#Brought to you by rats hats and mats

[idkwriteshitdown]

Somebody’s Gotta Take Care of the Riff Raff

Summary: Al doesn’t remember signing up for being a caretaker, but he’s not going to stop his job.

Or Al finds Diego on the street one night and helps him out.

Words: 2906

(ao3 link)

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Al lit his cigarette and took a drag. He leaned against the brick wall and slowly exhaled watching the smoke disappear into the night. The neon light of the pub’s sign flickered above his head. Inside he could hear the drunken clamor of the patrons.

“Got a light?”

Al turned to see the speaker. “Oh hey Donny.” He fished in his pocket for the lighter.  “Yeah I got one for you.”

“Thanks,” Donny said cigarette hanging out his mouth. He brought the lighter to his mouth puffing a few times. “Catch the game?” He asked.

“It was bullshit.” Al grumbled. “That ref had no idea what he was doing. I don’t know who they’re hiring for this shit.”

“I know,” Donny exclaimed. “And the players aren’t much better either. Yeah sure we got some gems thrown in here or there, but the rest. They’re weak.”

“They found out how to game the system. They lost the feeling that it used to have.”

A raindrop fell in between the two of them. Donny pulled the hood of his jacket over his head while Al stepped further underneath the awning of the building. They watched as a group of young men stumbled out of the pub. They weren’t dressed for the cooling weather. Only one wore a hat while the others had on a mix of shorts and light jackets. They garnered looks from passerby’s as they laughed loudly walking down the street.

“So what’s this I hear about your gym being closed?”

“Oh that?” Al flicked ashes off the end of his cigarette. “The pipes fuckin’ burst. Flooded the damn place. The whole floor is ruined.”

“That’s rough,”

“Eh. It was due for a remodel anyway. But the whole thing is gonna be closed until it’s done.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that big of a loss.”

“Hey Al” Donny hit Al on the shoulder. “Isn’t that your boy over there?”

Al looked to where his friend was pointing. The group that had exited the pub earlier had stopped underneath a light post and were taking turns shoving a man around laughing. They were mocking him, jumping out of the way when he turned to attack whoever was closest. The rain had picked up into a light drizzle.

The two watched as one member of the group, a man wearing a white jacket, took the guy's duffel from him and started going through it.

There was a brief reflection of light as the man lifted an object from within the guys bag. “Hey this fucker’s got a knife.” He shouted.

“Ah hell it is my guy” Al swore. He ground out his cigarette on wall behind him and threw it on the ground. He ran over to the group. “Break it up. Break it up.”

“Stay out of it old man.” The one with the hat said walking towards him. “This ain’t your problem.”

“Yeah well I’m making it my problem. Scram before I call the cops.” He reached past the guy and grabbed Diego by the collar of his shirt pulling him out of the group. There was a sudden clap of thunder and the sky opened up raining down on them.

“Fuck it’s not worth it.” The guy in the white hoodie said. “Let’s go.” He swung Diego’s duffel over his shoulder running off, the others following him.

Al turned to face Diego. He looked worn out. He starred in the direction the group ran in. “They took my bag.” he said dejectedly.

Al sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Why couldn't the kid just take care of himself. He put his arm around Diego's shoulder. It was a true testament of how tired he was that he didn't tense or flinch like he always did when someone touched him unexpectedly. "Let's get out the rain. I’ll take you home." He led Diego towards the pub, giving a nod to Donny as they walked in.

Al called a car and rode with Diego to the Umbrella Academy. It was a quiet ride. A soft jazz melody drifted back from the radio and the dark interior was lighted briefly by the passing street lights. Al took this time to observe Diego. The kid looked tired. He was wearing the same clothes that he wore when the gym closed two days before. He was pressed against the side of the door looking out at the passing street. He was trying to stay awake but the warm hum of the car was doing its job in lulling him to sleep.

When they arrived, Al almost felt sorry about having to wake him up. He reached out to shake Diego's shoulder. The boy jolted up eyes wide, looking around frantically. His eyes looked out past him and locked on to the building they stopped in front of. His face shifted into horror. He pressed his back against the door drawing his knees to his chest. Al could see him trying to speak but the words didn't come. "P-p-please," he forced out.

"Hey is he ok?" The driver asked.

"Yeah just give me a minute" he growled. He turned towards Diego. "Hey now, hey now. Calm down. "

Letting out soft curses at the size of the car Al awkwardly lowered himself to kneel at the bottom of the floor making himself smaller to the frightened man. He had no idea what set off this attack, but he was pretty well versed in calming him down. He rested a hand on the seat and looked up at Diego. The other man had squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hands up to grip tightly at his long hair. He was rocking slightly.

"Diego buddy. I need you to look at me," Al said lightly. "Can you look at me?" He waited patiently as Diego slowly cracked upon his eyes to look at him.

"That's a good boy," he praised "I'm going to hold your hand. Can you give me your hand?" Making sure to telegraph every movement Al reached for Diego's hand. He watched as Diego's eyes followed his motion. Grabbing on to his hand he carefully massaged it encouraging him to loosen his grip on his hair.

"I'm going to bring it to my chest ok?" Just as before he very slowly brought both their hands to rest on his chest. It was an awkward position. Diego had to lean forward in order to reach and he had to puff out his chest so that they could touch.

He took a couple of exaggerated breaths. "Can you follow my breathing? In." He took a deep breath in. "And out" he let out a gust of air. "Do it with me." He breathed a couple of more times before Diego started to try to match his own erratic breathing with his. "That's a good boy," Al praised. The two of them sat breathing together.

A minute or so passed in silence. Only the sound of them breathing and the rain hitting the roof of the car was heard. Al gave a silent groan thinking about how expensive this ride would end up being. Not for the first time he wondered how Diego became this way. He opened his mouth to ask a question when Diego yanked his hand from his hold.

Al closed his mouth and studied the man before him. He had shifted so that he wasn’t curled against the corner but he still held his hand close to his chest. His face was red with embarrassment and his head was turned to face the seat in front of him but Al could see him looking warily out of the corner of his eye.

“You back with us bud?” He asked. A barely perceptible nod was his only response. “You want to tell me what that was about?” There was silence as Diego stared resolutely ahead.

Al sighed. He knew that Diego often lapsed into moments where he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, speak and it seems like now was one of those moments. He shifted trying to will feeling back into his legs. Time for 20 questions. He racked his head as to what could’ve set this panic attack off. He stretched and caught the reflection of the mansion that was behind him. Bingo.

“Was it the house?” he asked.

Nod.

“You don’t want to go in there?”

Nod.

Al frowned. “Is someone going to hurt you there?”

Pause. Head shake.

Al let out a breath of relief. There was not much that would scare Diego this badly, and call him selfish but he was glad he didn’t have to face it. Unfortunately now that he knew there was no danger in the house he didn’t know what questions to ask to find out why he didn’t want to go in the house. He changed tactics.

“Do you want to stay at my place?” He asked. Diego had only lived with him a couple of times before taking up residency in the gym itself. When he found out that the skinny, bag-o-bones, gym rat he hired was homeless he couldn’t in good conscience let him continue to sleep on the mats. He made him move in with him while they remodeled the boiler room to resemble something of a sleeping place.

Diego shook his head. Al pinched his brow. “Kid I’m not going to let you sleep on the streets for the next three days. It’s bad enough you already spent one night out there.”

Diego brought a finger up to his mouth and started chewing on it. It was tick that Al noticed he did when he was feeling a certain kind of nervous. He doubted the kid even realized he did it.

“Look. Here’s how it’s going to go down. I’ll walk you to the door. If even the smallest thing happens that you don’t like let me know and we’ll leave. No questions asked.” He paused making sure the weight of his words set in. “But. But if we do leave you’re going to come home with me and you’re going to stay there. No sneaking out. Got it?”

Diego gave a slight nod. Al smiled. Sometimes the kid needed someone to tell him explicitly what to do. Opening the car door he got out and waited for the other to do the same. The rain had died down to a light sprinkle. He reached out and put a hand on Diego’s shoulder giving it a reassuring squeeze when he tensed up. Lightly he pushed him walking down the path to the front door.

They stood in front of the door. When Diego made no move to open the door Al reached out to do it himself. It was locked. He thumped his head a couple of times against the door. “Of course it’s locked.” he grumbled. “You don’t happen to have a spare key do you.” Diego didn’t respond, only looked at him blankly hugging himself.

Al was about to leave when locks started clicking from behind the door. It swung open to reveal a boy. They stared blankly at each other.

“You know usually someone would introduce themselves after knocking on a door at 2 in the morning.” He said. His voice was full of the superiority and confidence of someone who thought they were better than everyone and knew it too. The boy's eyes shifted to the man beside him. “I see you have brought my brother.”

Al looked between them. “That’s your brother?” he asked incredulously

Diego shivered. “Five.” he said.

Al sighed. He’s certainly seen stranger being around him. He looked back at the boy, Five. “May we come inside?”

Five stepped aside extending his arm. “Be my guest.” He closed the door after them “Can I offer you a drink.” He asked.

“I’d rather not.” He said. Besides, the kid looked way too young to drink. “I’m just trying to make sure this one get’s home safely.” he tilted his head towards Diego. Diego himself stood quietly, arms wrapped around him as he steadily dripped water on to the floor. His breathing was slightly more erratic as he gazed firmly at his feet.

“He doesn’t seem hurt?” Al could see that while the boy put off an air of disinterest he seemed to genuinely care about the state of his brother.

“Not physically.” Al said. “He just needs to sleep.”

Five nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “I can show you his room if you want to follow me.” He started towards the stairs. Al gently took Diego by the elbow and followed him.

“Who are you to him.” Five asked after a moment of silence. “He obviously trusts you a lot if he’s letting you see him like this.” Then quieter under his breath “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Al stayed quiet. Truthfully he didn’t know how to answer. Their relationship obviously strayed far beyond the typical boss employee relationship. He’d almost say he’d treat Diego like a son, though that wasn’t quite right as he had kids of his own who he didn’t raise to be as much trouble as this one caused him. He didn’t know what Diego thought of him either. Five’s assessment of Diego trusting him came as a shock, because while it had taken him years to slowly break down his walls he knew that he still had a lot of progress to make. In the end he chose the most neutral description of their relationship.

“I own the gym he lives in.” He said.

Five hummed. They stopped in front of a door. “This is his room.” He said. He shuffled, looking for once unsure of himself. “I could get you a towel or…” he trailed off.

“A towel would be nice thank you. And a change of clothes. I don’t know if he would have any here.” He gave a reassuring smile to the kid before ushering his own into the room.

It was clear that this room hadn’t been lived in since he left. It wasn’t dirty or dusty like one would expect, but it was dated. A twin sized bed sat against the wall. It still had the childish sheets of his youth. On the desk sat a stack of papers and some textbooks.

Faster than what was humanly possible the kid returned holding a towel and a stack of folded clothes. “The clothes may be a little big. It’s our other brothers he explained.” He looked past him to Diego who was still standing in the middle of the room. “If you need anything I’ll be down stairs.” He turned and left.

Al turned back to Diego. He pulled out the chair pushing Diego on to it. Tossing the towel at him he bent down to start taking off his shoes. “This is as much as I’m going to do for you.” He grumbled undoing the laces. “You’re going to have to get changed by yourself.”

After removing each shoe he pushed himself to his feet and cracked his back. “Not as young as I used to be.” He muttered. “Go change.” He turned away from Diego. “Let me know when you’re done.”

While waiting he took the chance to further inspect the room. He opened the closet door to find it empty of clothes. It was to be expected. On the ground, however, there were a couple of boxes, belongings that either he, or someone else, couldn’t throw away.

“D-done,” Diego said softly. Al turned around. Five wasn’t kidding when he said that the clothes were big. The shirt hung off him reaching low to hit mid thighs. He was gripping the waistband of his pants in a fist and they were still pooling at his feet.

“Come here” here he beckoned. “Lift your shirt up.” He moved Diego’s hands from his pants and tightened the drawstring as tight as it could go before tying it up in a bow. Satisfied that the pants wouldn’t drop at a moments notice he led Diego over to the twin bed before pushing him down on it. “Under the covers.”

“D-d-ont’ need to be … tucked in” He slurred getting under the covers.

“Yeah yeah. Just making sure you don’t do anything stupid like try to leave.” He sat on the edge of the bed pulling out his phone. “Go to sleep.”

“Creep,” Diego said.

“Brat.”

He stayed long enough to hear Diego’s breathing even out into the tell tale signs of sleep. Then he stayed a little longer to make sure he wasn’t faking it. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon he got up and made his way down the stairs. He wasn’t surprised to see the boy waiting for him.

“You’re leaving.” He said.

Al nodded. The kid was a strange one for sure.

“I have a ride waiting.”

“Your ride is gone.”

He looked out the window and sure enough where there used to be a car waiting there was nothing. He let out a huff of amusement. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

Five poured him a glass “Stay the night. Leave in the morning.”

He shook his head. “I’ll just call another ride” He took out his phone. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Five shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He raised his glass towards him. “Thanks for watching out for my brother.”

He raised his in return. “Someone has to.”

[popatochisssp]

Obviously no pressure, but if you wanted to share your ideas on house pets, there would be great interest from at least one person. But headcanons are closed and I totally respect that (this very ask aside sorry). No pressure to do anything!!! just wanted to let you know that it seems like fun info.

Sans (Undertale): Strongly inspired by a fantastic fanfiction I can’t recommend enough, he has a cat affectionately named Catsup (Norwegian Forest Cat). Of course he does. Pretty typical story here, he more or less went to a shelter, locked onto the biggest, fattest cat there, and filled out the paperwork to damn her to a life of having a pun for a name. He...may have only gone to the shelter because he was hardcore struggling with depression and his brother read somewhere that pets can help a little, but that's...that’s neither here nor there. Catsup turned out to be a perfect fit for Sans in spite of his initial attitude of, 'I'm only doing this to make Papyrus happy'-- she's probably just about as chill and lazy as the skeleton himself, content to flop over just about anywhere, anytime and hang out. Her laidback nature was a blessing for Sans, a first-time cat-owner who didn't really know what he was doing or what she needed right away. A more high-maintenance cat probably wouldn't have been as forgiving and there'd have been a lot more stress on everybody before he got it figured out. Now, he considers Catsup his best little pal and doesn't even need to be reminded to change out her bowls and her litter. He's surprisingly responsible, when he actually really cares about something.

Catsup’s Quirks: Likes it when you gently slap her belly, always gravitates towards the room with the most people in it, often appears in unusual places that it seems like she shouldn't have been able to get to

Papyrus (Undertale): He...begrudgingly missed working with the Canine Unit once the Royal Guard was officially disbanded... It took him awhile to be able to openly admit he was interested in getting a dog, and when he did, he had standards-- it had to be a smart dog, one that could learn tricks and follow rules, unlike a certain annoying creature that’s plagued his life and home and special attacks in the past!!! So he did a lot of breed research, found a local, ethical breeder for the kind he was looking for, and went to pick out a pup. Spike (Border Collie), so named for his incredible coolness, is a perfect fit for his energetic skeleton friend and loves to run, exercise, and learn new tricks all the time!

Spike’s Quirks: Learned to wipe his feet before coming inside just by watching Papyrus do it, hams up his tricks and sometimes does them without prompting, never leaves the park without an impractically large stick to bring home

Sky (Underswap Sans): You will literally never get him to admit the real reason he got a dog companion because he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s such a silly reason... He saw a video online of a dog delicately eating a watermelon and while most people would’ve had a kneejerk reaction of, “I NEED TEN,” but not gotten any, he had the same reaction and just...talked himself down to one. And so came Poff (Samoyed), a big ol’ floofer who’s a lot like her master when it comes to levels of energy and affection. She’s happy to follow him around on patrols, training sessions, and even through obstacle course...so of course, she tends to get very dirty very quickly. Luckily, Sky’s diligence in grooming her keeps her coat as white and fluffy as her namesake!

Poff’s Quirks:  Loves baths, tap dances at the mention of treats, doesn't chew her toys and just hoards them instead

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): He wasn’t really in the market for a dog, himself. He was just along for the ride when his bro was picking up Poff, when he happened to hear the most hilarious sing-screaming sound he’d ever heard in his life. He followed it all the way to the little fellow who would soon be known as Smoochie (French Bulldog), and he sure seemed upset about...something? He never really figured out why, he was laughing too hard from hearing a sound like that come out of something so small and weird-looking. He didn't try to adopt Smoochie that day, much as he loved his sound, but he found himself going back to the shelter a couple times just to check on and play with him. After two or three months with no one else adopting the little prima-donna, he figured he might as well commit and take him home. He's a fun little dude and Paps hasn't regretted it for a second, but he's forever in denial about just how much of a Dog Dad he's become since. It's totally normal to carry your dog around in the hood of your sweatshirt, isn't it???

Smoochie’s Quirks: Screams a lot, will eat food out of peoples’ hands if they’re not paying attention, jumps higher than it seems like he should be able to

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Like most things in his life, he didn’t put a whole lot of planning or forethought into getting a dog. He was out one night, decently drunk, and a friend of a friend of a friend of a coworker was talking about this dumb dog he had that was supposed to be a guard dog but couldn't do it worth a damn because he was too friendly. The guy was yammering about how to get rid of it and something about that struck a chord with Jasper. It was pretty soon after monsters surfaced and maybe that's why it felt...important to him? He was probably just drunk and emotional and soft that he even stepped in or said anything, but it is what it is. He’s a skilled enough conman that it didn't take him long to talk the guy around in circles until he was willing to pay Jasper for the privilege of taking this animal off his hands and in short order, he was almost bowled over by the big dog that planted its paws on his shoulders at their first meeting. Jasper immediately renamed him from something cliché and 'intimidating' to Tubbs (Rottweiler) for how heavy the goofy bastard was and then brought him right home. His brother wasn't particularly pleased and swore he would not be caring for this beast, but he never had to; Jasper kinda missed having something trusting and affectionate to take care of, and Tubbs has been daddy's little fatty ever since.

Tubbs’ Quirks: Shreds even the heaviest duty toys, lays on people as if he were a lap dog, drools rivers if somebody's eating food around him

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Who am I to defy literal years of fanon...? His first meeting with Doomfanger (Persian) was about as clichéd as it gets-- a scrawny, dingy, scraggly and matted cat scurrying out of an alley in the rain. She went right up to him and, well... it was love at first mew. He scooped her right up, bestowed a fittingly intimidating name upon her, and took her home with him, in spite of the fact that she looked more like a mutant rat than a cat at the time. After shaving the mats off, bathing the dirt away, and getting her some regular food, though, Doomy actually ends up being an exceedingly beautiful feline! He credits his attentive care and grooming for her pristine, silvery fluff and will brag about it at a moment's notice, but he's just ever so slightly in denial about her sweet and gentle nature. Doomfanger is a vicious killing machine, a true apex predator that nothing stands a chance against! That's...that’s obviously why he carries her around so much... And why he plucks her away from any other animal that comes near her like some sort of mother hen-- he's minimizing the bloodshed! If he let her loose, there would be no survivors!

Doomfanger’s Quirks: Meows in peeps, avid shadow-chaser, extremely receptive to handling

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Hey, anyone remember FGTC? This one cameo’d in that fic, she may seem familiar~ So...he wanted a pet. At first, he thought a cat would be good, fierce independent hunters that they’re reputed to be...but after spending time with a lot of cats and not really clicking with any, he was forced to concede that he was just more of a dog person. In hindsight, of course that’s what he was looking for: a loyal companion to (literally, ha!) dog his steps and follow his orders. Before he can actually, intentionally start looking for one, though, the universe works its magic and he finds one digging around in the garbage out behind the house. The emergency vet he brings the scarred and skeletal stray to tells him that, judging by her injuries, she was probably bait in some dog-fighting ring somewhere and got thrown away when she wasn’t useful anymore. Well. Fuck that, Princess (Pitbull) deserves better than that, and she’ll have it! He takes on the duty of nursing her back to health and earning her trust and it isn’t long before she shows her true colors as the loviest sweetheart of a dog that ever was. She’s utterly useless as an attack/guard dog, but her barks are loud and intimidating, and she obeys commands at the drop of a hat, so Mal doesn’t hold that against her. She goes with him just about anywhere she’s allowed and he shows her off with the same enthusiasm you’d expect for a pedigreed Best in Show dog.

Princess’ Quirks: Wags with her entire butt, will kiss the moment someone’s face is in range, barks at doorbells both real and on TV

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): He didn’t mean to get a cat, not really... He was just following along with his brother when Mal was kicking around the idea of getting one, and Mal may not have clicked with anybody there, but he sure did. Actually... Kitkat (Manx) may have picked him and he’s just along for the ride. Kitkat was kinda young at the time, a little smaller than all the rest and also...no tail??? But what a personality, loud and playful and super sweet and...when it was time to leave the shelter, he just...he couldn’t bring himself to do it without her, he was in love! It’s mutual, at least-- she latched right onto him pretty much instantly and is pretty much never not with him whenever he’s at home, following him around from room-to-room.

Kitkat’s Quirks: Bone-rattlingly loud purrs, loves to play fetch, prone to 3AM zest for life and zooming all around the house accordingly

Slate (Horrortale Sans): I actually wrote about this one! But the gist of it is...he likes cats. Eventually got confident enough to go get one and zeroed right in on the weirdest-looking, least adoptable cat in the shelter he volunteers at. Slinky (Cornish Rex) was deaf, kinda ugly, and a whole lotta weird, but hell, she’ll fit right in at home, yeah? And so she does! She wrecks a lotta shit and is loud as hell, but stuff is only stuff and Slate’s never had an issue with noise. Actually...she really helps him out with his sleep and focus issues, it’s hard to drop off or dissociate when you have a cat in your lap, yelling at you at batting your face because it’s Play Time or Dinner Time, wake the fuck up!!! She’s a bastardous gremlin, but he loves her to bits.

Slinky’s Quirks: Clumsy and bad at judging distances, loves ankle-looping, insists on sniffing all people-food but never actually tries to eat it

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Following the trauma of the underground and the ensuing massive outpouring of empathy from humanity at large, monsters were made aware of many therapeutic resources that they could take advantage of, one of which was therapy animals. Papy naturally thought this was a wonderful idea...for other monsters, who were of course far more psychologically-damaged and not quite so good at enduring as himself. But...his brother does volunteer at an animal shelter, and he goes to visit him on occasion so he's made friends with a lot of animal people. This is how he hears about a therapy dog in need of a new forever-home due to complicated circumstances with her former owner, and well... it would be rude not to offer the Lady (Borzoi) a place to stay! He’s surprised by her appearance at first, having expected something more like a golden retriever or some kind of shepherd??? But he's very quickly charmed by her and actually feels more than a little bit of kinship with her no stranger to being long and oddly proportioned, himself-- and they're both doing their best to make it look graceful instead of weird. Since Lady proves to be a sweet and gentle-mannered dog, Papy just sort of...never bothers trying to find other accommodations for her. She’s welcomed wholeheartedly into their home, which she repays with plenty of unconditional love and effortless emotional support!

Lady’s Quirks: Spins in circles when excited, very polite when begging for table scraps, never barks but howls often

[helpinghanikan]

In the family

Avengers (and Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Family business is good business, how you fit in is to be seen. 

AN: Mob au

Steve Rogers:    

           A single lamp was on in the corner of your living room. Steve had tried to stay up for you again.

           He’s sitting in the corner of the couch in his regular clothes. One leg up, head leaned back against the arm rest, one arm over his face, probably placed there after “shutting his eyes for a few seconds” that resulted in the nap.

           A drawing pad is open on his lap, pencil fallen from his hand and onto the floor. It was the pad you had bought him awhile ago, the big expensive kind. “I saw it on my way back,” You had said. “It was on sale,” you had said to get him to accept it. It was not, actually, on sale.

           He had been drawing the doorway next to your turned off TV. Door open, showing one corner of your bed and the bedroom’s wall paper. Using dark shadows on paper. Where the only outline in the door was that of the bed, everything outside the doorway was lighter, like he hadn’t focused on them as much.

           His art had started to take off around the same time you started with your “social club”. Less time spent together, more time with the drawing pads. Longer you were out the better the things you brought back. New TV, bed spread from a specialty store instead of the local Walmart, and more drawing pads.

           The one he used was closed gently. Placed on the coffee table without any noise.

           He was a very weird sleeper. Slept like the dead but a certain sound, high pitched or too loud, would send him bolted upwards. Things like walking on soft feet, or a fan running wouldn’t wake him up. Picking up his leg and placing it next to the other, next coming the couch blanket over his body.

           It’s best that he didn’t know about your little “club”. He loved you madly, enough to not ask questions, but also enough to worry. It’s best he didn’t know, it’s best that he just sleeps.

         Tony Stark:

           It’s easy to forget the danger that comes with your life. A lavish penthouse, drivers and constant respect from absolute strangers had a way of spoiling a person. That a gun had to be constantly strapped to your hip did little to change that.

           It’s not until his hands grips yours that you are reminded of that. A whisper into his ear, a slamming phone call or just glancing at a text and his hand is somewhere on your body. Shoulder, knee, ankle, and hands were always open for his hand to hold. Your entire life becoming a human stress ball for your husband.

           You only ever asked what was wrong when he comes in upset, then it’s up in the air towards the cause. His answer will always be sarcastic;

           “Having a bad day?” You would ask as he walked past.

           “No, it’s going great. Black mail is in now a-days, right?” That was the farthest he would explain it. Reaching for the closest part of you to him and groaning into the hand covering his face.

         Thor:

           You don’t know where he went, you don’t know what he was doing and, you didn’t want to know. What you do know is that he comes home late, that he is paid well, and that he loves you, no matter what.

           “Shoes…” You remind him.

           Thunk Thunk

           You had only been asleep a few minutes ago. Still half-awake, blinking slow while approaching Thor. In the walkway past your main entrance he mostly strips on the welcome mat. Shirt, pants, tie and, of course, shoes are bundle together and put into your arms. One long blink as he leans down and kisses your cheek.

           “Thank you,” He says, walking towards the shower before you yell at him about that too.

           Your hand grabs around the handle of the hammer left by the door. The one thing he kept forgetting, leaving that thing head down on the tiles, smear of red left behind you’d have to clean later.

           Clothes are tossed into the tub in passing. Trusty large bucket pulled from under the sink, dish soap taken out, bleach put in. A dangerous combination if they were to ever mix, but it was best to keep them together. “It’s just cleaning supplies, officer.” You would say when they’d finally appear with a warrant.

           On your knees in front of the tub it fills with freezing water. Dish soap poured in and you begin scrubbing. Be it from wanting to finish quickly or that your muscles weren’t alive yet, your pajama shirt would be soaked by the end of the cleaning session.

           Water is a candy-apple red by the time the stains are gone from the shirt. The pants were easier, given the black color. The shirt was the faintest pink from the water, that would be removed after a regular run through the washing machine. Where they both go after wringing them out and tossing them in.

           The hammer was another story, soaked in bleached, scrubbed with a tooth brush. Left in the sink to naturally dry and then to be placed back into the tool belt in the garage. When somebody asks why only your finger prints are on it, “because it’s mine, why else?”

           An alarm would sound in the wee hours of the morning for you to put it back before living hours. For now, though, you strip as Thor had. Tossing your wet clothes in with the others and starting it up. Thor had many white shirts and black pants, why were these so special?

           He’s just coming out of the shower a few seconds after you return to bed. Hair damp, muscles relaxed, a thick hand lays on your side under the covers. A kiss, just as sweet as the first, is placed on your temple. He smells like rain and copper.

           Not that you would know anything about that.

         Bucky Barnes:

            This young man before you is a dime a dozen. Although the “leader” of his little group, you wouldn’t be able to pick him out from the group as anything but a drone. He wasn’t exactly a skeleton like the other quivering street rats forced into your office. He was fatter, but still gangly none the less. Not that he was looking to you, looking over your shoulder the entire time.

           “So, was it an accident? Or are you just stupid?” you ask after a few seconds.

           He finally looks to you, only for a few seconds, then returning over your shoulder. “I didn’t- nothin’ was meant by it. We just- yeah, we just got drunk.”

           “So, you were confused.” You finished for him.

           He nods quickly as the boards creek under a walking weight somewhere behind you.

           “The Winter soldier” or “the white wolf” had a bigger reputation then you did. To very few he was Bucky. A man with a bloody past and one hell of a resume. This brought him into your payroll and eventually into your arms.

           “Yeah, we, uh, I’m sorry. We were drunk and, we’re so sorry.” At least now he was looking in your direction, with Bucky standing behind your chair.

           “You were drunk, so drunk that you picked a fight. Went into an alley and beat a twenty-two-year-old until his jaw broke.” Picking up a file and slapping it down for effect. It was actually filled with receipts from take out for tax reasons, but he didn’t need to know that. “So drunk that you left him there and weren’t even smart enough to try and get out of my territory.”

           The truth was Mikey, one of your boys with too big a mouth, had started the fight. But you’d have to deal with him later.

           He incredibly quiet at this point. Unsure where he’s supposed to stare, looking between you and Bucky just behind your chair.

           “I’m so sorry,” He tries again.

           “He has bills, a lot of bills now and I’m not putting that on his family.” You spat, opening your receipt file. “I’m putting that on you.” The file is slammed down again, hoping not to lose any of the receipts and get yelled at by your accountant.

           He’s staring right at you now.

           “Get your shit together, get the money together and everything is going to get a lot easier.” He’s nodding fast before you even finished your statement. “Bill will be in the mail, get out.”

           He practically runs from the room. Sam smirking as he followed him out, making sure the rat actually left your building.

           Your wolf’s hands go to your shoulders. Squeezing them softly, a soft kiss to the top of your head when there is no one there.

         Natasha Romanoff:

           That bitch, that absolute bitch.

           “I’m so sorry,” Were the words your ‘work friend’ had said in the office. Stepping into your space with false kindness, before dropping the bomb without a second thought.

           He had supposedly seen Nat at this high-end bar he moonlights at. You had every reason to ignore his accusation; he had only met her once, in the winter when you both wore heavy coats and hats, in a passing “hey,” before moving on. A far reach from the supposed get up Nat was wearing that night. The words “she was a little whore-ish looking” were used, the glare you gave sent him running back to his cubical.

           He was right though, that weekend there she was. Sitting on one of those too expensive stools, leaning against the bar with one arm. The other putting her hand on the knee of the man in front of her, she was looking at him with a Gatsby worthy look. The same she would give you, seeing it given to someone else, though. It was probably easier to be shot.

           In another lifetime you might have stormed in and started a scene. Instead the wound was too much. Sending you limping home to ignore her calls and text. You’d still be too hurt to read the paper some days later. Completely missing the man’s obituary.  

         Bruce Banner:

           They always go for the supposedly weakest member of the family. A few days the same car had been following you, more specifically he, Bruce didn’t notice. Even with your head looking back to it every few steps when you walked.

           You were preceptive, not sneaky.

           It wouldn’t be long before they’d try and contact him. That would come maybe a week after, when which ever branch of law enforcement on your ass figured out his schedule. He was on the street earlier then usual that day. Leaning forward into a car window that you unfortunately recognized. This slowed your walking to a complete stop; an exception were the one and two taking you between buildings. A horrible hiding spot if anyone were to actually be looking at you.

           He steps away from the car with half a smile. It’s the kind he does to replace frustration, laughing at something said by the people in the car. It pulls out from curb as you start half-walking, half-trotting towards your man. Your line of questions completely ignored as his hand takes yours.

           “Stark gonna help us with that vacation?” You asked over lunch.

           The “opportunity” those agents had offered Bruce were laced with reminders of his past. That of the anger which went out of control, the record he had to be upfront about at the beginning of your relationship and all that could easily go away.

           “He’s more then willing to, where he wants us to go may be… too much.” Bruce says, hidden behind a menu. Tony’s idea of laying low was a penthouse outside of the united state jurisdiction. “Rogers owes you a favor, though, right? Maybe he has an idea?”

           “That’d be too close to home, we need a more…exotic place to relax.” He offered. “Shuri loves me, her family has a place.”

           “That works, should I bring a bathing suit?” You had asked.

           You would both be gone from the radar within a week.

           T’Challa:

           The floor is so much more comfortable then the couch for reading. Back to the cushions and legs spread out, you don’t bother looking up when he enters the house.

           Call it fake or call it protection, T’challa’s personality changes depending who he is with. With outsiders he can considered cold, several are still under the impression he doesn’t even speak English. The family he was respectful, big brotherly with an unrestricted face. His inner circle and the jokes come out, more teasing to their boss and relaxed shoulders. With you, everything is gone.

           The entire world a weight he drops at the doorway. Calling out to you which you don’t bother responding to as he would find you no matter what.

           “How’d it go?” He sits on the couch next to you, your shoulders, naturally leaning into his legs.

           “It was very long, everyone was…yelling.” He’s tired, legs stretching out under the coffee table. Chest sliding farther down the couch with a groan. “It was done, though. Of course.”      

           A few seconds of silence as you finish the page your on, placing book mark and closing the binding. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, even when you placed the book on the coffee table and stood up. Staying in his relaxed position, only making a small noise when your warmth leaves his legs.

           He jerks slightly when you walk around the couch. Arm moving from his face to see you looking down at him. Your hands on either side of his head, scratching through his hair line, massaging his head. Humming is added when your thumbs rub over his eyebrows, gently across his eyelids and two fingers against his temples

           Although “Black Panther” was just his mob name, he did tend to act like a cat. Eyes closing softly, a groan in the deep of his throat, head moving to chase your hands when they move too far from their duty. If he were any more feline like he’d be purring.

           Pietro Maximoff:

           A club is a stupid place for a business meeting. It’s too loud, even in the private booths, and the over priced drinks just made the guy out as being a snob. Sent as Stark’s representative you had to play the game on the guy’s terms.

            It was why you were currently scanning over the banister. Looking for that little color flashing in the strobe lights.

           And there it is, silver tie hung loosely around his neck. Leaning against the bar, your cute lookout taking his break from scoping out the club. He catches your eye after looking upwards, a little head tilted upwards. Not a trap, we’re good.

           You give a head down, come up, need help.

           He’s smiling before disappearing into the crowd of moving bodies. You turn to the “clients” you were meeting. Stark had talked about expanding for awhile now. More into the school district (that many of the families own kids attended the school was just a coincidence) hence the yahoos you were forced to talk to.

           Two sons from old money sitting in the lounge chairs. A woman draping over the back of the elders brother, she not paying attention, around his neck, standing behind the chair like his cape.

           “Do you like the place?” Younger brother asks as you sit down.

           “It’s very bright. Nice and young, just as Boss had described the two of you.” Stark had actually used to words ‘freshly dropped from community college’ but yours were better. “A little young running this place, young to be as powerful as you both are.”

           They preened like birds at the compliment.

           “It wasn’t easy,” Oldest jokes and you all have a good life.

           Pietro was a quick little jack rabbit. The fastest runner in the family, which was how there was suddenly a glass in your face. Weight on one arm of your chair as he leans against you, putting the arm around your shoulders after you take the glass. Your arm around his waist. A new pretty thing to show off you were just as good as they were.

           The youngest twerks an eyebrow while the eldest squints.

           “Pretty young yourself to be here, why?” He asks.

           Tips of your fingers gently touch the small gap of skin between Pietro’s shirt and pants. “Boss wants some of your area, he’s more than willing-.”

           “He wants a piece of our shit?”

           “Just a piece, a small piece.” You say. “Are you even using it? Don’t you want money? Don’t you want a cut without doing any work?”

           Both brothers take a long drink from their glasses. Pietro takes the chance to take the glass from your hand. The arm candy with the tendency to steal, scandalous.

           “Why didn’t Stark come himself?” Oldest asks.

           “He’s so old, you really think he would like this place? It’d be the same as bringing your grandpa to the club.” You explain.

           “Jude,” Youngest says, gesturing for his brother to come.

           “We’ll be back.” Oldest says, following his brother to the off-side office. His cape following close behind, being sure to keep hold of his arm.

           Pietro gives your glass back after their gone. “So, I am just here for my looks?” He asks.

           “You love it,” You state, knocking your head back for the last of the drink.

         Peter Parker:

           For the two years you’ve known Peter you had no idea his statues. That the “prince of the family” was the same guy holding your hand and walking you home after school. That the black car following you down the street was nothing to be concerned about. Or the dark reason bullies had suddenly stopped bothering him.

           Like at most schools bullies were a problem that was “complicated” to deal with. Peter, unfortunately, was on the receiving end of quite of a bit of it. The same could be said about you, girls are more brutal then many are willing to admit. Both of you had your reasons not to tell anyone, the office was aware but what could they do? Excuses came from the secretaries about how horrible it was for the bullies and the sympathy you needed to feel for them.

           Thus, the side by side walking you did together. Hands going from swinging by your sides to interlocking fingers.

           Although you neve told your parents about the problems, Peter had the truth forced from him after coming home with a black eye.

           Peter was a bad liar, but great at keeping secrets. Had you never asked about the car suddenly dropping him off and picking him up everyday you wouldn’t have noticed the bullies. Noticed the red and blue casts around their arms, that they were completely avoiding Peter’s eye contact and even turned around at the sight of you.

           “My dads are really protective.” He said one day at lunch, that was the truth. “I don’t know what happened, though.” That was a lie.    

         Stephen Strange:

           Following basic directions were easier then most complained about.

           “More pressure, a lot of pressure.” He’d say.

           “Hold this back for me.” He’d say.

           “Sweetie, go wash up.” He’d order before you’d enter the room.

           In the end you were little more then a glorified nurse. One without any medical training but plenty of experience holding people down and handing over medical tools. The toughest made man would grab the hell out of your hand during stitches.

           Thor does this now, his face cringing into distortion. Holding your hand and focusing on you instead of the stitches being put into his leg. “Is it out yet?” he asks, with a groan.

           “You don’t remove a bullet,” Stephen says form the other end of the table. “Just patch it up,”

           Thor lets out a little “ah!” when the surgical needle goes through a thicker piece of his skin. Your hand pressing against his forehead to keep him from sitting up and seeing all the blood and a foreign object going through his skin several times. Doesn’t matter how tough he was, how much blood he sees on the regular, when it’s your own; there’s something different.

           “Stop whining.” Stephen says, wiping the disinfectant from the wound.

           After that it’s a few seconds of wrapping bandages around his calf. Pant leg pulled over and Stephen scoots over to look over his patient. Pulling the small pill bottle of golden “magic” he definitely did not create himself.

           “Wait till you get home, take a quarter, a quarter, of a spoon when you get home. If you do, don’t touch the butterflies, just don’t touch anything.” He warns, holding it out to him.

           “And there’s no refill, either.” You add. Stephen pointing to you for emphasis.

           “Thank you, Dr. Strange,” Thor says as though he hadn’t gotten the lecture a hundred times by now. He sits up on the table, smiling at you. “And nurse.”

           Neither of you had the legal license anymore. Not that it was needed to patch up bullets.

         Matt Murdock:

         “You been through the sports lately?” Officer something-face says on the other side of the table. He’s slouched in his chair, paper held in front of him as though hiding from the other side of the room. “I don’t read it myself all that much. Watch too much of it, I already know what they’re gonna say. It’s all gonna be wrong.”

           This was the tactic they were going with: good guy, nice cop, spends the first bit talking to you. Rope into a conversation, get you comfortable and get you to spill. When that didn’t work after awhile another cop would come in storming. Yelling at nice cop for being so nice and going on a rant hoping you’d interject. After that, a ping pong game of questions from both cops until you snap and say something.

           Now, the only thing you could do, was mentally prepare for it. Sitting there like a pouting toddler, arms crossed, refusing to look at him.

           “Where’s my lawyer?” You said the magic words an hour into your interrogation.

           “You know we’re not gonna be able to talk they arrive?” Nice cop says.

           “Stop talking,” the door slams open and your angel walks in. Hand out, sticking to the wall so he doesn’t run into the table during his march through the room. “Is my client under arrest, Officer? Has she been

           “And they arrive,” Nice cop says gathering his paper. “Mr. Murdock, where there’s blood you’re sure to follow, starting to think you might be a shark.”

           “Only if the blood is my client’s. Is she under arrest?” He asks, hand leaving the wall. Going instead to your shoulder, both as comfort and to acknowledge where you were.

           “There was a murder, with her MO.” Nice cop says.

           “I’m sorry, I was unaware she was convicted of murder.” Sarcasm, he was at the previous trials and arrests. Nothing was ever held against you.

           “You know all your clients are, Murdock.” Nice cop says, starting to become not-as nice cop. “This time, she wasn’t so careful.”

           “I wasn’t even there!” You almost yelled, toddler now throwing an almost tantrum in standing quickly.

           Matt’s fingers curl into your shoulder, practically slamming you back into the chair. Leaning into your space and whispering a soft, “Shut the fuck up.” Before standing straight.

           “Is she under arrest?” Matt asks again.

           “Not yet,” Not-as cop admits.

           “Then we’ll be seeing you.” His arm is around your forearm. Pulling you up from the chair.

           Matt, the man at the top of your don’s payroll, was smart enough to wait until you’re both outside to ask; “What did you do?”

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

Carol Danvers:

          Her hand is a constant reminder at any small bit of exposed skin. Sliding their way to what little space was between your shirt and pants. Gently past your hair to the back of your neck for a conversation. And now, even at a formal event, her too hot fingers rest on your forearm. Standing next to you but having yet to involve herself in the conversation.

           Her never leaving presence was supposed to be a threat. “Stay in your lane, do your job, pretty girl. Nothing will happen to you, Carol won’t let anything happen to you.” The big boss had said as the strong blonde stood close to you.

           It’s hard to see Carol as a threat when all she’s done is protect you. More then once her hand grabbed the wrist of someone ghosting over your backside. Getting close enough her fire breath whispered in your ear to not go with somebody or to get ready to duck, even just saying “take off your heels” and you keep the smile but lose the shoes.

           The smart part of you knows she a threat, but the reasonable part believes she may also be more.

[smolstrawberrychara]

Klance Au Month - Day 1 - Coffee Shops

This was not supposed to be so long. And I can in no way guarantee I will do prompts everyday, but I definitely want to do some! (rip my other fics)

Lance from Astro:

Keith gets soaked when he goes out for a run in the rain so hits up a coffee shop for shelter. Here he finds a boy claiming to know him and a barista who wants nothing more than for him, and his dripping wet self, to leave. When Keith realises he has no money, the stranger steps in...

Also available on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626292

Keith had always been impulsive. As a kid that meant punching the little shit who decided to steal his crayon. As a teenager, it was skipping classes when there was something far more interesting happening across town. And as a student, it was going out as soon as he even glimpsed the sun’s rays peeking out between the sheets of grey cloud. Yeah, Keith had calmed down a lot in his old age. Or maybe he’d just learnt to deal with the frequently irritating occurrences of daily life better. That’s what Shiro would say, patting Keith on the back whilst wearing that well-practiced big brother smile that said ‘I’m proud of you,’ that Keith read as ‘please punch me’.

Shiro had introduced Keith to running. At the time, Keith hadn’t been to class in three weeks. Just moped about the house all day like a lonely vampire. But the sun had been shining and Shiro along with it. He’d dragged Keith off the couch and shoved him into some running shoes. Five years later, here Keith was, shorts on, headphones in, hair up. And the sun was shining gloriously for a cool February morning.

That was, when he left.

Now it was pouring like they’d suffered a monthlong a draught. They hadn’t. It had been raining on and off for two weeks now, and every day had been more miserable than the first. So, when Keith spotted the golden rays in the morning, you’d think he’d realise that it would be brief. That objects in motion, stay in motion. Nope. Keith ran out all guns blazing. And now, he was currently dripping wet as if he’d dived into the deep end of the pool, clothes and all.

His feet squelched in his trainers, and every foot fall blasted muddy water up his calves. His skin was covered in a thin membrane of sweat, rain and dirt and his clothes chafed with every slight movement. He huffed down the path, river on his right, houses on his left. He was exactly halfway around his usual route and this seemed to only encourage the storm, wind picking up and sweeping cold tendrils between the now permanent creases off his shirt.

Panting along the path, he finally got out onto the concrete of the quay. Usually it was bustling with tourists and locals alike. Boats lined the canal, rusted tractors lay abandoned above them, kids rolled around the grass and parents yelled at them to keep away from the edge. One day, Keith hoped to see one fall in. Trying not to laugh at the thought, he powered into the main hub. Outdoor seating lay around untouched, shop doors were pulled shut against yellow light and not a soul was in sight on the roads. Keith was weaving around bollards, slowing his pace to avoid slipping on the cobbles, when something caught his eye.

A door swung shut, light bouncing off the shining window. Just beyond, a figure hugged a trench coat tight to their body and slipped away into the silver stripes. Keith looked at the building. It was a modest one, coloured a pale blue with flaking paint and flower boxes full of drooping flowers. White plastic chairs were propped forward against similar tables, water collecting in pools across the surface. The window was steamed up, and the streaks warping the glass were painted with licks of orange from the indoor lights. It looked warm, and the rush of air from the door had the smell of coffee winding up Keith’s nose like smoke. Maybe he could afford to wait out the rain inside?

Keith swung into the café and was immediately assaulted with heat. He shivered on instinct, dragging his feet against the welcome mat as he looked around the room. It was small. White tables and colourful chairs cluttered the space. The counter was painted bright turquoise and held large glass domes filled with pretty pastry’s and delicate cakes. Beyond it was a loud machine, standing sturdy like a bodyguard and squirting out drinks with high-pitched screeches and hisses. Lining the window was a honey coloured table, with tall metal stools standing bright red against it. Keith made a beeline for them, swiping a hand across his face and shaking out his hair. Removing his head phones, he dropped them down on the bench and dug his phone out of his soaked shorts. That can’t have been good for it.

“Sir, you’re dripping.”

Keith jumped at being addressed. Behind him, a thin man glared at him with piercing eyes. Blond hair was sleeked back against his head so tightly that Keith could see every undulation of his scalp. Undulation being a bit of an overstatement to say it was more like his head was perfectly round and there were precisely zero dips in which to undulate with. Everything about him was startling perfect now Keith thought about it. Well-kept nails, creaseless uniform, apron free of any kind of stain.

“Oh, I, uh…” Keith looked down to find a puddle forming. Oops?

The man made a noise. All nose and disregard. Keith watched him raise a single, well-plucked eyebrow before leaving. Keith shuddered. Maybe this was the wrong place to dry off?

He placed his phone on the table and grabbed a few napkins from a pot nearby. Drying off as best he could he sat down.

“Keith?”

He turned to the voice. Behind him, on one of the small square tables, was a boy. He had curly brown hair stuffed under a wooly hat, tanned skin stretched over pointy features and curious blue eyes that narrowed their way towards Keith. Leaning forward, he tilted his head at Keith and pursed his lips. Then they were suddenly splitting into a wide curve and Keith realised it was his turn to speak. He instinctively opened his mouth, waiting to say a name, but it never arrived. He realised too late he had no idea who this person was. He clapped his mouth shut again, dread filling his stomach. The boy seemed about Keith’s age, and did know his name. All evidence pointed to them being at least passing acquaintances. But Keith couldn’t place him anywhere. So, he did the normal thing and just stared.

“It’s me, Lance.” The boy said, raising his eyebrows. Keith continued to stare.

“From astro?”

Astro? Astronomy? Keith took the astronomy module. It was his favourite in fact. He loved stars and the mysterious objects space tried to hide from Earth. He never missed a class. And this person? He took it too? Keith brought the lecture theatre up to the forefront of his mind. Keith liked to sit at the front, near the edge - no-one to block his view and easy to make a quick exit. People rarely sat near him, and to be fair, people rarely turned up to lectures these days. How was Keith supposed to recall him?

“I’m in your tutorial class.”

Ah. The vision changed to a small classroom, whiteboard at the front with a permanent dent in the middle that gathered various conspiracy theories. The course leader, a shrewd rat-like woman with thin rimmed glasses, stood at the front writing equations. There was the guy who only showed up the first day and never again. The girl who always did her make-up before the start – oddly, without a mirror. The two guys who always arrived late. That first day when one of them turned and introduced himself to Keith. Oh. The blob cleared into what resembled a human before it blurred together with reality. Lance. From astro.

“There.” The guy sighed, “nice of you to remember me.”

Keith shrugged. He was beyond politeness these days. It’s not like they’d spoken more than that one time on the first day. Why would Keith remember him? Just as he settled himself back in his seat, Lance was talking again.

“How come you were out running in this?”

Keith let out a growl, “well it wasn’t like this when I left.”

The boy snickered behind him and Keith found himself turning toward the noise despite himself. Lance’s nose was wrinkled with the effort, eyes crinkling at the sides as he hid it in the table.

“Fair.” He said, “guess some of us would check the forecast first though.”

Keith rolled his eyes, “like you can’t just look out the window.”

The words were more for himself than anyone else, he wasn’t planning on starting a conversation, hadn’t planned to see anyone he knew. So, he was already looking back at the rain dripping down the glass when Lance snorted.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mused when Keith regarded him again. He shook his head, trying to hide his smile behind a hand, “you’re just- not what I expected.”

“Excuse me?”

Expected? What was Lance doing getting expectations of him? They just met.

“No, no! I didn’t mean, like not in a bad way. I just…”

He bit his lip, face the faintest tint of red. Keith found it irritating. People always made some kind of assumption when they met him. He used to play to it – if people thought he was a bad kid then he was going to be a bad kid. He remembered Shiro’s sigh, the lines in his brow that were verging on permanent, the sadness in his voice when he said ‘why is this the one thing you won’t rebel against?’ It stuck with Keith. It was such a strange thing to say. Keith always misbehaved. He refused to be told how to be - where to sit in the dinner hall, how to dress properly to impress foster parents, when to smile even when you didn’t mean it. He rebelled against everything.

And that’s when he realised what Shiro meant. People were always telling him he was no good. They didn’t even know him, and yet he was labelled a ‘difficult’ child. Not a kid for ‘first timers’. He would struggle through school, make trouble in the workplace and never amount to anything. But that wasn’t true. Keith was smart. He believed in rules – when they were fair. And he knew that smiling didn’t make you okay, just fooled other people into thinking you were. Shiro made a damn good point. Keith was just toeing the line. So, he quit lying. And

did what he wanted. Like a true rebel, he went to class, studied hard, smiled at Shiro’s lame jokes and let the words of others run off his back like water.

But above all, he refused to acknowledge anyone who paid him, or anyone else, that treatment. Which now meant Lance. He turned to the window.

“I meant I thought you were smart!”

And now he thought Keith was dumb?

“No wait! That didn’t come out right! I meant…”

Lance sounded kind of desperate. Shame. Keith wasn’t going to turn around. He sighed, flicking a menu over on the table.

“Sorry.”

It was the tiniest noise. More like a whimper. It didn’t really match the rest of their conversation. Keith dared a glance back. Lance was frowning down at his notebook, eyebrows in a furrow like he was cursing the thing. That was different. No-one ever used to apologise. Well, they never meant it. They never looked that upset about it, like it hurt them to hurt someone else. Keith opened his mouth to speak.

“You gonna order anything?”

Keith glanced up to find smooth head looming. He looked as if Keith was a grave inconvenience, a stain on his perfect coffee-shop world.

“If you don’t order anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Keith breathed through the irritation, squeezing his hands into fists. The waiter had a fair point, but he didn’t have to make it with such disdain. Keith was still a customer, he just hadn’t bought anything yet.

“Alright,” Keith mumbled, stepping up to reach into his back pocket. His hand slid against his ass, and then straight down to his thigh. Crap. These were his running shorts. He had no money.

Keith looked at the waiter. The waiter looked at Keith. Keith looked at the window. The rain threw itself against the glass like it was going to attack him. He shuddered.

“I’ll buy.”

Keith spun around. Lance was leaning against the back of his chair, fixing the waiter with a face dripping with raw, smug energy. His card sat between two slender fingers and he twirled it in the air.

The waiter sighed, clearly uncaring for the whole ordeal. Keith on the other hand, was still in shock.

“No, no, it’s alright.” He said firmly, gathering up his few belongings, “I’ll just go.”

“No.” Lance interrupted, “I’ll buy.”

His eyes were resolute, daring Keith to argue. Keith took the bait.

“No. I don’t want to owe you.”

“And you won’t.” Lance said lightly, following the waiter to the counter. “It’s an apology, for speaking with my foot in my mouth.”

He stopped to look up at the chalk board. Drinks were written in curly white lettering, with pastel coloured sketches drawn next to them.

“I’ll have a hot chocolate, please.”

Fingers clicked across the till.

“With marshmallows and cream?” The clerk asked in a bored voice.

Lance turned to face Keith then, elbows leaning back on the counter. He poured his gaze over Keith, right from his head down to his toes. Keith felt exposed, stomach swooping at the glint in Lance’s eye. Too busy fighting the heat spreading through his body, he didn’t get the chance to interrupt when Lance was speaking again.

“Oh yeah. Add extra sprinkles too, I want it extra festive.”

Keith let his mouth fall slack. Where the hell did he get that idea from? For one, Keith drank coffee. Black. And he didn’t do all the fancy stuff. He wanted a plain and simple drink and he did not want to draw attention. Lance on the other hand, drew all of Keith’s. He had a huge grin plastered across his face as he threw his head back laughing. Round-head rolled his eyes, dialling up the order and sparing Lance one of his disdainful glares.

“I’ll bring it to your table.”

“Thanks, Lotor!”

Then Lance was flouncing back to his seat and Keith was still standing next to his own chair. What had just happened?

“You didn’t need to apologise.” Keith rushed. Lance looked up at him, blankly. Then a smirk pulled against his lip.

“So, you already forgave me?”

“No?”

Had Keith forgiven him? He couldn’t really remember what he was apologising for now. The whole… event, had him a little bit lost.

“So, then you’ll need a drink.” Lance said solemnly.

“No, wait.”

Lance grinned. Keith struggled. With this conversation, with this person, this whole situation.

“Take a seat, Keith.”

The chair opposite Lance moved out on his own, like a ghost. Keith approached with caution. He did not sit, but Lance shifted when he arrived, that same grin plastered on his thin lips.

“Come on, sit with me.” He crowed, swaying side to side.

Keith eyed the seat cautiously.

“Look, I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

He was looking down at his book again, pen drawing absent circles in the margin of his work.

“I was hoping we could be friends.”

Keith sighed. He shouldn’t sit down, shouldn’t be indulging in this. But despite that fact, Keith flopped down. Lance perked up then, shoulders bouncing. But before he could speak, Keith interrupted him “I get it. You didn’t mean to offend me. But I still can’t accept your drink.”

Lance considered this for a second. “Okay. How about, in exchange for the drink, you help me with my astro coursework?”

He tapped his pen against his notebook and Keith saw that there was also a textbook lying open above it. There were several papers strewn across the table and pens hiding between layers. Lance himself had pen marks all over his fingers and grey loops below his eyes.

“Fine.”

That was enough for another one of those blinding grins. Lance seemed abundant with them.

“So, how come you recognised me?” Keith asked, wanting a distraction from the radiance.

Lance gave a little wiggle and Keith could tell he’d stepped on a landmine. With eyebrows bouncing he sent Keith a mischievous grin, ‘oh, I never forget a good-looking face.”

Keith nearly choked. Was he being flirted with right now? By a strange boy who shone too brightly for a coffee shop? A strange boy he in fact knew and had somehow missed in the however many weeks they’d been studying that course?

“Clearly I do.”

Lance’s brows froze in their strange hooks and Keith realised with striking alarm that he’d said that out loud. Oh god. Keith really was too well adjusted to life alone. Maybe he should listen to Shiro more and make some friends? Lance’s face was still frozen on his and Keith pulled at his shirt. Curse the heating in this place. He really shouldn’t have sat down. He glanced back to the window. Was rain really that bad?

“Hot chocolate.”

Keith jolted as a cup and saucer landed on the table with a loud clink.  Liquid swished out the side as the tidal wave settled, swirl of cream sloshing above. A light dusting of cocoa covered the top, pink marshmallows cut into the shape of hearts thrown haphazardly across the drink. The waiter levelled them with a look.

“With extra festive.”

“Thank you so very much.” Lance said through a giggle. The waiter rolled his eyes, sweeping back to his post at the counter. Keith stared at the drink. Then he stared back up at Lance. The boy was just sparkling eyes above two hands that covered his entire face all the way up to his spiky nose. Keith shook his head fighting off a smirk. He picked up the drink, lifted it to his lips and stared right into Lance’s glistening eyes as he took a sip.

Lance snorted.

“Perfectly matches your aesthetic.”

Keith shrugged, now losing the fight against his lips. “I dunno, I think it’s a bit understated.”

“You’re right.’ Lance said, poking his pen into Keith’s face, ‘it’s just not enough. Shall I call Lotor back and get him to bring us some glitter.”

Keith shook his head. “I’m thinking sparklers.”

Lance burst out laughing. He was all teeth and no eyes and Keith found the noise buzzing in his chest too. He quickly swigged his drink before it could be set free. The taste wasn’t bad either, if he was being honest. Sweet and creamy, tickling his lip as he drank. He was quite content until, one of the marshmallows rolled off and hit him in the eye. Keith frowned, glanced up and saw Lance pretending to read his textbook whilst barely containing more giggles. Keith shook his head but couldn’t shake the warmth in his cheeks.

“So, I’m confused on Quasars.”

Keith frowned, putting down his drink.

“Who isn’t?” He said, shuffling around to get a look at what Lance was reading. After a moment of no more words, Keith looked up and found Lance staring.

“What?”

“Oh!” Lance whipped back around to his book, “It’s just, uh, it’s nice.”

“What?”

“Hearing you say that.”

“What, ‘who isn’t’?”

Lance nodded, still not meeting Keith’s eye.

“Yeah. Guess I thought I was the only one.”

Keith didn’t tend to speak to the people in his class. That’s how he didn’t know Lance. He just kept to himself. But that meant he was privy to his course mate’s conversations. Namely, that nearly every topic they’d covered since the start of term had at least somebody complaining. To Keith, it was a given that absolutely no-one truly knew what they were doing on their degree.

Lance wasn’t Keith though. Lance didn’t just talk to strangers, he went out of his way to make friends with them. Those kinds of people always eluded Keith. Shiro was the same – he took in Keith, and from their first meeting, Keith had been convinced he was some kind of next level angel. But whilst Shiro was adept at caring for others, Keith discovered over time he struggled letting other people look after him. It was something Keith hadn’t had much of an issue with – once someone was actually willing to do it, he liked being looked after. But not everyone was Keith. And just because they weren’t Keith, that didn’t make them perfect. Or evil. And with the words Lance just spoke, it occurred to Keith, that he might have misjudged him. The thought made his stomach twist in a guilt he immediately wanted to fix it.  

“Trust me you’re not.” He said firmly. “Everyone struggles, you’re doing fine.”

Lance looked up at him then, lips parted as his pen fell to the paper in a dull thud. Keith immediately wanted to claw the words back. He should have thought more before speaking. They were far more intense out loud. Almost threateningly so. Keith scraped the barrel for some sort of distraction. Steer them away from his creepy intenseness. “Why-uh, why’d you think that?”

Lance’s stare held a second longer – a second that burned itself straight through Keith. Then he was reclaiming his pen and speaking again with a sigh, “my housemates. They just- they get it all, y’know? One lecture and they’re good to go.”

“I feel dead after half an hour.” Keith said honestly.

There were those who seemed to absorb everything, regurgitating hours later and sweeping through their exams. But Keith was not one of them. And even then, he had a suspicion he only saw what they wanted him to see – not the hours they studied the night before. Maybe even years– some people were that dedicated after all.

Lance let out a short laugh. ‘Me too. Alfor opens his mouth and I’m just dead.”

Keith snickered and soon they were discussing the ins and outs of all their lecturers. It was fun. Keith found talking to Shiro about his disdain for academics was like bouncing water balloons off a concrete wall. He was never impressed. Lance, on the other hand, became invested. His enthusiasm grew with his pitch, hands thrown around in fury as he recalled a particularly awful lecture that wouldn’t have been out of place playing in the back of a hearse. Keith had said as much and Lance had laughed so hard, he spat coffee everywhere. The waiter, Lotor, as Lance called him, was far from enthusiastic about their patronage. He wiped up the spill with a huff, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. As soon as he was gone, Lance fell apart laughing telling Keith about the time he put glue in Lotor’s hair at primary school and the other was yet to forgive him. Lance had zero regrets and Keith would probably commit the same crime now.

The more they talked the more Keith found himself watching Lance’s mouth. He noticed now, how animated it was. It could go from a small ‘o’ to a wide-open grin in a blink of an eye. His teeth were bright white, lined up like crooked little houses along his gums. Then there were his lips. They were pink and looked soft and every so often Lance ran his tongue along them. Keith wanted to do that too. The thought surprised him, and he quickly found somewhere else to look. He could blame the warm café for his reddening cheeks.

Keith hadn’t kept track of time, he hadn’t felt the need when he was happily filling the moment. That was until he heard the door chime and noticed they were the last guests in the café. Must have been a long moment.

Lotor appeared at Lance’s back, a looming vampire.

“Five minute ‘til closing.” He said curtly. Lance jumped at the proximity.

“Jesus,” he breathed, holding a hand to his heart, “does he even have footsteps?”

Keith shook his head, looking out the window. “Wheels for feet.”

Lance laughed beside him. It was a nice sound, loud without even trying. It was like it burst out from nowhere to set the room alight. The more Keith heard it, the more he wanted to hear it. He was stuck in a vicious cycle that he didn’t particularly want to leave.

“Which way you heading?” Lance asked, shuffling his belongings together. The rain was still trailing down the windows and the wind rattled the windows, demanding its next victim. Keith sighed, as he got to his feet.

“Penny Road.”

“Oh! I’m just by the roundabout!’

Maybe he didn’t have to leave quite yet?

“I, uh…” Lance continued, talking to the ground. He was rubbing his neck, now fully dressed in his navy blue rain coat and backpack swung over one shoulder. “I’ve got an umbrella.”

He looked up with a smile. A bashful one this time, with pink cheeks. Keith didn’t know what to make of it. The expression was so different to his previous ones. It made him want to lean forward and squish it. But that would be inappropriate, so Keith focused firmly on the words

“Good for you?”

Lance blinked at him, before a more familiar expression tucked himself against his cheeks, “I meant we could share it.”

“Oh.” Keith’s cheeks burned hotter than coals. He ducked his head before it could be seen and stepped towards the door. “Sure. I’d uh, I’d like that.”

Lance’s feet tapped along the wood until he was at his side again, grabbing a brightly coloured umbrella from the bucket by the door before swooshing it open. Keith grimaced as he was hit with cold air and icy blades.

“Might be a bit windy for that.”

Lance laughed, “nah, it’ll be fine when we’re away from the river.”

Lance was right. It was fine once they were walking along the streets lined with painted town houses. Keith couldn’t help noticing how snugly the two of them fitted beneath the bright fabric dome. He also couldn’t help noticing his urge to link his arm with Lance’s. He told himself it was to just to keep the heavy umbrella steady but that was a lie.

Not too much later they arrived at Keith’s door, startling red against the black and whites of the rest of the street. Keith felt a little smug about bagging this one. It was the best house, even with the cracks in its cobble stone path and the overgrown bushes lining the street and most of the garden. The rain had died down a little, pattering rhythmically against the umbrella like a tent and Keith lingered beside Lance. The peaks of the clouds above were dyed a deep orange where the sun was finally cutting through the grey as if giving its last cry of the day before it sunk down for bed.

“Well, this was a nice way to end a date.”

Keith felt his stomach jump, throwing the breath from his lungs. “Date?”

“Uhh, I mean…” Lance’s face was so bright it was matching Keith’s door. He blinked widely before looking at the ground and mouthing many words but saying very few. “It doesn’t have to be, I just uhh, I thought it would be nice, but I mean-“

“Well, in that case...”

Keith leant in close, right up to Lance’s freckles. He pressed a kiss to a flaming cheek, smiling at how it was warm like a mug of hot chocolate.

“See you in class.” He whispered, before peeking up at Lance’s face. It was red with fluster, blue eyes wide and gleaming as his mouth wobbled into something that resembled a smile. Keith returned the favour, before pulling the umbrella down and letting the rain ping off it. “Lance.”

[clemenpoint]

Meeting

For @rdrrequests !! (Hope you like it!!)

Javier x OC (Edith)

___________________

Javier sat at the wooden table, boredom plaguing his mind. He was playing around with his most precious knife, of course stolen. He hasn’t done much all day. He really wanted to fish, but everyone in the camp were “too busy.” Even Uncle tried saying he’s too busy, as if.

His eyes wondered to Miss. Grimshaw who was entering a small, black tent. A young girl that Arthur and Hosea had found was staying in there. Javier doesn’t know too much information since Micah entered the tent in a drunken stateand attempted to rape the poor girl. Miss. Grimshaw has now been heavily guarding the tent with her shotgun from any of the men.

Javier had curiosity take over him and he began meandering over towards the tent. Miss. Grimshaw came out, shotgun in hand. Her eyes immediately landed on Javier and she brought the shotgun up quick. “Jesus Christ senõrita! You can’t be pulling that out on anybody!”

“I don’t trust any of you bastards anymore! Trying to harm this young girl, aren’t ya?”

“No! I just want to meet her! I’m not like that puto Micah.” Miss. Grimshaw lowered the gun slightly. “I guess I trust you a bit more than that sewer rat,” she put the gun away. “You can talk to here, but no sudden moves and please be kind.”

“Thank you.” Javier nodded and entered the tent. The tent was tiny, Javier had to bend slightly and all it could fit was a bed and a small table. The girl in question was sitting on the woren out bed, eating some of Mr. Pearson’s somewhat edible deer stew. Immediately Javier was captivated by her. She was extremely thin, almost dangerously and he skin was extremely pale. Her hair shined out in it’s gorgeous yellow color. Though it was slightly matted due to her roughen state, it still shined beautifully.

She looked up from her stew. Her eyes were a shimmering and bright blue. Javier was almost choked up by her complexion. She became frightened by him, unsurprisingly and quickly scooted way in a panic. “Senõrita! It’s okay! Don’t freak out! I only want to talk with you!” The girl was slightly shaking by she stopped and stared at the strange man.

Javier pulled up the log behind him and sat on it, taking off his bowler hat. "I apologise if I frightened you, ma'am. I promise you I have no intention of harming you. What my friend, if I should even call him that, attempted to do to you was horribly disgusting and I want to apologise from the deepest pit of my heart." Javier looked deep into her eyes to show how genuine his apology is.

Javier looked down at his feet and stood up to leave. It wasn't much, but he felt like an apology was needed. "Wait!" Javier quickly turned around and the girl had now crawled to the edge of the bed, closer to him.

"It wasn't you fault. Why'd you apologise?"

"I-I don't know. It was just really disgusting what he did to you. I felt as part of the gang it was part of my responsibility to apologise to you." The girl stared at him blankly for a second, but smile quickly spreader across her face. Her gorgeous grin made Javier's face hot and his throat dry.

"What's your name, mister?"

"Javier Escuella. What about you, senõrita?"

"Edith. Edith Finch. I like your name though. It's quite unique," Javier was too distracted by her captivating smile that the compliment flew right over his head. "Please sit back down. I feel awkward being the only one sitting." Javier nodded and quickly start back down on the log.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, how'd you get here? I know my amigos Arthur and Hosea brought you here, but what happened to you?" Edith sat back slightly and bit her lip, nervous.

"To keep a very long story short, I'm an orphanage who ended working for them rich folk, the Blaires. The new man of house, Jedidiah, had some screws lose up here," Edith tapped the side of head. "And he hated me and locked me in a basement. He rarely fed me. I was weak and hadn't seen sunlight for so long. A dear man to me and the one who raised me told your friends Arthur and Hosea I was there when they were robbing the plantation and they took me back. I'm so very grateful."

"Do you miss him? The man who raised you?"

"His name is Tom and of course. Everyone who worked on the plantation were the family I never had." Javier leaned forward and took his hand from his lap and placed it gently on top of Edith's. Edith's head quickly shot to his hand and a blush spread across her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry for all that has happened to you. But we'll be your family now. The two stared at each other in the eyes. Each other's stomachs twisting from the other.

"Um so uh," Javier sat back up straight and cleared his throat. He was slightly embarrassed from touching her. Her hand was so smooth though. "Do you wanna get out of this stuffy tent? You've been in here for what, four days? You must be half way to death by now, chica."

Edith chuckled slightly. "I guess your right. What do you wanna do?"

"You like to fish?"

"I've never been. Is it fun?" Javier shot from his log which slightly spooked Edith. "You must come with me! It's very fun! Come!" Javier grabbed her hand and nearly yanked her arm from her socket as he ran out of the tent.

"What are you doing with her?!" Miss. Grimshaw yelled as the two sprinted from the tent. "Just going fishing! Trust me! Don't get your bragas in a twist, chica!"

Javier scooped up two fishing poles by his tent and lead Edith to his horse. "Come, come! Get on!" Javier picked up Edith with the ease of picking up a flower. She squeaked slightly as he held her in his arms.

He gently placed her on his horse and mounted it himself. He pulls the reigns back and horse jerks itself around. The horse speeds off when the reigns slap against the horse and it speeds off.

Edith bounces like crazy so she slides her arms around Javier's waist to hold in. Javier looks down as her small arms slip around him and her front presses against his back.

Javier smiles and a light blush touches his cheeks. Edith felt fuzzy to. She felt warm against his body as it radiated body heat and he surprisingly smelled good for an outlaw.

_________________

"This is the best fishing spot ever. Don't tell anyone about it." Javier lifts Edith off the horse and places her gently on her feet. The fishing location sat in the middle of nowhere in the woods. It was a small stream connected to a tiny pond.

"Here," Javier hands Edith one of his two wooden rods. She takes it and quietly follows Javier to the bank. Javier holds the rod under his armpit and picks up the hook. He shoves his hand in his pocket and takes out a small, dead worm and shoves it on the hook. He turns to Edith and does the same on her hook.

"I'll show you how to cast it. Here," Javier goes behind Edith and gently placed his hands on each of her elbows. Edith's cheeks go red and her stomach twists. "Hold it up like this," Javier moves her arms do the rod is sticking up in the air.

"Whip it behind your shoulder then fling forward." Javier moves her arms to do what he said and the line flies out and lands on the water. Edith laughs lightly. "That's so cool!"

"Now keep your hand on the reel so when you feel a tug on the string, quickly reel it in." Javier moved from her elbow and placed her hand on top of the reel. And almost like they got shock by an electric pole, a current seemed to flow through each other as their hands were placed together.

Edith turned around, rod in her right hand, and placed her hand gently on Javier's cheek. Javier was already a bit short, but Edith was practically child sized so she stared up into his eyes.

She stood on her tippy toes and placed a tiny kiss on his lips. "Thank you." She turned back around to face the water.

Javier's stomach twisted and shock fell over him as he attempted to understand what just happened. He stood there for a minute and watched her back. What a charming little girl.

He picked up his rod and casted the line.

[italicwatches]

Megalobox - Episode 10

Let’s get into this. It’s Megalobox, episode 10! Here we GO!

-Under a red moon, Fujimaki gives Nanbu a simple order. Tell Joe everything, and bring this to a close. Speaking of, Joe steps out to come take a piss…And Nanbu’s forced to admit that their real fight is over, all while Fujimaki just listens to the torture and pain he’s putting them through…

-Opening.

-Flashback. That day in the restaurant, when Nanbu made the oath to get into Megalonia…And Fujimaki wasn’t interested in some bight dream. Fujimaki pushed Nanbu even harder that day, past the easy bluffs and the noble dreams and into something darker…

-So Nanbu’s forced to admit his real bluff. It wasn’t getting to Megalonia. It wasn’t even winning Megalonia.

-It was throwing a match at Megalonia. Turning the hopes and dreams of the entire fucking slums into Fujimaki’s profits, and burn the idea of a better tomorrow into ash. Making enough profit off of everyone back home trying to show their faith in the local kid done good, that it would wipe Nanbu’s debt.

-Joe, of course, realizes he never had Nanbu in his court, not really. Not with any idea of taking it to the top. You were ALWAYS looking for your cash-out! Nanbu tries to counter that this was the only path where either of them survived, and look, you’ve got the ID. You’ve got the rankings. You drop this last time, and they’re free and clear! Just a quick detour. Just put the headset on, one more time…

-Joe clocks Nanbu across the fucking jaw, throws the earpiece to the ground, and stomps it to dust. You’ve only ever been looking for yourself. The last time he played your game was in the fucking pits, Nanbu. Never again. Never again. Nanbu snatches up Joe, trying to convince him that they’ve got no other path, that they’re a pair of frauds with no hope of legitimacy, that all they can do is survive…

-Joe’s not interested in hearing it. He’s not even mad, he’s just, disillusioned. Utterly and truly. He just gets on his motorcycle, riding off…And leaving Nanbu to deal with a horrified Sachio. And, worse, a satisfied Fujimaki, who makes something very clear…If Joe doesn’t throw his match, all three of you are dead. The rain begins to fall, full of fury…

-And Joe, in the dark and bitter rain, rides against that desert cliff one more time.

-The next day, the three established Megalonia competitors are doing a press conference. One that Joe was supposed to be at too, but he isn’t showing…Also, side note, Burroughs speaks in pretty solid English, that makes me think they got an actual native speaker to do his lines.

-Joe finds himself at Abuhachi’s, with no other place to go. And it’s not like he’s upset to see Joe here, but what happened, kid? You get lost or something?

-…Yeah, lost is a good way to put it.

-While in the slums, Nanbu comes and finds Sachio…Who’s disgusted with Nanbu. But Nanbu pops the hat right off of Sachio’s head, and knows exactly who you are, kid. The son of a freelance engineer. A guy who got fucked by Shirato, and who took his own life…

-As far as Sachio’s concerned, Shirato killed his dad. His mom, without cashflow, got sick. Couldn’t afford a doctor. Died a year later. He lost everything…And when he saw Joe, he, he thought, maybe they could…And then YOU RUINED IT ALL! Nanbu just picks up the spare clothes he brought, and starts walking away…

-They end up at a fancy party after the press conference. …Things are different now, Sachio. If you want your revenge…She’s right there. Out in the open. No security. The CEO of Shirato. He passes the kid a knife, and, if you want an eye for an eye…Take the eye.

-Sachio’s real, fucking, close to doing it, too, to racing in there over the fence and attacking Yukiko…When he sees her talking and playing with a pair of kids. A pair of kids about his age. Had things gone a different way, he’d be right there next to them. Of course he would have. But now…

-…He can’t do it. All he has in him, is believing in Joe. …They both bet on Joe. They both put it all in. But that leaves Joe as the only man who can decide how this ends.

-Back under the bridge, Joe’s burning some steam on the bags…And Nanbu, at the party, gives Sachio another path. Leave the knife, kid, and come on.

-To Yukiko’s doorstep, where Nanbu’s got a request for her. His most absurd yet. …He needs you to keep this kid safe. A dishonest man wants him dead. And, to be blunt…Your company put that kid in this position. Your people led to his father’s death, his mother’s death, and him ending up a rat in the slums. You owe him.

-Yukiko counters, that she could just force an exchange. She could make Joe withdraw from the tournament. …Nanbu wouldn’t be too unhappy if that happened, at this point. At least it would be the first honest thing he was ever part of. But no. He knows you. You’re not going to do that. And, besides…This is the last you’ll be hearing from him.

-Nanbu’s gonna disappear. The only question for him is whether it’s on his feet or in a box. Either way, none of you are ever going to see him again. He passes Sachio an ID card, and then he’s gone, a single wave goodbye…

-Megalobox, Round 10: The DIE is Cast

-To MEGALONIA! The opening salvo is on, and the crowd is going wild! It’s the biggest tournament in the history of the sport! Yukiko’s doing her rounds with the upper crust, when her assistant has something for her…A full internal audit was done. And the integrated Gear’s immunosuppressant system was not acquired on the up and up. The boy’s claims are legitimate. His father was stolen from, and their company profited from it.

-Speaking of Sachio, he’s alone in a dark room, just staring at that photo on the inside of his hat…He drops the ID card in there too, ramming the whole thing back on his head as, despite himself, the tears start to fall…

-The first match is on! Yuri is up against The Spider, Pepe Iglesias. The second ranked boxer in the world, straight out of Mexico! And his opponent? Yuri. The king of kings! The world champion! Number one in the entire world, representing Team Shirato!

-Both men enter the field, as Yukiko watches…She’s got every intention of seeing this through. But she does make a quick request…Get every single fucking name who was involved in that perversion of justice. Every last person who helped steal a man’s work from him and take his livelihood, and life, away. They will be dealt with. …Oh she is pissed.

-And of course, all eyes are on this first match…Joe’s way in the back, watching, and even down at the bar, Nanbu drowns his sorrows as people watch…

-The match is on, as Spider’s tricks become obvious. He’s incredibly flexible above all else, and light on his feet, which lets him dodge and pull off tricks that hardly any other boxer can deal with. Even Yuri can only hold his own, not actually get any ground, as both men test each other…

-Round two comes fast, and both start trying to actually claim some momentum in the ring…With Spider managing to get the first solid shot and draw blood! But that just snaps Yuri awake hard, as he goes all out…Spider throws another punch, but he just comes into the man’s guard like a ghost, and uppercuts him cold, before a followup left hook! Spider hits the mat, and even the commentators can’t even see it until they go back to the slow-mo footage!

-The count hits ten, and the match is called! Yuri claims his first victory in Megalonia!

-After it’s over, Joe’s out by the rider with his motorcycle, full of heavy thoughts…When a dog comes up, all eager to see him. Yuri’s dog. The two men end up standing there, chatting…Joe’s changed, since the last time they really interacted. He’s seen Yuri is the real deal, and he’s got some legit respect for that match. That was a hell of a hook you finished with!

-Yuri tries to play it down. The ring is the ring. You win or lose. That’s all. Everyone has the same two chances in front of them. …Why are you fighting bare, Joe? Why Gearless?

-…If he’s honest? It started as a bluff. A gamble. A way to get people to be willing to fight him, and to get the newspapers to actually give a shit about a man at the bottom rankings. But the more he’s gone, the more it’s about…Pride? Honor? Maybe t’s just the thrill of knowing he doesn’t have anything helping him, and doesn’t have anything holding him back. It’s just his own two hands out there, just his own speed and skill protecting his life.

-And he wants to see how far he can take it. This isn’t about proving something to anyone anymore, Yuri. He doesn’t want to get in the ring with you to, to take back something from that night in the pits. He wants to see how far he can go, and test himself. Against you, against the best…Joe just wants to see the heights he can reach, pushed by someone that strong. But what about you? What makes you step into that ring?

-…A dream. A single, simple dream. Someone believed in him, Joe. Someone pulled him up from the dark, all for a dream. And he wants to see her dream come true. That’s all there is to it.

-While Nanbu, drunk off his ass, stumbles back to the houseboat…Fujimaki treated him to a drink, and chatted with him about the old fable of the frog and the scorpion…As across the city, Joe stares into the water, Sachio looks out the window of his home slash prison, and Nanbu slumps over under the bridge, thinking of a scorpion’s nature…

-The next morning, Joe leaves Abuhachi’s, having received a fresh earpiece…And Abuhachi asked him, plain and simple. Who should he really bet on, tonight?

-Credits.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck

[entomancy]

(Fic) Diolain: Part 3

Right. Trying to knock the rust off my writing abilities after Thesis Hell. So, some more of Samie-does-his-best-under-Escalating-Circumstances. I’ve also polished the previous parts somewhat.

Part 1. Part 2.  Wattpad.

Title: International relations Setting: The State history: end- ‘Golden Age’ (about 40 years ago). Warnings: Blood. Summary: . Characters: Samúiel Daly; Fergal Callaghan; Najwa Farouk. Words: 3544

-

No alarms.  That was fuckin’ telling.  Samie took the stairs two at a time with Fergal slung bodily over his shoulder, either resigned to the action or too stunned to complain about it.  The faint ringing in his ears was fading already, replaced by a strangely-empty chaos.  He could hear the sound of bits of upstairs collapsing, half-muffled cries and screams from elsewhere in the building, and vehicles outside.  No alarms, though, and he’d seen sensors.

So either no one was watchin’, or...

Samie’s ears twitched - rising slightly underneath the hat and staying there, accompanied by the odd crackle-pop of cartilage shifting beneath his skin - as a door opened somewhere below.  Soft boot-treads pattered against the stairs; too quiet, too deliberate than anything should be in this chaos, and he gritted his teeth.  The feckers were fast; he’d give ‘em that.

The door on the next landing was locked.  Nice try, lads.  He dropped Fergal and swivelled, driving a newly-plated elbow into the pale woodwork.  The crunch ran up his arm, the door buckling under enhanced impact, and he shouldered it open past the now-bent lock.  New danger flared in his blended senses and he jerked back again, a heartbeat before a rattle of small arms fire punctured the wall by the broken frame.

“We’re Abhani, ye trigger-happy bastards!” he barked before stepping back through, arms raised this time.  The air was sharp, threaded with a peppery variation on gunsmoke, and another shot skimmed past his shoulder as he emerged - but no more followed it.  Samie caught a brief image of raised weapons and golden cloth, before he hauled Fergal in and slammed the damaged door them, searching around for anything to block it off again.  Damn Statey decoration was a sparse as it was boring, but there was a long metal display case full of framed (boring) paperwork a little further down, bolted to the floor.

Not bolted enough.  The screech of rending metal seemed shockingly loud, and Samie ignored the commenting mutters that followed as he hefted the case on-end and wedged it across the door.  Not a moment too soon: there was a crash from the other side and the injured woodwork shook violently.  Samie bared his teeth in a humourless grin and threw an obscene gesture towards the door, before grabbing the bags and hurrying back to where Fergal had vanished after the already-retreating group.  He vaguely remembered seeing them at the soiree, which seemed like a fuckin’ lifetime ago.  A fancily-dressed bunch with hair in loops, heraldin’ from someplace he’d never heard of.

They sure weren’t State though, and that’d do for now.

He followed into their room and came up short against the array of elegant weapons he’d seen earlier.  Their wielders were clad in gold-and-bronze, the kind of efficiently simple body armour that tended to lie hidden under much more elaborate detailing, right up until it needed not to.  Samie rolled his eyes.

“Ah, c’mon! We ain’t got bigger problems?”

“Samúiel is with me,” Fergal said quickly, from somewhere off to one side. His tone was steadier now, more business-like.  Got an audience. “My bodyguard, and my brother.”

Samie could feel the wash of suspicious attention, back and forth between them.  Comparing Fergal’s slim, dark figure, and Samie’s own ginger-topped bulk.  He grinned again.

“I take after ma.”

There was another stretched moment of wariness and then the weapons tilted down.  It was just in time for another sound of impact to rattle down the corridor, so Samie stopped paying attention to people who weren’t his concern.  One of the armed figures had moved first, and something in their stance suggested leadership, so he focused there.

“Said no t’the wine then?” he asked, more to fill the silence than anything else, adding: “Mostly, anyhow.”

Across the room, Fergal was stooped over in front of a slumped woman - unarmoured and still dressed in her party frock.  She was blinking rapidly, eyes half-focused, and an attendant fidgeted with a sleek-looking syringe as they ran assessing fingers down her arm, checking and re-checking vitals.  

Good to know they weren’t the only ones who’d brought along In Case Of Fuckery emergency kits.

“You have an exit?” The probable-leader stepped in front of Samie, pulling up the headgear’s eyepiece to reveal a strip of deep copper skin and black-brown eyes, narrowed towards him in suspicion.  He shrugged.

“Couple, though they involve not bein’ stuck in this feckin’ rat-trap.  Other’n that, it’s kinda at ‘not via the stairs we came down, because they either exploded or are full of bastards’.”

The commander snorted and flipped her mask closed again.  He was guessing at ‘her’, mostly from the lashes and the height.

“Try not to die. Do not get in our way, or you will be shot through.”

Samie swung one enlarged hand upward in as sarcastic a salute as he could manage.

“Aye, I’m well aware that ‘bullet sponge’ is in my job description.”

“Samie,” Fergal didn’t look up from where he was muttering softly to the other presumed-Ambassador, and the commander had already turned away, motioning at the rest of her squad, so Samie’s replying shrug was mostly for his own benefit.

“Well it is,” he muttered.  He dropped back as the golden guards began to move out again, staying near Fergal and eying their new friends.  They were, he’d admit, very slick about all this.  Each gilt figure moved like liquid, smoothly taking positions and covering each other as they started back out into the corridors.  Hardly ever a step outa place - and Samie couldn’t help feeling a little bit lumbering in comparison.  Being a good head taller than everyone around you, and at least twice as broad, would do that to a body.

His makeshift barricade was shaking noisily as the mismatched group made their way along the main corridor of this floor.  There was another similar door at the far end, which seemed to have a gold-weave scarf nailed across it, and Samie glanced back at Fergal.  He saw his brother find the incongruity, squint a little in that way he had when he was Looking with his less-standard senses, and nod towards Samie in silent confirmation.

UnGated Diolain were still Abhani, after all, and the mageblood ran as thick in them as anyone else.  Samie was about as magically-inclined as a dishcloth - barring the huge otherworldy-technicality that mingled through the fabric of him - but Ferg had always been good at seeing what was really there.  Couldn’t actually do much active, but he’d got Sight on him enough to make professionals take note - and what he was notin’ now, was that there was something altogether thaumic going on with that “scarf”.

“Someone else lied on their border forms,” Samie muttered, and Fergal grinned back.

The elevator on these floors sat off the middle of the corridor, flanked by panels of metal inset with stern State geometry.  It was disabled - because of course it was - but two of the golden guards had already forced the doors, and were aiming small torches up and down the shaft.  When they seemed satisfied, the commander turned back towards Samie.

“You can climb also?”

“Well, yeah - ” Samie followed her gesture, towards where another guard was gently wrapping a fine fabric webbing around the drugged Ambassador.  The cradle was attached to what looked like a lacework harness, and he started to object as realisation kicked in. “Hey now, I got Ferg t’ - ”

“I’m fine,” Fergal interjected, tapping the smears of drying blood still clinging to his chest. “Shaky, but I’m set.  I can climb; she can’t.”

“...right,” Samie sighed as he turned around to present his back.  Path of least resistance.  He was very aware of the feel of unfamiliar fingers deftly hooking straps around his chest, around his shoulders, and tried not to react when the pressure halted - just for a second - on an unexpected outcrop of solid tissue along his spine.

“It ain’t tender,” he said gruffly, and was relieved when the hands continued without voiced question.  There were a few extra grazes across some of the other manifestations hidden beneath his shirt, but no more reaction, and the weight of the barely-conscious woman was soon nestled in against his back.  The commander scooted in, tugging on a few parts of the harness - which was a hell of a lot sturdier than something that looked like it was made of lingerie had any right to be - then stepped back, giving a curt order in her own tongue as the group began to move into the open lift shaft.  There was a narrow maintenance ladder set back into a groove in the wall, flanked by cable bundles, and the guards began to climb down it.

The actual elevator carriage was in there as well.  Above them, in fact, and Samie eyed the base of it warily as bobbing torchlight patterns wove in and out of the gears beneath.  This’d be the third time he’d climbed an elevator shaft in the line of one duty or other, but generally the big metal box of potential-crushing had been below him.  He was suddenly very aware of how thin the ladder rungs - only big enough for three of his current fingers - seemed to be, and of the translated shiver of movement running back up towards him.

He’d survive a fall, of course.  It would hurt like a motherfucker (appropriately enough) but if there was one thing that’d bring Scout through all-guns it was that horrible moment of plunging when you became so suddenly aware of all your internal organs.  Still, he doubted he’d make a good crash-mat; and just because something wouldn’t kill you, didn’t make for good reason to let it happen.

So when the witchlight came rolling up the walls, Samie managed to restrain his shock to nearly biting through his tongue, rather than yanking any rungs out of their sockets.

“ - th-uck!”

Traceries of blue-white crackled as they rose, sharply-angular fractals that made your brain ache if you tried to focus on the patterns too hard, and Samie could feel a shiver in his skin as the waves passed over him.  Like static, with a bizarre sense of upended vertigo trailing behind it, but it was gone as fast as it had come, and the eerie wisp glow swept past.  An awful moment later the bottom of the elevator jerked violently, something above it going ping, and the cage began to move.

Upwards.

Samie swallowed hard, trying to get his heartrate back where it was meant to be.  He leaned over and looked down, to where Fergal’s upturned face was dimly visible below his feet.

“The hell was that?”  From the muttering that was happening from their new friends, he wasn’t the only one wondering, even as the group began to climb again.  A little faster this time.  After all, what went up…

“Isuanai mechis-pulse,” Fergal said, loudly enough that his voice bounced echoes from the walls. “Broad spectrum with visual bleed - someone’s hacked something together real fast.  My guess is ‘up’, for anything that can.”

Isuanai.  Now, that one Samie did know; he’d even been there a few times.  Nice country.  Lot of plastic.  Full of people who’d start waxing lyrical about ‘techno-thaumic integration’ at the drop of a hat.  Yeah, he couldn’t see any of them being all that keen on toeing a ‘no magic’ line either.

It seemed to take an excruciatingly long time before there was a new sound from below, a shifting hiss followed by the screech of forced metal, and new light burst into the shaft.  Craning around, Samie saw the lead guards dart out of the newly-opened door, quick as you like.  A tense few moments followed, his ears pricking at the sound of rapid footfalls in whatever space lay beyond, before a gold-masked face appeared at the doorway again and beckoned them to continue.

They came out into… some sort of service area?  Sure wasn’t another corridor of fancy rooms, and Samie looked around while the drugged Ambassador was detached from his back.  There were a lot of shelves, stacked with piles of towels, bottles of presumably-cleaning stuff, and other general maintenance paraphernalia.  

There was something almost offensively mundane about the space, considering what was happening mere floors above them, and Samie’s teeth gritted together.

“Where now, Najwa?” Fergal asked quietly as he brushed himself down, making an attempt to tidy up his bloodied shirt.  The commander’s head snapped around, surprise running through her body language for a second, and Samie pushed away a grin.  Of course Ferg had picked up her name from somewhere.  He wasn’t sure if it was a subtle ‘I can understand you, you know’ dig - since he didn’t put it past his brother to have managed to have a bit of fluency in whatever they were chattering in, on the off-chance - or just emphasising situational-camaraderie.

“...sewers,” she replied, finally. “Lead under walls.  After that; our business.”

“Oh good,” Samie muttered, even though his attention was only half-on what was going on inside the room.  His extended senses were twanging again - up, up, rapid feet with a panic in their urgency - quick quick - and he tilted his head, frowning. “This day just gets better, doesn’t it?”

The commander - Najwa - rounded on him.

“What do you do, Abhain?” she snapped. “Walk out door?  How many bullets do you sponge?”

Samie grinned.  It wasn’t a diplomatic expression.

“Plenty enough, love.  I - ”

“Samie - ” Fergal’s warning was cut off by a curt bark from one of the other guards, and Najwa dropped her interest, falling into instant formation with the rest of her squad.  Samie knew why, could hear the sound of approaching bootfall, and he shoved Ferg firmly back towards the other Ambassador, behind a metal cart that was the closest the room had to cover.  He hunched down beside it, tensing, and drew a slow breath.

Focus, Samúiel.

He was staring so hard at the door that he missed the start of it, as Najwa’s team began to shimmer.  The harsh white lights overhead seemed to lose their grip, illumination and shadow alike going grainy across each figure; breaking apart like falling sand to leave a shape in the world that blurred and slid away from clear vision.  It wasn’t invisibility, not exactly, but it was going to be interesting to see how the Statey fuckers handled it.

The answer turned out to be ‘badly’.

Clearly, the squad that entered hadn’t been expecting much resistance; or likely, anyone at all.  The sight of Samie’s hulking figure brought them up short, rifles rising - and then Najwa’s group struck hard.  It wasn’t perfect: a few rounds loosed, skimming through the air whistle-close to Samie’s right ear, and the guttural crack of gunfire bounced violently around the tiled space, but soon the three intruders figures were face-down on the floor.  One was deathly still, the second with some residual twitching, and the third wriggling furiously under two restraining feet.

The Abhani exchanged an impressed look.

Najwa hunched down on her heels in front of the surviving State solider and reached out, wrenching his mirror-sheen helmet away.  She stood up again quickly, nodding as the restraining guards yanked the man onto his knees.

Well, ‘man’.  Boy, really, and Samie felt a different twinge in his gut as he stared at the State-kid.  He was pale, without even the burnt-in scatter of freckles that seasoned Samie’s own natural pallor, and his mousey blond hair was buzzed into near-transparency, but the most obvious thing about him was the stark tattoos stamped harshly across his face.  Samie didn’t recognise many of the symbols - they were mostly geometric, sharp black angles that didn’t follow the line of his bones - but there was something particularly unsettling about the silvered, stylised eye that took up about half his forehead.

That, and the look of disgusted rage distorting his features.

“Sonofafuck,” Fergal muttered, peering around Samie’s shoulder. “We’re being hunted by guys who don’t even shave yet.”  There was a shake to his voice, a tightness in his expression that reminded Samie that, worldly that his brother might be in some ways, he didn’t get shot at very much.

“That’s diplomatic-speak, is it?” he muttered back, as Najwa brought her own weapon up, resting it against the boy’s clavicle.

“How many are you?” she asked, and the pale figure bared his teeth in reply.  It would have looked comical if it wasn’t for the pure hate in his eyes.

“Aberrant scum,” he hissed. “You are poison.”

There was a soft sound, metal on metal, from somewhere within Najwa’s weapon as she raised it higher, hovering over the bobbing bulge of the boy’s adam’s apple.

“Wait - ” Fergal ducked out around from behind Samie, slipping past the wary hand he swung to halt him, and took a few careful steps forward.  He held his own hands out, placatingly, and looked between Najwa and the captive. “Please.  Let me talk to him.”

“You waste your breath, Abhain,” Najwa replied, not even looking back. “They do not know mercy.”

“But we do.” Fergal came a bit closer again, edging himself into her vision. “Please.” He followed with something that Samie didn’t understand, a few words with surprisingly-smooth similarity to the guards’ earlier chatter, and Najwa’s shoulders tightened.

“Talk swift,” she said, finally, and moved her gun back.  The State boy didn’t relax, still near-vibrating with anger and poorly-hidden nerves, but his washed-out gaze did flick between her and Fergal a few times.  His lips moved, silently; breathed words that didn’t catch in his throat, as Fergal turned to the boy and smiled, opening his hands carefully.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about us,” he said gently, and it was probably only Samie’s practised ears that caught the slight shiver under his voice. “But we - ”

“...binds... the Chain…” The boy was looking at Fergal, but didn’t seem to be focusing on him as he kept muttering.  Frankly, it was creepy, and Samie shifted uncomfortably as he watched his brother try and make contact.  These Statey bastards had always been a weird lot, but they seemed damn-near alien now - the irony of which wasn’t lost on him.  Fergal tried again.

“I didn’t catch that,” he encouraged, leaning in a little further.  The boy’s shoulders had slumped, some of the shivering tension dropping out of his stance, and his eyelids fluttered half-closed.

“The Chain,” he mumbled, “the Chain is - only as strong as it’s - weakest link.”

He said it like a mantra.  Fergal blinked.

“Er… I suppose?”

The boy looked up, and all of Samie’s senses went off at once.

“I am not weak!”

He lunged forward violently, tearing himself free from the restraining grips of the guards behind him, who had relaxed a little when Najwa moved out of range.  Metal flashed, Fergal jerking back fast enough to avoid the blade that cut air a hairsbreadth from his face, but the Stateboy didn’t stop, taking both their balances as the first shot from Najwa’s guards swished past above the falling pair.  Metal came again, a wide, wild arc that just missed Samie as he dived towards Fergal, who was struggling arms-locked with the shaking youth - then the second round of fire hit home and the Stateboy crumpled forwards, the curved knife clattering away across the floor.  Samie grabbed him, feeling bone creak under his grip and yanked upwards, blood and spittle and worse raining from the bullet-torn mess of the boy’s neck.  Shock and anger sent strength into Samie’s movement, as he swivelled and hurled the body into the wall with a heavy, wet crack - then dropped down, swinging himself over Fergal in a guarding crouch.

Blood was pumping in his ears - his blood, and then some - and he could feel the plates along his back pressing up, spreading out over each other as he tried to hold them back.

“Enough!”

Samie hadn’t shouted, but the booming growl that broke his lips went bouncing from the walls anyway.  The golden guns raised again - wary, again - but as Samie blinked himself back to focus, he realise Najwa’s wasn’t among them.  It wasn’t possible see her expression under her mask, but she was clearly looking at him, nonetheless.

“...what are you, Abhain?” she asked, after a few moments of tension, and Samie forced his lips to slide back down, over the jutting angles of tooth that she couldn’t have failed to see.  His muscles were twitching, his clothes were too fucking tight, and the sharp-iron scent of blood and spicy gunsmoke seemed to be swirling like a hurricane through his head.

The blood didn’t smell like Fergal’s, though.  The knife had missed.  The bullets had missed him.  If the boy had been just a fraction closer…

Too close.  That was too fucking close.

Samie rolled his shoulders as he stood up - a few inches further up than before - and met Najwa’s hidden gaze.

“I’m getting the fuck outa here.”

-

[elvensemi]

Mr. Cupcake and the Rat: A Note

@unpretty​ this is your fault 

Link to Part One of Mr. Cupcake and the Rat

Ren had settled into something akin to a comfortable routine, as much as anyone on the streets could possibly hope to. Every day brought new chaos. The bakery she had staked out as the center of her territory was on the rougher, poorer side of town, and she never knew when violence or cops would spill into her attempt at a peaceful existence.

She’d been heckled while digging through a trash can. When she hadn’t reacted, they’d thrown a bottle at her head. Her hat, an oversized beanie the same dark color as the dirty, matted hair it covered, had kept any glass from digging into her skull, but she had a hell of a headache and was dizzy. That was the sort of thing that made every day different from the next.

But there were some comforting constants.

She swung by the back alley by her bakery. She was quite late, and it was Sunday, so he would already be closed. But no one else came by, which meant... yes.

A little brown bag sitting on the step by the door into the bakery. She snatched it up quickly, stuffing part of it into her mouth so she could use all her limbs. Teeth clenched around the top of the bag, she clambered up onto the dumpster. In a practiced movement, she backed up to the corner, ran forward, and leapt. She caught the bottom rung of the fire escape on the next building, then hauled herself up. She climbed up another two stories on the fire escape, then, bag still dangling from her mouth, leapt onto the bakery roof. She landed on all fours, scrambled across the tile to the end of the house where the roof was at its highest. She slid off of it automatically, arms, then head, then chest and body, feet catching briefly around the edge as she swung herself down. The window was unlocked, because she never locked it. A metal ruler she left sticking out of the bottom made it easy to pry open, and then she slithered in.

The whole effort took less than thirty seconds.

She was getting very good at it.

The attic above the bakery was dark, but that didn’t bother her at all. She’d found a flashlight in an old box, and she had very good night vision. She clambered over bare plywood to her little corner, by the window, hidden behind a whole host of old, dusty boxes. There was a thick pile of blankets on it. She prodded at it a few times to figure out where all the rats were, moving some of them aside, before settling in.

She flicked the flashlight on and opened the bag. Inside was a saran wrapped sandwich, something wrapped in tin foil, two children’s juice boxes, and... ooooh, eclairs. She pulled it all out excitedly, using one of the boxes as a makeshift table. She started with the sandwich, unwrapping it and then carefully sticking the saran wrap around the existent ball of the stuff she was collecting. She didn’t know what for yet. Inside the foil were some sort of puffy baked things, folded and fluffy and filled with white poofyness that might have been cream cheese or something, and flecks of green. She poked at them. Lettuce? She didn’t know. It was too dark to be lettuce, she was pretty sure.

Curiously, she took a bite.

It tasted good, savory and creamy at the same time. She shrugged. It didn’t matter what was in it if it tasted good.

The juice boxes contained soy milk. One was chocolate. She drank that one first.

She fed the dozen or so rats in her blankets little pieces of bread and meat from the sandwich, which was full of some sort of chipped meat, and a vinegary sort of... cabbage maybe? Or a weird pale pickle. And cheese. And some kind of sauce. She didn't rightly know, but it was good and the bread had a pretty, swirly design on it. The rats didn’t like the weird vinegar cabbage so she got to eat all of that herself. She really liked it. She wondered if she’d ever get to eat it again.

After she and the rats had devoured every last crumb, and the foil had been safely balled up around her Ball of Foil, which sat next to her Ball of Saran Wrap on her makeshift shelf, she flicked on her flashlight and grabbed the empty bag. It was a little greasy at the bottom from sitting for so long, but she could still use the sides. Eagerly, she went to tear it, then paused.

Something was... already written on the side?

She squinted at it, shaking the flashlight to get it to light up better.

“There is an Oktoberfest party today a few blocks away. Please watch out for drunks. Did you know otters have a special pouch where they keep their favorite rock?”

She tilted her head to the side, running a thin finger over the words, written in an unfamiliar scrawl.

Had Mr. Cupcake written this, then? He had never written her anything on a bag before. Except the first time, when he had written LUNCH in large letters.

A party... drunks. That explained the belligerence and the bottle.

She stared at the words for a while longer then flipped over onto her stomach, grabbing the sharpie she used to draw little pictures on the bags after she had eaten.

In careful letters underneath, she wrote, “One of them hit me.” She paused. “With a bottle.” That seemed like it might be an important clarification. Then, below that... “I did not know that. Did you know that rats laugh when they are happy?”

She stared at the words on the paper for a while. She doodled a little rat, laughing, the words HA HA HA over its head. She stared for a while longer. She had never written anyone a letter before. She was pretty sure this wasn’t how you did it. She wrestled with indecision for a while longer, before she tore the bag, carefully, so that the words didn’t rip. Then she taped it onto the slanted roof above her make-shift bed, with her other paper-bag doodles. This was paper bag lunch number fourteen.

She hoped tomorrow would be fifteen.

She hoped tomorrow would have more words on it, too.

She yawned, stomach gurgling and full, and curled up, pulling one of the many blankets over her head. The rats settled in around her, and she drifted into sleep, very full and very warm.

[headfulloffantasies]

Angel With a Shotgun

Chapter 8 

I accidentally posted these in the wrong order. Chapter 9 comes after this. 

Bobby talks to H

Bobby called H as soon as he got the boys tucked into bed. Sam was still woozy. He kept dropping off in the car, to Dean’s horror. The poor kid was so worried his brother was hurt. Bobby didn’t even bother trying to separate them. He just let Dean crawl into Sam’s bed and flicked the light off.

Bobby went down into the kitchen and dialed the phone. H answered on the third ring. “Mr. Singer?”

“I got a dead demon here,” Bobby said in lieu of a greeting. “Where can I meet you?”

H swore. “You killed a demon? You sure? It might be faking-,”

“I’m sure that a portal to Hell opened up under it,” Bobby snapped. “Tell me where you are or so help me God-,”

“Alright, alright,” H sighed, the phone speaker crackling. “I’m at a place called the Fore Inn. Couple hours west of you. But Bobby, I don’t know that I can help you with a demon problem. It’s a bit above my pay grade.”

“You’re the only person I know who knows anything about this whole mess. You’ll do.” Booby hung up.

He waited until morning to leave. The night was spent sitting in his armchair with the shotgun across his knees. At first light, Bobby called Ellen. He owed her a bottle of Jack for babysitting.

Bobby got down on one knee by the front door to say goodbye to his boys. Dean stood tall; his little shoulders squared.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow morning,” Bobby promised. Dean only nodded, the perfect soldier.

Sam’s lower lip wobbled. It hurt Bobby’s heart to leave so soon after Sam had had a scare.

“One word,” Bobby said. “And I’ll stay. If you don’t want me to go, I’ll stay.”

Sam sniffled and shook his head. “You’re going for us. So the thing in Ms. Lyle won’t come back.”

Bobby wrapped Sam in a hug. “Such a smart boy. I won’t let anything happen to you again, d’ya hear?”

Sam nodded, his floppy hair rubbing against Bobby’s cheek. Bobby took a step back. A tug on his sleeve redirected his attention. Dean held out Bobby’s shotgun. Normally, Bobby would tell him off for touching the gun. Guns weren’t toys. Instead Bobby took it carefully from Dean and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll be home soon.”

Now Bobby was walking up to the Fore Inn. It was shaped like a castle, if you were a Frankenstein enthusiast. One half of the building was a round, turret shape. The rest was stucco and green gabled windows. It was, in a word, tired. An Inn that had seen better days, if the peeling yellow wallpaper and musty front desk proved anything.

Bobby rang the bell. No one came. He peeked behind the desk. The usual CCTV was playing in black and white under the counter, and the row of room keys was full. Not a single key missing.

The hairs on the back of Bobby’s neck stood up. If H wasn’t staying in a room, why had he asked Bobby to meet here? Bobby glanced at the security video again and his stomach lurched.

The top corner of the screen showed a hallway with a cleaning cart parked outside a room. The room door was open. A hand curled around the bottom of the doorframe. It didn’t move.

Bobby smelled a rat. He turned on his heel, ready to run back to the car. He didn’t get more than a few paces over the gravel driveway.

A man in a trench coat and a wide brimmed hat leaned against his car. H.

Bobby crunched over the gravel to meet him warily.

“Howdy, Mr. Singer,” H greeted him cheerily.

Bobby gripped H by the lapels and slammed him onto the hood of the car. H’s hat flopped into the dirt. “What’s going on?” Bobby snarled.

H grabbed at Bobby’s wrists. “Mr. Singer, please-,”

“No.” Bobby lifted him and slammed him back down. H and the car both groaned.

“You’ve been busy, Mr. Singer,” H huffed. “First a rugaru and now a demon. That’s very impressive.”

“I aim to please,” Bobby snarked. “How’d you know about the rugaru?”

“Because I sent it after you.”

Bobby saw the blow coming just in time. He blocked the knife H aimed at his neck and twisted the blade out of H’s grip.

Bobby flipped the knife and pressed it against H’s throat. “Why are you doing this?” H shrugged, suddenly limp and pliant under Bobby’s hands. “Orders from below, Mr. Singer.”

“Below? As in-,”

“As in Hell, Mr. Singer.” His eyes flickered from watery blue to pitch black.

Bobby jerked back, almost losing his grip. “Demon.”

A crooked smile warped H’s face. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out.”

H whistled. A low, bone shaking howl answered. Bobby’s blood ran cold. He’d heard that sound before.

           A huge Black Dog came trotting out from behind the Inn. Its fur was matted in viscous red around its slobbering jaws. Bobby dropped H and backed away, holding the knife out. It seemed like a toothpick compared to the beast’s fangs.

The monster pranced right up to H, nuzzling its massive head into his hand.

           “How-?”

           “Oh Mr. Singer, you’re asking all the wrong questions.”

Bobby hardly head him over the pounding of his blood. “And what might the right questions be?”

H grinned. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to tell you, Mr. Singer.” He patted the Dog. “Please know that I hold you in the highest regard. Sic ‘em.”

Bobby ran. The beast was on him in an instant, its foul breath curdling the very air. Claws found Bobby’s ankles and he crashed head first into the gravel. He scrambled to flip over. Massive jaws opened over him. Bobby shouted, stabbing blindly. The knife met flesh. The Dog howled, its weight lifting. Bobby stumbled to his feet. The Dog was weaving drunkenly, tripping over its massive paws. Bobby took one step and the thing growled. It charged.

The knife met flesh a second time. The beast howled, the sound reverberating in Bobby’s teeth.

Bobby stood panting, the body of the Dog between him and H. H hadn’t moved, content to watch the Dog rip Bobby to shreds. Bobby advanced. Black smoke dribbled out of H’s mouth.

Bobby tripped through the opening of an exorcism. The smoke slammed back into H. H coughed, stumbling. Bobby charged him, pinning him back against the car. He held the knife to H’s throat.

H laughed. “So, you’re a hunter now, eh, Mr. Singer? Are you going to fight evil and slay demons?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

H smirked, “And what about those boys of yours? We can smell them, you know.”

Bobby leaned his weight behind the knife. “Leave them alone.”

“I get the feeling I won’t have another shot at them. But others will. There’s a plan for them, you know.”

“What plan? Why do you care?”

“What did you think? That Hell was going to let two fledglings go?”

“What’d you call them?” Bobby startled.

H chuckled. “You really don’t know what they are, do you? You’ve got two of the most powerful creatures in existence living under your roof and you’re too stupid to notice.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

“No,” H wriggled under the blade cutting into his skin. A trickle of blood dripped along the knife’s edge. “You really haven’t. But you will.” He bared his teeth. “If you live that long.”

Blind rage latched itself to Bobby’s skin. He raised the knife and brought it down square in H’s chest. The wound sparked, light coursing through H’s body, scorching him from the inside.

Bobby wrenched the knife out in horror. H’s limp body dropped, blood pooling over the gravel.

Bobby stumbled back. He hit the car and stopped. Great heaving breaths wheezed out of his lungs. He’d killed a demon. Not just exorcised, killed. The poor mook H had been wearing as a meat suit was dead. Bobby glanced away from H’s glassy eyes.

His gaze fell on the knife. The blade was straight on one side sharpening to a wicked point. The other side was viciously jagged. Runes ran down the middle of the blade, etched into the metal all the way down to where it met the bone handle. A knife that could kill demons and Black Dogs.

Bobby looked up at the dead Black Dog. It’s rank fur was like an oil slick against the gravel. In the background, the Fore Inn sat as mournful as ever. Bobby jolted with the realization that H had killed the Inn’s staff.

There were so many bodies. So much evil. Bobby glanced again at H. The fiery glow the knife had burned through him played over and over in Bobby’s mind. Baptism by fire. Cleansing by flames.

Bobby knew what he had to do.

When he sped away kicking up gravel, the Fore Inn was ablaze. It was better this way. All traces of the demonic massacre were swallowed by the flames that filled Bobby’s rear view mirror.

 Previous      Next    Ao3

[boldlytiny--bouquet]

Childhood

Idly I dusted my room. I polished the glass vase, swept the lamp, and cleared the top of the dresser, picking up a doll to do so. Setting her back down, I noticed some grime on her porcelain cheeks. Gently I removed it, gazing at her smooth complexion and glassy blue-grey eyes, blueberry eyes. Eyes like mine. I tried propping her back up against the wall but she sagged, as she always did, next to my other doll, Vanessa. Vanessa never sat up straight. She always reclined slightly, gazing out past my room, aloof and unaware. Stately in her peach lace and oversized hat and delicate chestnut curls, which still retained their natural corkscrew shape. Her shoes were still matching, and her left foot was broken off, but you couldn’t tell under the frills of her skirt. A slight smile hovering on her lips, she had no need for correct posture and she lorded over my room, atop the peak of my dresser. 

Laura always sat up. Almost. Laura has a soft plush body made for gentle holding and rocking, unlike Vanessa’s stiff corset of a frame. The wires that ran through Vanessa’s body that helped her retain poses and remain tightly in place kept her from having good posture, and while Laura slumped, Laura was propped up more easily. 

I stood there, dedicating much more time to thinking about these two than I usually did. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually thought about them. Suddenly, I was interested in Laura.

I took her down from her perch where she had sat for the past two years. Before that she had been on a shelf in my sister’s room, to whom I had lent Laura for a few years while I decided I was too old for dolls. Before that she had been part of the collection I proudly maintained, but always off to the side. Always just behind another doll, always just out of sight. 

I removed her bonnet, carefully untying the knotted and unravelling ribbon. Her bonnet was one of the reasons I had bought her from that second hand shop in the first place. She had spoken to me of Little House on the Prairie, of blue skies and nodding grass, of ribbons at the end of braids and corn husk dolls. I gently smoothed out her soft grey hair, being careful not to muss the last perfect curl left. The rest was matted and knotted, as doll’s hair becomes eventually through years of play. I had hated her hair. Hated how dull and grey it was, how the massive rat’s nest could only be added to, never fixed. China dolls were supposed to be young girls. Fresh, sweet, with round cheeks and fancy gowns. Who had ever heard of a young girl with grey hair?

Tenderly I tucked some stray hairs back into the mass of matted once-curls. Shifting her hair over, I exposed the zipper on the back of her dress and delicately relieved her of the floral pattern. It had puffed sleeves, like Anne of Green Gables, lace trimmed with pink ribbon accenting the hems. But it was a simple dress. Muted pink and pastel green and soft grey, a hint of scarlet in some of the flowers. It brought out the pink in her cheeks and brought together the grey of her hair.

She was my only doll to have a zipper instead of velcro. She was also the only one to have a petticoat - a simple one made of thin lace with a waistband that was far too wide for her grey body, and would slip off if you didn’t tuck it into the waistband of her dress. 

I pulled off her mismatched shoes, neither of them with laces anymore, no stockings to encase the delicate china feet before the soft white leather. I thought I had seen a stocking in the barbie box before. Small objects such as socks and laces were endlessly useful in play, and none of my china dolls’ perfect footwear had stayed with them very long. I was sure I had seen a pair of laces in the LEGO bin last time I opened it.

Her trousers, baggy and slipping, I removed last. I took in her blank body. The seam between her legs had split and the stuffing was debating on whether or not it wanted to come out. The glue holding her wig to her head had started to weaken over the years, and if you pulled her mane up gently you could see it starting to come away from the porcelain. 

I beheld her face. She had been unique in so many ways. She was my only doll to not have a closed-lipped, lording smile; her lips parted slightly to reveal a hint of teeth. She was the first doll I ever bought, the predecessor to many others that I would adore more than her. Ones with more vibrant dresses that her, ones with real eyelashes and glossy hair and matching shoes. They were all gone now, but for Vanessa. I had left them all behind years ago. I couldn’t remember why Laura wasn’t one of them.

Maybe because I admired her outfit. Maybe because I liked her smile. Maybe because she had been the First. It didn’t matter anymore. As I turned her back over, her bare feet clicked and scraped together, jerking me back through memories.

I sat in my room filled with my childhood. The dusty marbles sat next to my neatly aligned Archie comics, across the room from the Curious George storybook collection sitting on my bookshelf. The stuffed bear I had received upon my birth sat at the base of my mirror, where a photo of my and my sister hung. Neither of us could have been more than three. My magic castle set, which I had collected all the set pieces for over five long years, was sitting in my closet. I hadn’t looked at it in years.

I sat surrounded by all the toys I never played with anymore, and wondered when I had grown up.