it there,” she suggests, watching Steve knock Bucky on his ass. “We have a great kitchen and Sam’s the only one who uses it regularly.” She catches your guarded expression. “It’s not that I don’t trust Steve not to eat it on the way . . . but I don’t.”

“I’m not sure Steve’s ready for me to be in his space like that,” you say slowly. “We don’t want to rush things this time.”

She frowns, and the look she gives you wouldn’t be out of place on any sister worrying that her bonehead brother is getting strung along. “It’s my understanding that Steve is ready for you to be anywhere that you want to be. This is your pace, isn’t it?”

Of course it is.

She watches your face for a moment, then sighs. “I’m not going to make excuses for Steve; he’s a grown man and he can make his own terrible decisions. But, I guess, he perhaps didn’t receive the best advice from . . . certain of his associates.” You side-eye her. “Including me. But his own ideas were, and I really want to stress this, appalling. He wanted to step back, after that time at the barbeque place. He wanted to wait until he got back to his fighting weight, then . . . I don’t even know, maybe just show up at your door and sweep you off your feet?”

“Ooh, he really has no self-preservation instincts, does he?” Natasha laughs and shakes her head. “Wait, how did you know about the – you know what, never mind.“ The look she gives you is unimpressed and unashamed.

“I honestly didn’t think he’d tell you. Not while he was still small. He was very sensitive about that, you know.” She’s not looking at you, but she’s definitely watching you while she talks.

“I know that now,” you say. “It didn’t register then. It’s just not . . . I wonder if he’d grown up later, if it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. He’d have had better medicine, not had to be so careful all the time. He would have gotten more attention from girls, I think.”

“But then he wouldn’t be Steve. Not our Steve.”

Your head feels so light at the thought of our Steve, you don’t even notice Natasha watching you approvingly.

“So I do maybe owe you a small apology,” she says. “I also may have contributed to the way it shook out.” You raise an eyebrow and wait. “The dance was my idea,” she says, and shrugs. “I thought it would be too much for Steve to resist. He always talked about missing his dance with – you know about Peggy, right?”

She knows you do, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it. The layers of meaning in everything this woman says could make your head spin. Steve had told you about Peggy early on, spending the whole time split between studying his own hands and your eyes, watching for any sign of . . . jealousy, maybe? Disapproval? Impatience? And then sighing with such relief it almost made you cry, when you wrapped your arms around him and whispered, “I’m glad you had more time with her, after you came back. She sounds incredible.”

How could you be jealous of his love for Peggy, when she’d had so much to do with shaping the man he is? You would have enjoyed getting to know her.

The thing with Sharon is a little weird, though, you’re not gonna lie about that.

“You told Steve to buy seven hours of dance tickets?” you ask.

“No, I – seven hours?” For the first time today, Natasha looks truly surprised. “Go big or go home, I guess. Or go big, screw it up, and then go home anyway. No,” she says, “I may have used official channels to suggest to the fundraising committee that the Stark Foundation would be very generous if they’d change it up from the usual holiday home tours and Victorian tea parties, and then suggested a taxi dance would be just the new and semi-scandalous kind of thing Tony wanted to see.”

“Well, that worked. And the foundation definitely came through.”

She smirks, gratified. “Yeah, when I told Pepper about it she laughed till she choked and told accounting to cut a check right then.”

So everyone everyone knows all about this situation, even the ones who aren’t Avengers, you think with mounting horror.

Natasha looks at you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking, and pats your arm. “I didn’t tell her why. She just agreed that Tony would bust a gut if he knew about it.”

“Why a taxi dance, though?”

“Steve and James were talking about petting parties, but I didn’t think I could push that one through.”

No, definitely not. Your mind reels at the thought of Madame President chaperoning a bunch of couples in flagrante to various degrees, and then at the idea of Steve attending one. And then at the idea of you and Steve attending one, and you know, you’ve never really had that kink but it sounds hot. Then you wonder if Steve had ever been to a taxi before, if he’d paid for a woman to let that awkward, kind, stubborn boy put his arms around her for three minutes. At least he would have been polite about it.

You’re lost in thought, not paying attention, when your ankle turns on the gravel path and down you go.

You hear Natasha call out for Steve, and immediately follow her with “No, I’m fine!” You prod at your ankle; it’s tender, but no worse than that, and the biggest injury is to your pride. Steve skids on the gravel and kneels down beside you.

“Is it broken?” he asks, gingerly lifting your foot onto his thigh. His touch is so careful, the pads of his fingers pressing gently into your flesh. He’s got a callous on the inside of his middle finger, you realize, where he holds his pencils. No – you don’t realize, you remember. You used to feel it when Grant took your hand.

Just like the little scar over his right eyebrow. Like the dorky way he puncutates his texts. It’s the same hand, the same touch, the same man. He hasn't changed, not really; it's just taken you too long to understand.

“No, it’s okay. I just turned it, I think.” He’s got a look on his face that makes you worry about ambulances, medi-vacs, para-rescues, and you touch his cheek. “Steve, I’m fine. Help me up and I can probably walk on it.”

He carefully manipulates the joint, watching your face for pain. His face relaxes. “Not broken,” he says, “but could be a nasty sprain. You’re absolutely not walking on it.” He turns his face and kisses your palm. “Put your arms around my neck.”

You panic a little. “No, I can walk. I want to walk.”

“I’m not letting you walk, c’mon.” His arm slips under your knees.

“You can’t stop me,” you insist, in the face of all available evidence. Steve rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, don’t pick me up – you’ll hurt yourself!” He gives you an incredulous look and lifts you bridal-style.

Natasha picks up your bag of apples. “You know he can toss a motorcycle like it’s a football, right?” she asks, and your face heats up.

Steve settles you in his arms, his lips brushing your forehead. “Sweetheart, relax. You weigh nothing.” He smiles brightly as your arms slip around his neck. “You know I’ve always got you.”

And in this moment, you do know: this awkward, kind, stubborn man has you.

[1] It’s gorgeous: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cadman_Plaza#/media/File:Brooklyn_Post_Office_0321071421a.jpg Accessed 11 July 2019.

____________________

Neil Young – Harvest Moon

Because I’m still in love with you/ I want to see you dance again/ Because I’m still in love with you/ On this harvest moon

READ CHAPTER TWELVE (SMUT WARNING)

[lagomoz]

Info on Milgram families

Haruka: Mom, possibly had a sibling. His mother is clearly very neglectful and abusive, but was kinder to Haruka in his early childhood, leaving him with all his Issues today. His dad left when he was young, and Haruka implies it’s either something to do with him or that Haruka blames himself for it, though she still considers his father family. Lists no siblings as his family, but it’s a common theory that he may have had a sibling he killed. Either way, he’s an only child now and has some MAJOR issues with his parents. Says he loves his parents, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not a two-way love. There’s a lot to say about his family in particular since it’s so important to his murder

Yuno: Mom and younger brother named Yura, along with her grandma and grandpa listed as family. Her father left her when she was young, so Yuno has no memories of him. Loves her family and wants to see them again and seems especially close with Yura, who she shows off cats cradle tricks to

Fuuta: Mom, dad and older sister. His parents are divorced and he hasn’t seen his mom since said divorce, while his dad is a “weak, pathetic fogey”. He lists only his father and sister as family, but when asked who he’d like to see, picks his mom. His dad is a civil worker and his sister is a beautician, though he doesn’t know what his mom does

Mu: Mom and dad, only child. Her parents are rich, her dad a landlord / furniture importer and her mom a former model. She’s clearly quite close with her parents, repeatedly saying how much she misses them and how she loves them, along with calling them both kind cool and beautiful and saying her ideal type of man is like her dad (??????). Her mother is French and father Japanese. Her parents have almost certainly spoiled her, but considering how highly Mu speaks of them, it raises the question as to why she didn’t (or couldn’t, or did and failed) reach out them to stop the bullying

Shidou: Unknown? Lists his family as something he treasures, but also states there’s nobody he’d leave behind if he died. He considering having a loved one die more painful than death and when asked who he could bring back to life says he couldn’t chose. Whether or not the person he was trying to save was a spouse, blood relative or something else, it’s possible he’s had more than one loved one die

Mahiru: Unknown, but her answer to someone she could confide to is the worker at a beauty salon she goes to rather than a friend or family

Kazui: Well, he had a wife

Amane: Mom, dad, to an extent her cult. She admires her father, who has been away on some kind mission (likely a religious one), which Amane sees as something honorable. She wants to see him so she can be praised. Amane says her parents must be proud of her because she’s such a “good girl”. There’s also the four figures in Magic - Gachata, Yuri, Gozake, Riyone - that she interacts with (and that abuse her), but it’s unclear who exactly they are in relation to Amane other than fellow cult members

Mikoto: Mom and little sister, parents are divorced and no mention further of father. His sister is in high school and he describes her as brilliant. Says he gets along with his mother, that she raised him and he doesn’t want to worry her

Kotoko: Mom, dad, older brother and grandma. No further information to my knowledge

[onthatbkdkbs]

bloodsport pt 1

bkdk x tlou crossover

warnings: dark themes, violence, bkg's mouth

At some point in his life, Katsuki must have known happiness. Simple things might have brought him joy. Chasing butterflies out in the fields, for instance. The trading of shiny Action Hero cards passed between sticky, chubby hands. A gapped tooth smile under a constellation of freckles and big green eyes that beamed at him like he was the brightest star in the galaxy. Like he was someone worth looking up to.

That was Then. This is Now.

The eye peeking up at him now through a careless tear in the funeral hood is dull and empty. No life left inside, another future snuffed out. Just a kid, tiny and broken in Katsuki's arms. A kid wearing white sneakers, the once-pristine fabric scuffed from impacts and streaked with blood. Maybe twenty years ago it would've been mud instead, shoes ruined running from other children on playgrounds instead of brain-dead monsters in alleyways. Maybe he would have smiled big and often, eyes bright instead of glassy with death. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, what if, could’ve been. It's all pointless. No sense in dwelling on it. 

"How old were you again when the outbreak hit?" Kirishima asks this of him after their late afternoon corpse disposal shift. They're out behind the gritty apartment complex situated near the ass end of the QZ shithole they call home, sitting pressed up against the cooling brick and passing a smoldering joint back and forth. Katsuki wishes the smoke would choke him, choke them both, just so he wouldn't have to answer. No such luck. His next hit passes smoothly, not even offering a cough of delay. Katsuki's head swims with the high, but his body still feels like lead.

Katsuki throws the body into the pyre without another glance and hauls the next from the backend of the pickup, his movements mechanical and thoughtless. He is as empty as that child's eyes as they boil inside their sockets. 

-x-

"Ten," he answers, flatly. He'd been too young to fully grasp the gravity of the changing world around him, but old enough to catch on quickly. "You?" 

He doesn't care. It doesn't matter. But he passes the joint back and listens anyway as Kirishima sighs out a puff of smoke and nostalgia and says, "same. Man, I wish we'd had more time. Back then, I used to think the world was such a cool place. Everything was exciting. Anything could be fun."

What he doesn't have to say is: now nothing is. Everything went to shit, about twenty years back. Everything changed, and now nothing will. All of humanity stuck, fucked, and out of luck. The two of them have their own ways of dealing with it, and one of Kirishima's favorites seems to be reminiscing on 'the good old days' like the old fogeys that brew hooch and spend their nights bitching over sour drinks in the complex basement.

Perish the fucking thought. Katsuki would honestly rather get bitten.

The dwindling joint is passed back to him. He pinches it off with two roughened fingers to pocket the roach for later, grumbling and eager to change the subject. Nothing good ever comes of talking about this shit. "Deal still going through tonight?" 

"Should be." 

"How much again?" 

Kirishima sighs, dusting off his work jeans without a word and climbing to his feet. Katsuki does the same, the two of them meandering side by side through the maze of alleys and back into the dilapidated lobby of their living quarters. With their reputations neither of them is particularly worried, but they still keep close-ranked as they walk, shoulder to shoulder, eyes sharp. Never know who might be waiting around the corner. Desperate people do desperate things, and if there's one thing they all have in common nowadays, it's desperation. 

Hence, their reputations. Hence, the deal. Hence, Kirishima crouching on the scuffed hardwood when they make it up three flights of stairs and back into their tiny, bare-bones studio apartment, pressing down on the hidden seam of their hidey hole to better take stock of their inventory the second the door is bolted behind them. The floorboards creak angrily in protest as they're cracked open. The distant part of Katsuki that still rages deep down inside wants to screech profanities in commiseration.

"The guy wants 15 of the oxy and a gram of kush. Says he'll meet us by the old outlet mall over on 10th at midnight."

Katsuki sucks an annoyed breath through his teeth. As if he doesn't have anything better to do at 12 AM during the work week. Maybe like actually fucking sleeping? The nerve of military shit-bags. Still, he doesn't get a vote. He mumbles out an affirmative and pads over to the sad, beige couch stuffed in one corner, plopping down with a soft huff.

"Dude, are you taking a nap?" 

Katsuki grinds his teeth but swallows a sharp response, like maybe how it should be perfectly fucking obvious that that's exactly what he's doing. None of this is Kirishima's fault. Ten years ago Katsuki might have taken his frustrations out on him anyway, but he's grown since then. Now he understands that there's no fucking point. Instead he throws a half-hearted glare at their water-stained ceiling and shuts his eyes, offering not a word. 

Too bad Kirishima is persistent. He doesn't even wait a whole minute before he's pestering him again, stressing, "the ration line is only open another half hour, man. We'll only get scraps but it's better than nothing. C'mon and let's go eat."

He grunts. "Not hungry."

"Dude." 

Katsuki cracks one eye open, some of his old ire peeking through. He's tired. He just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to argue, which is unusual for him in general but quickly becoming a familiar feeling. "Fuckin' go without me. I told you, I'm not. Hungry. Jesus. Can you hear anything past that thick skull of yours or do I need to repeat myself?" 

“Loud and clear, bro,” Kirishima answers with only a hint of hurt, thick-skinned enough that he takes Katsuki's bullshit with relative ease. It's something Katsuki usually appreciates about the guy, but today he almost wishes he'd pick a fight. 

No such luck. Kirishima gives him one last lingering look of concern and takes his leave, closing the door softly behind him. Katsuki sighs, rolls onto his side to try and get more comfortable on their ugly, misshapen couch, and falls asleep within minutes. He really was tired.

-x- 

When he wakes up some odd number of hours later, it's to the twist of the deadbolt sliding home. Katsuki hums and rolls towards the sound, blinking open his eyes just in time to be blinded by Kirishima flipping on the lights. His fuckin’ luck.

“Shit,” he hisses, pained and squinting at the bright red mess atop Kirishima's head that he calls hair as his eyes try to adjust to the abrupt and unwelcome assault against his retinas. “The hell? Are you just now getting back? Time’s it?” The world outside the windows is as literally dark as it is metaphorically, so he must've been gone for hours. Katsuki is groggy as all hell, but he still swings his legs over the couch and sits his ass up. The look he catches on Kirishima’s face when he can finally fucking see again tells him that it's almost time for business. 

He isn't nervous, not exactly. Kirishima is too steady for that. It's that he's wary. They're careful, but unless you’re an idiot, you know surviving out here is more about luck than skill. Any time they have to go out at night for a deal is a big risk, and one they don't take lightly. Kirishima is especially grave about it, eager for them to keep their lives. 

Katsuki, on the other hand, mostly thinks that as long as he's not coming back as one of those things, he probably wouldn't mind losing his. Not to say that he's reckless. He wouldn't risk Kirishima that way. 

“Sorry, man,” the idiot himself replies, grinning sheepishly with a telling flush on his cheeks, “got caught up at Mina's. It's half past 11, so we should probably get going if we wanna make it over there in time.”

Katsuki grunts, already hunching over to pull on his boots. He'd have preferred to be awake about a half hour ago, to feel more prepared for this bullshit, but he can't begrudge his partner time with his girl. At least, not after feeling a little guilty about being so shitty to him all the time. And knowing, despite that guilt, that he'll likely still be shitty to him tomorrow.

The next twenty-five minutes are studded with anticipation. They check their gear, pack their stash, check their gear a second time, and then sneak out. They're quiet as they move down the stairs and out the back door into the alley; they're silent as they make their way through the streets, only the dim building lamps and the light of the moon to guide them. They hold their breath and avoid one, two, three goddamn patrols, working their way around the southern edge of the city and up along the west center. And then the mall looms tall and ominous before them, their surroundings abruptly much darker than the more residential quadrant they'd just been skulking around in. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that no one is supposed to be here.

What's probably less obvious, at least to anyone that doesn't either guard the QZ or routinely creep along its underbelly, is that this area is hardly ever checked up on. It's an admittedly good spot to meet up for shady dealings since it's outside the residential zones and the Feds are understaffed as it is, nevermind how lazy a lot of those bastards are. But it being a smart place to meet doesn't negate the fact that all this is a huge pain in the ass. Katsuki would complain about the paranoid-as-shit guards if he wasn't just as bad himself. 

“10th is around the corner,” Kirishima whispers, just loudly enough for Katsuki to hear. He nods and they make their way over down a sidestreet, alert for any shuffle of soles along the pavement, or whispers of fabric behind the drooping fences lining the street. It's eerily silent, which should be assuring but is oddly the opposite. Something doesn't feel right.

Before he can relay this gut instinct to Kirishima, however, there's a yell. They both freeze, figuring they're caught out, but then the yell comes again, along with the sudden realization that it's echoing from inside the mall. 

“Fuck this, let's go,” Katsuki says, already turning to bolt. This isn't his problem, and he isn't a hero.

The issue is, Kirishima doesn't seem to agree with the sentiment. He's rushing forward on fast feet before Katsuki even gets a goddamn step in the other direction. And even though it goes against every ounce of common sense Katsuki carries around inside his head (unlike SOME PEOPLE), and against all the instinct buzzing underneath his skin like a hive of angry, stinging wasps, Katsuki gives himself just a quarter of a second to think ‘holy motherfucking hell, I'm gonna to kill this hard-headed idiot’ as viciously as he can and then darts after him. 

They sweep into the building through a gaping hole in the concrete wall, sticking close and reaching to their belts for the weapons they hide along their waistbands. Katsuki feels a little steadier with the engraved grip of his gun pressing into his hand, but he's still buzzing with enough adrenaline and anger that he's trembling. If looks could kill, Kirishima would've dropped dead before they'd even made it inside. He can't believe they're doing this. 

But they're fucking committed now, and so Katsuki puts his all into finding this apparent damsel that Kirishima is convinced he needs to save from their distress. 

It doesn't take long. By the time they get a few dozen feet through the concourse they hear a thud and someone crying out from inside the trashed tech store on their right, which they creep over to as quietly as they can, crouching low. Katsuki peeks his head up over the busted windows, eyes wild and looking for trouble. His finger gently hooks itself over the trigger of his gun, itching to squeeze.

There. By the registers along the back. It's hard to see, the store lit only by a hastily placed oil lamp on one of the neighboring wall shelves, but he can barely make out the stark white FEDRA logo printed on the back of the guard's standard issue bulletproof vest, and then he sees someone else on the floor, lying supine with their hands up. The angle is fucked so he can't make out much of the person's face, but he thinks he sees dirt or something across their cheek in the imitation of freckles. The guard has the muzzle of his semi-automatic pointed right at them. 

“Spill it, shithead,” the FEDRA fuck is saying in a lazy drawl. He ain't worried. He thinks he has this in the bag, whatever he's trying to accomplish. That much is obvious. “Where're the rest of you rats hiding in here?” 

“N-nowhere,” the person replies, warbly and unconvincing. Sounds like a dude, albeit one with an oddly sweet voice. “It's just me, I swear!”

Of course, like Katsuki, FEDRA fuck doesn't buy it. “Right, okay. And I'm the Emperor of Japan.” His body lurches forward a little and the dude on the ground lets out a quiet grunt of pain. Stepping on him somewhere. A wound, probably. Katsuki cuts a glance to Kirishima and they both inch through the doorway on silent feet. This is gonna go south fast, so they need to make their move. “You wanna try that again, Freckles? I've got somewhere to be, so if you make this quick for me maybe I'll recommend they only throw you in prison, not in front of a firing squad.” 

Freckles blubbers something else, but Katsuki isn't listening anymore. He's lifting his weapon, lining up the shot with the back of FEDRA fuck’s stupid, unprotected head and squeezing the trigger. The silencer on the end of his gun muffles the shot to a soft hiss, and the guy drops like a sack of rotten potatoes. Freckles scrambles away with a low cry, trying to avoid being crushed by the body. 

“Nice shot,” Kirishima murmurs next to him. Katsuki grunts his thanks.  

“Oh, my god,” Freckles whimpers from his heap on the floor in front of them, hand to his chest and breathing hard. “I really thought I was a goner. Leader? Is that you back there? I'm sorry you had to save me.” 

Katsuki opens his mouth to answer, say he isn't anyone's fuckin’ leader, but he doesn't get the chance to. The door at the back wall that he assumes leads to the employee break room opens, and out walks his fucking brother. 

"Wasn't me," Kudo says. His eyes somehow meet Katsuki's identical ones dead on through the gloom, and he smiles. "Looks like you've got another hero on your side tonight. Stand up and say hello, Izuku."

Oh, fucking WHAT??

[jechristine]

Ok, anon from earlier, what I meant was Tom has matured as an actor and a person. He knows now that he doesn’t need to put his whole life on Instagram to further his career. And he’s more careful what he says. I think a lot of young up and coming actors have that misconception that social media will help them, but in the end its like selling you soul to the Devil.

And about his reputation for keeping secrets, I really think it only happened once or twice and then Disney just took over and used it as a marketing ploy (unfairly I might add. It carried on way too long and isn’t funny anymore ). I guess with him being so much younger than the of the Avenger group, one of those old fogeys on the board of directors thought it would be a good idea? Now I think people still associate him with that and it’s quite unfortunate.

Hey, anon. Another way to say your first point is that Tom did build up a devoted fanbase by putting so much out there on Instagram, but now he’s older and more established, so he doesn’t need to do all that anymore. The IG presence does help/did help, but that help has plateaued so no more need.

Agree about the secret thing! Who cares about spoilers anyway (not me).