#I put it cover down so I can have plausible deniability of 'oh I did not see the cover I thought it was just another book that had gotten

[high-fructose-jay-syrup]

work things

[suginami-division]

A knock is heard on the door of the Umemoto residence. Opening the door reveals Kaoru Shinozaki and Kanra Akemi, the latter holding quite a few boxes in her arms. 

“Happy Birthday Ryuko!” Kaoru greeted giving the animator a two-finger salute. 

"Ryuko-san! Happy Birthday!" Kanra loudly cheered, lifting her arms and showing Ryuko the multiple boxes they had brought with them.

Walking inside Kanra gently placed the boxes on the kitchen counter. Turing around Kanra walked over to Ryuko and gave him a giant hug lifting him off the ground a few inches. Ryuko couldn't help but wheeze as he felt his spine cracking in several places. 

“Kanra! Put him down! He can't afford the medical bills if you break his spine.” Kaoru scolded. 

“Oops! Sorry!” Kanra apologized and put the animator down. 

“Alright Kanra why don't you get set up what you brought and I’ll give Ryuko his gifts.” Kaoru reminded the pink haired girl.

“Kay,” Kanra replied, picking up a few of the boxes leaving only the gifts behind, and walking into Ryuko’s kitchen. 

“Alright, Ryuko Kanra’s got something planned for ya but first gifts!” Kaoru cackled picking up the biggest of the gifts and placing the box in Ryuko’s hands.

Opening the gift reveals a brand-new coffee machine. One that looked particularly fancy to Ryuko considering the touch screen it had on it. 

“Hope you can put it to good use. Your current one looks like it's about to die.” Kaoru eyed the current machine in Ryuko’s kitchen. Looking at it like it had offended her. Picking up the next Kaoru passed it to Ryuko.

Opening the gift reveals a brand new drawing tablet and matching stylus. 

“Ta-da! Built by yours truly and is infinitely times better than anything out on the market right now. I included a few features such as a 3D hologram mode which allows you to view your art in a 3D hologram. Heck, I even made it so that you can draw on the hologram.” Kaoru finished with a huge grin on her face as she explained her work.

“I have one more gift for you. It's not really physical tho.” Kaoru told Ryuko, pulling out her phone and typing on it for a second. 

Hearing his phone ping Ryuko pulled it out of his pocket and his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull when he saw a notification that said someone had just deposited 10,000$ dollars directly into his bank account. Ryuko quicked turned his gaze back to Kaoru and saw that she had an amused look on her face. 

“Just a little something from me Ryuko. Use it for a vacation it looks like you really need one. I hear Disneyland Tokyo is pretty good this time of year.” Kaoru winked. “Also, Ryuko I’m sure you have some experience with this considering your last…job but don't ask where the money came from… plausible deniability ya know?” Kaoru smiled giving Ryuko’s shoulder a quick pat.

“I'm done!” Kanra shouted from the kitchen.

“Oh good Kanra made you something. She thinks you eat too many frozen meals to be healthy.”  Kaoru responded pushing Ryuko toward his kitchen.

Walking into his tiny kitchen Ryuko was surprised to see both his counters and table covered in all sorts of homemade traditional foods. Ryuko’s stomach growled as he saw all the dishes in front of him. It all smelled good to him. 

What had caught his eye though was the cake in the middle of the table. It was white and with eastern golden dragons wrapped around the sides. 

“Kanra how much food did you make?” Kaoru wondered seeing that Kanra had basically taken over the tiny kitchen with how many premade dishes she had brought with her.

“Just the normal amount of food I usually make plus extra for leftovers for Ryuko-san. Why? Did I go overboard?”  Kanra questioned taking out another dish from the boxes she had brought.

“Kanra this enough to feed a small army.” Kaoru sighed, turning her head to look at Ryuko. “Oi! Ryuko call the rest of your team. Your gonna need all the help you can to eat all of this food. Even then I think there's gonna be food leftover.”

“H-Huh? Oh, it’s you guys thank you-Ah, you’re coming in?”

Ryuko seemed taken aback by the sudden surprise. As the two walked into his small apartment, the man could only shrug and close the door behind them and follow the two inside. His path was quickly interrupted by Kanra turning around from the stack of boxes she had brought in to give him a hug. Well, her way of hugging.

The poor man was unable to utter a word as he felt several things in his body get crushed (something might have snapped too). Thankfully, Kaoru was there to mediate not without punching him down verbally by insulting his income.

“F-Fuck both of you…” Ryuko rasps out as soon as he falls to his knees in the middle of his hallway. It wasn’t without him recovering quickly, coughing out his lungs from the deprivation of air he had experienced. “Those other gifts better not be some sort of weapon to torture me.”

Sitting down with Kaoru, Ryuko figured he might as well entertain these two intruders in his home. They were after all, meaning well by giving him a lot of birthday gifts… And with how Ryuko was doing, he wasn’t one to turn down free stuff, especially on his birthday. Opening the first one, he was surprised to see a new coffee machine. Sleek, modern and a touch screen? This was a lifesaver for him, with his old one beginning to break down. Kaoru of course had no hesitation to point that out, with Ryuko could only respond with a glare at the hacker.

With the next gift, Ryuko was surprised to receive such a futuristic tablet and pen. Being used to using an ordinary drawing tablet or even screens like at his work, a hologram feature in a tablet was really something else. “Fuck, Shuu was right when saying you go all out with these tech gifts. But, you gotta show me how the hologram shit works Kaoru. I’m not that familiar with this type of tech.”

“Wait, that’s not all?” Ryuko responded when Kaoru decided to add in one more detail. As the ping rang on his cracked phone rang out, his jaw just dropped at what appeared across his screen. Completely speechless, all Ryuko could do was nod at Kaoru’s request to not ask where the money came from.

At this point of their visit, Ryuko could hardly make any snappy remarks at Kaoru’s comments about his living style. Pushing the now dumbstruck animator into the kitchen, he was only able to continue to stare at the array of food Kanra had managed to set out for him. All their banter faded into the background as his brain tried to catch up with what was happening. He was only snapped out of his revere when Kaoru shouted out at him to call his team, which he dumbly nodded in acknowledgement, before walking out of the kitchen in a daze.

Ring… Ring… Click!

“Ryu-chan! Hey, hey! What’s up?” Shuu’s cheerful voice responded once Ryuko had managed to dial his number.

“Shuu…”

“Huh? Ryuko, what’s wrong?” Shuu’s tone quickly grew concerned when Ryuko answered in such an odd way. “Did something happen?”

“N-No nothing bad. Just…” Ryuko started to process everything and rubbed his eyes, feeling odd. “The Edogawa team girls, minus the scary leader came over and they made food.”

“Oh! Kao-chan and Kan-chan? Aww! That sounds nice!”

“Yeah, there’s too much so could you call Maki and get over here? We’re going to need help.”

“Oki-doki!” The detective chirps. “But hey, are you okay? You sound a bit… Sniffly?”

“Shit, sorry.” Ryuko coughs, “You know how Kanra is. I think something went out of place… I’ll probably need Maki’s help to fix whatever it is.”

“...Really?” an unconvinced voice responds.

“Really. Now quit fucking stalling and get over here. I'm fucking starving and I don't wanna wait forever for both of your asses.”

“Hehe, okay! I’ll be there in 10!” And with a click, Shuu had hung up, no doubt doing just as Ryuko had requested.

Now left with a more clear head, Ryuko took a deep breath. This was a lot for him, for these team members to do so much for him, despite being rivals. It was going to take awhile for him to process the thoughts and feelings he was experiencing but for now…

“Fuck it, I’ll enjoy myself a bit!”

[mlobsters]

supernatural s7e4 defending your life (w. adam glass)

possessed car?? we did ghost truck i guess that's different enough. oh, no. ghost car. okay, the splat effects (and sound effects) on the titles - i have been itching to snark about. combining the splat of the ghost car victim and the titles is so goofy

okay. *argh* stop making me mad at you, dean. he was just railing into sam about not telling them about the hallucinations, but now he just lied to sam's face about jewel staite.

DEAN Some kind of ghost? DEAN With a license? License to kill. SAM Seriously?

why are they acting like that's weird. wasn't there a ghost truck that killed people episode already?? are they gonna talk about cassie???? (no)

SAM No. Just dirt. Could be "Christine"-like. DEAN Ugh. Even possessed cars can't do stairs. It's something spectral.

great minds

sam's hair, it's very fluffy and long and feathery, what's going on

DEAN I gave up AA for Lent. SAM We're not Catholic. DEAN Always with the details. AA gives me the jeebs. SAM Wow. Shocker.

so is this gonna be a very special episode where we acknowledge dean's alcoholism? (no)

DEAN Kind of makes you wonder if the guy wasn't drunk when he ran her over. SAM Yeah.

this episode has been full of weird pauses/moments focusing on reactions to things that may or may not have warranted the reaction that happened.

okay so i was like you know there's not a lot of pale red haired covered-in-freckles people in media, being a pale and covered-in-freckles person myself i do tend to notice, so i had to get a screenshot of the hands. my people's hands 😂 though his face does not look freckled in the same way but it's stupid hard to cover with makeup and still look vaguely skin-like... anyway. he's also been in altered carbon lol

altered carbon s1e4 force of evil - teach grant as jimmy desoto

what's going on with grumpy mcgrumperson dean. very special episode where dean learns people can actually grow and change? people like jewel staite and i dunno, sam?? (no)

DEAN Wow. I'd be so interested in that if I ate apples.

you really gonna have dean "pie's #1 fan" winchester say this?

DEAN I'm gonna check the bar. SAM To work or drink? DEAN I haven't decided.

i'm at the very special episode about alcoholism. i'm at the very special episode where dean tries to learn that people can change. i'm at the combination alcoholism and how people can change very special episode.

BARTENDER Love life or job? Two quick doubles, it's something. I'm Mia, by the way. DEAN Well, Mia, that is a complex question. I'm Dean, by the way.

lol. and plausible deniability

oh he's grumpy because he killed jewel when he told sam he wouldn't and that he trusted sam? because you should feel bad about the lying. and the not trusting.

BOBBY They identify the God Osiris. Real authoritarian type. He gets ahold of you, he's judge, jury, and executioner. Lore says that he can see directly into the human heart. He weighs the guilt. If he finds more than a feather's worth – boom, you're done.

weighing guilt, great. clear consciences all around.

DEAN It's been a while. But you owe yourself. It's nothing but a ground ball – you just got to put your mitt down. You are Dean Winchester. This is what you do.

hyping himself up for his hookup? kind of assumed that was still happening off camera.

aw, he's "sammy" in dean's phone

OSIRIS You and that waitress had quite a talk, huh? Get a couple drinks in you, and the guilt comes pouring out.

course it was too much of a real interaction to be anything other than a little plot device. this dude's voice/accent was very familiar, and aha.

the magicians s3e1 the tales of the seven keys - faran tahir as the great cock of the darkling woods

haha lawyer!sam what au fic is this

SAM Witness is being called without prior notice. DEAN Good one. SAM I saw that on "The Good Wife."

this is a weird episode. tone and message keeps bopping around.

SAM So why'd you start? To impress some loudmouth ass you just met... Or 'cause you wanted to be like your dad? JO Daddy issues. Definitely.

dean looking hurt/embarrassed about being called a loudmouth ass, hum. and same jo, same.

OSIRIS But were you or were you not happily out of the family racket until Dean showed back up in that gas guzzler? Ah-ah. The truth, now.

you know i like to talk about the money they have to spend to keep the impala fueled

OSIRIS But don't you think that your brother dragged you back into that catastrophic mess because he'd rather damn you with him than be alone?

okay but all that and dean i guess REALLY feels guilty about is killing jewel staite. not the torturing people in hell thing. or a million other things. so don't feel guilty that that's what made you guilty, dean -_- was inevitable

login successful!

DEAN You were a kid. JO Not true. DEAN You and Sam. I just – you know, hunters are never kids. I never was. I didn't even stop to think about it. JO It's not your fault. It wasn't on you. DEAN No, but I didn't want to do it alone.

okay. no longer at the combination alcoholism and people can actually change very special episode. we're at the dean should not feel guilty for getting sam and jo into hunting very special episode? (eh?)

been a tick since their last scenic drink and chat date

SAM Look, I don't know what to tell you, Dean. I mean, I've spent a lot of time feeling pretty crappy – like, my whole life. DEAN What, you got a secret stash of happy pills? SAM Hell. SAM Look, I'm not saying it's logical. I just... you know, I feel like I did a lot of stuff I should have felt bad for, and then I paid a lot of dues and came out the other side, you know?

DEAN Well, I don't know whether to be, uh, jealous or weirded out. SAM You'll get used to it. I mean, I don't want to sound lame, but... I kind of feel good, Dean.

shut your mouth, sam, you know that's just asking for it. happiness is not allowed on this show. is this just denial though. foreshadowing something awful works all around

[pingutats]

wake up in some promised land

despite his best efforts to keep their relationship out of the public eye, harry & y/n are photographed together as they leave a party one night —and harry has an interview the very next morning.

warnings: a little bit of angst about trying to navigate fame and a relationship. harry has a foul mouth. but there’s a happy ending!

word count: 2.2k

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

Harry was decidedly not in a good mood. 

It had been a late night. He’d had a few more drinks than he usually did. In his defence it was earned—he’d just released an album, it was soaring to great heights on iTunes charts all over the world and already receiving overwhelmingly positive reviews—so sue him if he indulged in some expensive champagne, a couple fancy cocktails, too many rounds of shots for him to remember clearly… It was a good night all around. 

The headache he has right now though, brought on by the sudden blare of his alarm (far earlier than he would have preferred), threatens to tarnish the memory. He even considers swearing off drinking forever so he’ll never suffer like this again. 

When he voices this intention to a dozing Y/N as he pulls a shirt on, his only feedback is a pillow-muffled, “You’re such an old man, H.”

He leans over the bed and kisses the small part of her forehead that’s exposed between the pillow and the blanket. “Come on, love. Time to get up.”

“You can get up. I don’t have a radio appearance to make.” She jerks the blanket up to cover her head entirely. “I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”

He manages to drag her downstairs with him anyway, with promises of making her coffee and a hot breakfast. In the kitchen she yawns and stretches, the over-sized sleep shirt opening like bat wings as she raises her arms above her head. He has to force his fond gaze away to concentrate on turning the coffee machine on and pulling eggs out of the fridge. 

“This is a really ungodly hour,” she comments, watching him rummage around in a cupboard for a frying pan. 

“No such thing as a good night’s sleep when you’re as successful as I am,” he tells her wisely. 

She doesn’t even indulge him with a laugh, which tells him exactly how tired she is. 

The coffee’s done quickly—Harry is so addicted to the stuff he could probably make it in his sleep with all the practise he’s had—and she grabs the cup from him with greedy fingers, closing her eyes and sipping as she’s perched up on the counter. 

Harry nearly lets out a moan when the caffeine hits his lips. It surely can’t work that quickly, but already he’s starting to feel alive again. He turns to the stovetop and cracks the eggs in the frypan with one hand, using his other hand to cling to his cup for dear life. 

His phone starts ringing and the sound pierces through his head. His manager’s name is displayed, which is a good thing because if it was anyone else calling right now Harry would probably be tempted to kill them, and even if no publicity is bad publicity, he’s not sure a murder charge would be good for his album sales. He slides his finger across the screen to answer it and tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder while he adjusts the heat on the stove. 

“Hey, Jeff,” he says. 

Jeff laughs on the other end. “You sound fucked.”

“Big night,” Harry grumbles. “You don’t sound to pretty yourself.”

“All I’m saying is you better get yourself set in the next half hour, ‘cause a voice like that on the radio isn’t going to help you sell records.”

“I’m makin’ breakfast,” Harry retorts. “Got a coffee, I’ll be fine—oh, shit—fuck!” He’s mixed up his hands as he tried to flip the eggs, and poured coffee in the frypan. “Give me a second.”

He sets his coffee down on the counter and unsticks his phone from his cheek, turning it on speaker and placing it next to his cup. He stares at mess in the frypan and decides he’s going to have to try drain the liquid into the sink, without losing the eggs. He accepts this challenge with humility and grace, because he knows it’s his own stupid fault.

Y/N is cackling behind him. On any other day he might have been annoyed, but her laughter this morning just means that she’s in a better mood than earlier. He’d give anything to keep her happy, so if it takes fucking up their breakfast to have her smiling—so be it. 

“Okay,” Harry says to Jeff once he’s secured the situation. 

“Is everything okay over there?” Jeff’s voice is slightly tinny through the phone speaker, but his stress is evident in his tone. 

“Yeah, we’re just—“ he looks at the eggs, dyed brown by the coffee, and glances over his shoulder apologetically at Y/N. “We’re having caffeinated eggs. You’re on speaker. Y/N’s here too. Say hi, baby.”

“Hey, Jeff,” Y/N chirps. 

Jeff sighs. “Hi. Listen, it‘s probably good that you both hear this anyway. There are a couple of photos of the two of you from last night that are doing the rounds on Twitter this morning.”

Harry stiffens. “What?”

Here’s the thing: Harry and Y/N are definitely an item. It’s happened pretty quickly. They’ve been dating for a few months and now whenever they’re in the same city they’re practically living together. They’ve said “I love you” to each other often enough that its utterance isn’t a special occasion anymore. So, sure, they’re boyfriend-girlfriend, and if all goes to Harry’s plan, they’ll be more than that soon enough.

But in the meantime, she’s also his best-kept secret. There have been rumours, of course. They’ve been spotted having lunch together or going on walks. Anyone paying attention knows they’re good friends, but Harry has been careful not to let the other dimension of their relationship slip out into public yet. He conducts himself on public outings (secretly dates) like a Victorian gentleman, constantly vigilant that his affection never goes beyond what’s appropriate between friends. 

“They’re not bad,” Jeff says quickly. “It’s just pretty obvious what’s going on. I’ll send them to you, hang on.”

Y/N slides off the bench and comes to stand right behind Harry, leaning around him to stare at the phone. The minute of waiting for the photos to come through feels like forever. Y/N must sense his tension, because she puts her hands on his shoulders and squeezes. 

A notification pops up at the top of his screen: from Jeff, 8 images attached. He taps it quickly and frowns at the photos. 

They must have been taken as they were leaving the bar that the album release party was at. He notices Jeff and others also crowded on the pavement outside, lit by the orange glow of streetlights. The focus, however, is of course on Harry and Y/N, who were putting on something of a show for all their friends—and, apparently, the rest of the world. 

The first couple are okay. There Harry is, his arm slung around Y/N, clearly not sober as he bellows something up to the sky with a massive grin on his face and closed eyes. They were singing, he vaguely remembers, the karaoke they were doing inside the bar spilling over the rest of their night. Y/N is laughing at him, clapping her hands together.

Harry drags his finger up the screen to scroll to the next photos in Jeff’s chain. These ones start to reveal the two of them as much more than just friends. The arm around her dropped to her waist, pulling her into his body. And then he was bending his head down. And then he was kissing her. 

He scrolls down even further. 

In this one, he’s groping her ass in full view of the camera. 

“Harry, you lecher!” Y/N scolds, smacking his arm in good humour.

He just shakes his head, staring at the photo. “There’s no plausible deniability, is there?”

“There isn’t,” Jeff says over the phone. He laughs weakly. “You two put on a real show.” He must sense the panic that Harry’s feeling, because he adds, “Listen, Harry, I can blacklist questions about it if you want. Just tell me what you want to do.”

Harry looks at Y/N, chewing on his lip. He feels like a teenager again, out of control of his narrative and at the mercy of the media. He’s meticulously developed his skills of privacy for years, now, and one night of insobriety and bad luck undid it all. 

Jeff clears his throat. “The thing with blacklisting is that it might raise more questions. And even if you don’t talk about it, you’ve gotta remember that everyone else will be.”

“Yeah.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Look—“

Y/N puts her hand on his cheek, patting him. “Hey,” she says gently. “It’s okay.”

He sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth and holds it in for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says finally with a sigh. 

She scoffs. “You’re not the only one in these photos.”

He frowns. She doesn’t get that he’s apologising for more than just the photos. It’s the fact that they have to deal with this at all, that it’s such a big deal for them to simply act like a normal couple. It’s the fact that it’s him, and he is who he is. 

“H,” she presses further. “It’s up to you. Your decision. But I want you to know that I’m happy whichever way you choose.”

He searches her eyes for any hint of doubt. She didn’t manage to clean off all her make-up last night, and there’s a smear of glitter on her temple and dark smudges of mascara underneath her eyes. She looks tired, but she’s definitely serious about what she’s saying. 

“You get what it means to be public with me, though,” he says at last. He hesitates. “It’s… intense.”

She shrugs and gives him a cocky grin. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

“I’m being serious.”

“I am too.” She’s holding his head in her hands, her fingers smoothing his unruly curls off his face. “It’s just a few photos. It isn’t everything.”

It isn’t everything. Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then leans down to kiss her gently. It’s just an innocent peck, but the feel of her soft lips against his is enough to ground him.

Jeff clears his throat awkwardly. 

They break apart with embarrassed smiles. “Sorry,” Harry says, but he isn’t really.

“Yeah,” Jeff says, sounding uncomfortable. “You’re going to have to make a decision soon, because we’re really cutting it fine.”

Harry looks at Y/N, who nods. 

He turns back to the phone. “Don’t worry about it,” Harry says. “Let them ask the questions.”

“Yeah?” Jeff asks. “Okay then, that saves me a load of trouble. Good luck, man. Enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, hanging up with a sharp tap on the screen. He turns around to Y/N with a grin on his face. “Where were we…”

Y/N giggles as he gathers her into his arms, pulling her in close for a kiss that no one else can see or hear, a kiss just for them. When she pulls back to breath, he peppers his lips all over her face until she’s squirming away—“Harry, that tickles!”

He lands one last kiss on her cheek before his gaze lands on the time display on the oven behind her, which tells him he has ten minutes before he needs to be on the Zoom call for the interview. 

She notices the sudden shift in his demeanour and glances behind her to see what caused it. She turns back around. “I’ll sit with you.”

He nods. “Yeah, okay, I’d like that.”

“It’s Harry Styles!” the presenter cries. 

“It’s me! Hello, hello,” he says, waving at the screen. The laptop is set on the coffee table and he’s sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he grins at the screen. “How are ya?”

“Oh, we’re wonderful,” the presenter replies. “More importantly, how are you? Looks like you had a big night last night, judging by these photos we’re seeing!”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Big night,” he echoes, dragging out the word. 

The presenter laughs. “Sounds like a great time. Well deserved after this masterpiece of an album. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like you’re quite close with somebody there. Would you explain what’s going on here, Harry?”

Harry peers at the photo displayed on his computer screen, even though he knows exactly what it will be. The one they chose is a sweet one, with Y/N’s arms wrapped around his neck and kiss that he seems to be melting into. He can’t suppress his smile at that. “Oh, well,” he says. “That’s my friend Y/N.”

The presenter raises his eyebrows at that. “Good friend, is she?”

Harry glances up over the laptop to look at Y/N, sitting on the other couch, her cheeks pink and round from her smile. Harry surreptitiously reaches his arm towards her, out of frame, and she leans forward to hold his hand. 

“She is. She’s a lovely girl.” He squeezes her hand. “Yeah, we’re very good friends.”

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thank you so much for reading! this fic is based on a request from @kissmyaxe140 — i really intended this to be a shorter blurb of a few hundred words, but i’m incapable of brevity. apparently. this grew into a little monster but i rlly had fun writing it!! the title is a lyric from secret life by bleachers.

if you liked this fic, a reblog and/or any kind of feedback would be very much appreciated. my masterlist can be found here and you can send me messages here. have a gorgeous day!

[clumsyclifford]

Hi! Are you still taking prompts? Would you do one where Alex is stressed out on tour and Jack comforts him?

hi anon this is sorta kinda what you asked for but also not really. but mostly yes. and it kicked my writer's block so i should thank you. even though i really just took advantage of this existing prompt to write some emo bullshit. enjoy

read here on ao3

-

No one can find Alex.

He’s not in the tour bus and not in the venue, and he’s not answering his phone or any of his texts, which pretty much covers all of everyone’s guesses. They bring the problem to Jack, and Jack says, “Did you check the roof?”

“What?” says Flyzik, who looks like he’s mentally filling out his resignation form.

“Let me look,” Jack says. He doesn’t know why they insist on levying a whole search party before asking him; he always knows where Alex is. Jack calls it his spidey-sense. Alex calls it “fucking creepy.”

“If he’s on the roof, don’t tell me,” Flyzik says as he goes. “I need plausible deniability!”

It’s windy out, enough that Jack draws up the hood of his hoodie and pulls the strings as tight as they’ll go. Even brief exposure to the world puts a chill in his fingers. Only an insane person would be sitting unprotected on the roof of the tour bus in this weather.

Jack sighs and starts the climb.

As expected, the silhouette of Alex’s profile comes into view as Jack reaches the top. His fingers are close to numb and he’s a little worried he’ll fall; the bus has convenient ridges for climbing but they’re definitely not designed for that purpose, and he’s sure he’s not supposed to be climbing it. But he’s already gotten this far, and Alex is here, unmoving enough that he might have frozen into a block of ice, which means Jack is officially a witness anyway, so he may as well figure out what’s going on.

He clambers onto the roof and hastily pulls his hands back into his sleeves. Careful, he crosses to the middle of the roof, where Alex is sitting like a statue.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” Jack says.

Alex remains unresponsive. Arms securing his knees to his chest like a seatbelt, chin resting atop them, he gazes out into the middle distance, stare as vacant as the parking lot around them.

“Don’t be surprised if Flyzik tries to quit later,” Jack says. “He’s just jealous I can always find you with my spidey-sense.”

Alex says nothing.

Jack bites his lip. It’s unfortunately chilly out, more and more the longer they stay here. How long did Alex spend up here before they realized he was missing? How long has he been sitting in the biting cold?

“Alex,” says Jack, a little lower. “Talk to me.”

Alex slow-blinks, so at least he’s alive. He opens his mouth. “I can’t—” His voice is hoarse; he clears his throat. “I don’t think I can do it. This. It’s too much.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “This is more serious than I anticipated.”

None of his jokes are landing right; Alex just shakes his head, barely. He doesn’t even have a hood on. He must be fucking freezing. Jack is tempted to reach out and touch his hand, just to gauge the temperature, but he’s getting the sense that one wrong move will shut Alex down for real.

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

Alex stares a little more. The look in his eyes is unfocused at best; Jack could set off fireworks right in his line of sight and he doubts Alex would notice, or care.

“Everything is stressing me out,” Alex says. “Everything. Even playing shows feels more like a job now. It’s not fun when I’m exhausted all the time, every day. Like, I drag myself out of bed and go answer the same fucking questions about the same fucking songs and then every night I have to go play the same fucking set over and over and tell every damn city they’re the best show we’ve played. I spend so much of my day just. Lying. That sucks, man.” He shakes his head again. “I thought when I got to be like all the musicians I admired that I could do it like them, like blink always did, and just be authentic and be myself and that we could be a cool band who’s real, not like all those cheesy media-trained cookie-cutter boy bands, but. We’re not. We’re just cookie-cutter in a different way.” The set of his shoulders doesn’t change, but his words come out faster, worked up, intense. “I’m not real. Blink wasn’t real. Nothing about this is real. None of this is real, Jack, I’m singing songs about people who don’t exist and relationships I haven’t had and stuff I haven’t done, and if I can’t be real about it then what the fuck is the point of doing it at all?”

Jack swallows. He could so easily fuck this up, can feel how delicate it is, and yet he’s completely at a loss. What is he supposed to say to that, exactly? Agreeing with Alex won’t help, but disagreeing won’t help, either.

“Yeah,” he says, stalling.

Alex isn’t done. “And,” he says, with a renewed dejection, “I can’t sleep, and it’s fucking freezing cold out here, and I just wish we could have more than one night in the same bed. Real bed. I want to sleep in a real bed for more than a couple hours at a time. I’m so fucking tired.”

Jack hums. He’d like that, too, for both of them, for all of them. Alex’s pseudo-insomnia isn’t news, but he’d always given the impression he was fine in spite of it. Or “dealing with it.” In retrospect, they should have checked in with him.

It’s just, Alex doesn’t like being checked on. He’s stubborn when he wants to be, and he’s too proud for his own good. His problems are locked in a safe behind a shiny brass door and a keypad whose code changes every day. Sometimes Jack guesses it by pure chance. Sometimes he’s as pitifully locked out as everyone else.

“I talked to my mom and she told me to see a doctor,” Alex says hollowly. “I thought she meant for, fuckin’, melatonin or whatever. So I said I didn’t think that would fix the brain problems and she was like, ‘Not that kind of doctor, honey.’” He breathes sharply out. “Told me to get therapy, basically.”

“Irony, thy name is Izzy.”

“Yeah.”

Finally. Jack can’t help but feel relieved; if Alex is acknowledging his attempts to lighten the mood, there’s hope yet.

“I don’t know,” Alex says quietly. “It’s like…fuck, I probably do need therapy, but…only if I don’t just. Quit right now. If I quit right now, all of these problems will go away. And I can go home, wherever that is, and I can— like, sleep, and I won’t have to talk to annoying interviewers or pretend to be happy when I’m not and I could just. You know?”

“And you would do that?” Jack chews his lip. “Quit right now?” He clenches his jaw, swallows. “Leave us high and dry?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says. “I don’t wanna feel like this all the time, every day, so.”

“Well, these feelings and problems might disappear if you left, but rest assured you would have a new set of feelings and problems,” Jack says. “You would miss me, for one. And that would be debilitating.”

Alex exhales. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“No, I—” Alex sighs. “Come on, Jack, I’m not…I’m not gonna just quit and leave. I’m not.”

Jack can’t help the sigh of relief. “You promise?”

“No,” Alex mutters.

“That’s fair.”

“It’s just…like…how do I know what to choose? At what point am I putting the band over myself?”

The only answer Jack has is when the band starts making you miserable, but that just sounds like what Alex has been describing. They’re not out of the woods yet; Alex is still very much teetering at the edge of this cliff.

“Would you be happier if you weren’t in it?” Jack asks. As soon as he says it he wants to take it back. It’s too easy to imagine Alex nodding his head in response, maybe ushering in a brand-new realization. Maybe Jack has just sealed their fate in a bad way.

“No,” Alex says. His gaze travels down to his beat-up Converse. Jack watches his eyes move without seeing.

“Are you happy now?” he asks quietly.

Alex turns his head, locking his impassive stare onto Jack for the first time. It changes as he does, melting like ice, watery droplets of distress streaking the glacial exterior. Like wiping away condensation to see through glass, the dull disguise dissipates, and Alex watches Jack with sad eyes.

“Not really,” he says. “But I don’t think it’s the band. I think it’s my fault.”

“How so?”

“Attitude problems?” Alex lifts a shoulder, looks back at his shoes. “I don’t know. I could try. Instead of giving up. I contemplate running away at least once a day. That can’t be normal. Even for this job. Especially for this job.”

“I don’t know, Zack’s snoring does things to a man,” Jack says. Alex huffs. “Well, look. Can I say something as someone who’s known you for years? And been your best friend and seen you grow up and blah blah blah?”

“Sure,” Alex says. “I’m most interested in the blah blah blah part.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I just mean, not as your bandmate who’s trying to get you to stay. Not even as your friend who’s trying to get you to stay. Just honesty, right? Just being real.” Alex inclines his head. “Um, okay, well…you love this job.” Alex sighs, and Jack says, “I know, and maybe you don’t feel like it right now, but you do. Trust me, okay? I know you think you would know best because you’re the one who’s inside your brain but your brain is lying to you, about this and a lot of things, and it always has, but I never lie to you. I don’t lie to you. You’re like the only person I never lie to. Everyone has one person like that and you’re mine.”

It's hard to tell, but Alex might be smiling. Imperceptibly. Jack takes a breath.

“And, so, obviously I want you to stay in the band because I’d lose my job and/or be fucking miserable if you left, but I want you to be happy too, and I know you won’t be happy if you leave. ‘Cause you’ll miss me, maybe, but eventually you’ll miss the shows and the music and even the annoying interviews. And Alex, honestly, not a single person in those crowds believes you when you say it’s the best show of the tour. You’re not lying to them, and you’re not being any less yourself just because sometimes you put on a front. Everyone does that. Every person in the goddamn world pretends to be someone else sometimes, how do you think people get jobs? You think people go into job interviews and say ‘By the way, I know every word to ‘Rap God’ by Eminem and I play for both teams but I prefer dudes’? Of course not, man. Stuff like that is personal, and just because you aren’t saying it doesn’t mean you’re being fake. You’re still you. I promise you, on my life, you are real. Some of this” — he gestures around them— “is staged, but some of real life is also staged, like my mom would always make us clean our house before we’d have guests so they wouldn’t know that we live in filth every other day of the week. But you are real, Alexander William Gaskarth. You are as real as they come. Okay?” He swallows. “Am I making sense?”

“I hate to admit it,” Alex mumbles, “but yes.”

“Thank God,” Jack says under his breath. He presses his lips together. “It’s not perfect, obviously, none of this is perfect, nothing is perfect. But the solution isn’t to run away or quit. I’m sorry, but it’s not. You’ll fucking hate yourself.”

“I know.”

“But we can fix it,” Jack says. “Some of it, at least, like you could see a real doctor and maybe they could give you the good drugs so you could at least get a normal amount of sleep, and maybe that would help. I don’t know, I can only do so much, but it’s not hopeless, you know?”

“Okay, okay,” Alex says. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll stop talking?”

“No,” Alex says, shooting him a look. “I get it. I love my job.”

“You believe me.”

“Yeah, I know you’re right.” Alex breathes out, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re right. My brain lies to me, but you really never do.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Gotta be good for something.”

“You’re good for a couple things,” Alex says. “Not too shabby on guitar.”

“Pretty sure if you check my resume, the first thing right at the top is ‘Alex Gaskarth’s Best Friend.’ It’s, like, my full-time job. The band thing is just to pay the bills.”

“Barely.”

“Yeah, barely.”

This time they both laugh. Relief settles in Jack’s chest, light and airy.

“It is so fucking cold out here,” he says. “You think we could maybe get on the bus?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “I’m completely numb. Literally cannot feel any of my limbs. Not sure I still have them.”

“No wonder you’re miserable, you self-sabotaging asshole,” Jack says, and reaches for Alex’s hand.

It’s icy in Jack’s, but even as they both shiver themselves upright, Jack can feel the barest hint of warmth steal between their palms, like thawing Alex out is as simple as holding on.

And maybe it is. It can’t hurt to try.

[secretgamergirl]

A Little Horrifying Primer on Transphobes

Some time ago, I put together a Little Fact Checking Primer on Trans People, as a basic resource for disabusing people of some of the many completely ridiculous yet absurdly widespread beliefs about trans people that simply have no basis whatsoever in reality. And wouldn’t you know it, every single lie exposed in that primer is not only still widely believed, but is presently being used as a basis to sign some absolutely horrific human rights abuses into law. So it’s high time I follow that up, in this case focused more on who keeps actively spreading these lies and why. I’m going to try and keep things as light as I can here, but we’re going to be looking at the most monstrous side of human nature, so apologies in advance if this is a dark read.

First, let me just note that there are two things I don’t plan to do in this piece. I’m not going to waste time debunking the arguments of the people I’m highlighting (much of this is already covered in my earlier primer, others have done the work in cases where I haven’t, and frankly these people’s claims should be self-evidently utter nonsense to begin with). I am also going to be very selective in what I link to, or even share related images of, as I would frankly not like to fill a post on a blog I generally try to keep safe for all audiences with media directly dealing with, for instance, child sexual assault, and much of the relevant information also involves stochastic terrorism against innocent people, and I would prefer not to throw more fuel onto such fires.

Transphobes lie constantly, about everything.

To some degree this is obvious. We’re talking about people who scaremonger about the possibilities of trans women dominating competitive sports and assaulting people in restrooms, despite the status quo already reflecting the conditions they insist would make these inevitibilities for decades and centuries respectively, and their grim visions never once having come to pass, and also constantly insisting that the woman in the photo below is actually a man, going further to say this is evident to anyone giving her the merest glance.

It goes beyond that though. There’s at least a little plausible deniablity in claims like this, or that “science is on their side” if they were simply uninformed about the world they live in, never actually looking into what laws exist, what science actually says, and never actually meeting a trans person or even seeing a picture of one of us. I’m talking really bold lies here. Like wholecloth fabricating a story that a convicted murder was trans, including anecdotes about wigs dresses and a planned name change, in a major newspaper. Or to cite an old favorite of mine, the time a pack of bigots walked up to a crowd of people peacefully picketing a transphobic legal proposal, started roughing them up and taking closeup photos of members of the crowd to stalk online when they got home, got sufficiently riled up for one to straight up assault an innocent person half her size, filmed the whole thing, uploaded it to youtube, and used stills of that assault as acomanying photos when they went home to write articles about the assailant being a “grandmother” attacked by rowdy trans women. And yes, they did monkey’s paw my wish to see that specific image on newspapers. Interesting side note, when it came to real public light that J.K. Rowling endorsed this sort of hatred, it was because she accidentally pasted some profanity laden rambling about how the imagined moral character of the other party in that incident, years after the fact, into a post praising a child’s fan art of her work.

To be a little less niche, transphobes can’t get enough of spreading the lie that the young fellow in this photo is a girl. Specifically a trans girl, providing proof that all their scaremongering about the dastardly threat of trans girls in competitive sports has finally come to pass.

To be fully clear, that’s a man (or a boy if you want to split hairs about him being 17 in that photo). Mack Beggs. A rather insidious choice for this sort of story, considering the actual context for that photo. See, Beggs attended high school in Texas, during a (still ongoing as I write this) period wherein that particular state had caved to this exact sort of propaganda, and in order to head off a wholly imagined wave of trans girls competing on girls’ sports teams, and enacted a law mandating that in all such competitions must compete under whatever gender is stated on their birth certificates. And as it happens, the first, and to my knowledge ONLY time this has come up was with Beggs here, who again, is a man, as no one with a grip on reality could argue against, has “female” on his birth certificate. Which is another way of saying he is a trans man. The guys in the same boat as trans women who we talk about a whole hell of a lot less because their existence is extremely inconvenient to the majority of transphobic propaganda. Case in point. And this is all information it is really impossible to come across if you’re coming across this photo in any sort of respectable source. Take this story, which is as unambiguous about this as you can get. And yet, in the very comments section of that story, there they are. Carrying on like this story about a trans guy, forced by a transphobic law to compete as a girl, which he absolutely did not want, and received horrific threats over, using phrases like “female to male” and bringing up that he was assigned female at birth and is on testosterone-based HRT, is about a trans woman cheating the system. Or to quote word for word, “Now also transgender female want to be male also compete in female sport. biological born“ That’s not “being confused,” that’s standing next to you in a white desert and complaining about being adrift in a black ocean, bald-faced, not even trying to be convincing just make a power play, lying through one’s teeth.

I could spend this whole article on just this point. Lying about who they are, various people’s falsified credentials, whole websites full of “anonymous parents of children who think they’re trans” turning out to be one single woman documenting the abuse of her very much trans son, or of course the people behind the whole “bathroom bill” panic candidly admitting it was all based on utter fiction. I do have other points to cover though.

Transphobes are firmly entrenched in the media.

It is extremely difficult to find oneself in a position of having to explain to people that a particular group of people is effectively in control of press outlets, as that is rather classically a claim conspiracy theorists absolutely love to toss around at various marginalized groups (including trans people hilariously enough, but of course the most common and lingering version of this is the antisemitic variant). I really can’t get around it here though. Specifically in the U.K., you honestly can say that transphobes control the media. I already touched on this with the assault case I mentioned above and the fabricated story about the murderer, but this is a pretty well-documented situation. I mean, even The Guardian calls out The Guardian on this, and that’s the outlet that gets the most attention because it’s the one with the most otherwise respected name, but every paper in the country has been running transphobic propaganda pieces on a weekly if not daily basis for years now, and while they do get reprimanded by watchdog groups and have mass walk-outs over the worst of it, it’s not like there’s some governing body with the authority to step in about it. Meanwhile the BBC is constantly inviting diehard zealots like Graham Linehan to news programs where he compares being trans to being a nazi, and hosting debates where someone just sits down and repeatedly chants the word “penis” at a trans woman.

Things are better in the rest of the world, but we still have right-wing creeps like Jesse Singal both writing horrific propaganda pieces (we’ll get back to that one) and blackballing trans writers out of covering trans issues ourselves (and personally stalking the hell out of those of us who try). We’ve got our Joe Rogans and Tucker Carlsons out there (no way in hell I’m linking videos here, have a real information link and a still).

The line between diehard transphobes and straight-up nazis basically does not exist.

What even is there to say here? You can easily poke around havens for nazi activity for yourself and compare the particular unique vocabulary used there to the primary bastion of anti-trans hate speech on the internet (the “feminism” section of what was originally a site for parenting tips before violent fascists took the forums over) or just peruse the follows of the thousands of people I’ve blocked on social media and see if you can sort out a clear division in the networks of channers with frog avatars and the accounts with names like GoodieXXrealwoman, or you can read up on Gab and Spinster, the two twitter alternatives that are just different portals to the same server, set up by the same guy. Maybe do some research into “the LGB Alliance,” or WoLF but any way you slice it the only real difference to be found is the general purpose nazis take a little time off now and then to watch borderline pedophilic anime and the really dedicated transphobes think to use language that sounds vaguely well-educated and left-leaning. I mean, this came from the “feminist” side of the fence:

And not to belabor the point here, but the ones claiming to be a bunch of “feminist mums” sure do let the mask slip any time they’re confronted with the fact that “women” includes black women, and oh just have a whole thread about all the weird conspiratory theories these people have about how trans people’s whole existence is some sort of Jewish plot for world domination. I swear a few months ago they were all passing around a story about some bank having an above average number of trans employees and they were all just “and we all know who controls the banks, right?” about it.

Transphobes endorse an awful lot of people who are openly pro-pedophila.

This is the part where I am really loath to link the many many specific examples I have on hand. Or to talk about this at all for reasons of good taste. Or, for that matter, to talk about this in a tumblr post when there’s an ongoing problem of people with backgrounds strongly tied to this site making baseless accusations of pedophilia against every queer person they can find, so let me be very clear just what I’m talking about while avoiding anything too graphic.

That’s James Cantor. Transphobes love him for being one of the closest things they have to a scientist on their side. And I am featuring him in a screenshot here showing that he is followed by current queen of the transphobes J.K. Rowling, while speaking to both another big name in transphobic circles, Debra Soh, and based on their names, what I’m guessing is at least one straight-up nazi. And in case you think “the P” he’s talking about adding to LGBT (or “GLBT” as weird anti-queer bigots who also have issues with women often write it) might stand for “poly” or “pan” he’s all too happy to clarify that.

This is the entire thrust of Cantor’s work and life. He is the world’s biggest pedophile rights advocate. He wants it declassified as a mental disorder, all stigma on it removed, and tirelessly pushes forward the idea that the majority of.. people who feel compelled to sexually assault children are good people who present no potential harm to anyone and should in fact be lauded.

I am not generally one to claim that someone with a PhD is spewing out questionable garbage with regard to their field, but the reason I am aware of Cantor at all is that other transphobes keep trying to hold up a particular post on his blog as "a study” (which it is not) that offers “proof” (in the form of a blurry jpeg of basically some random numbers) of some ridiculous quackery about how trans kids will “grow out of it” if exposed to conversion therapy (another way of saying torture), which Cantor himself seems to be pushing, so I am somewhat skeptical of his academic chops. And I am, of course, REALLY suspicious that all these other bigots gravitate to him purely because they’re that desperate to find anyone with a PhD in anything that backs them up against literally every scientist in a relative field, to the point that they merely forgive his particular advocacy they are plainly all aware of, particularly when such a common fig leaf used by transphobes is “keeping children safe from sexual deviants.”

And of course, Cantor is most often invoked when coming to the defense of Kenneth Zucker. This Kenneth Zucker.

Those are separate papers. Zucker isn’t controversial though for organizing panels to discuss how attractive people agree small children are (at least not exclusively). Mostly, he’s known for running a conversion therapy center which subjected gay and trans children to various sorts of torture in an effort to “fix” them, which at least for those trans "patients” I have spoken with involved a fair amount of having them strip completely naked and talking a lot about their genitals.

Zucker is something of a controversial figure with the transphobic scene, as they are extremely on board with his sexual torture of queer children, but he does actual work (for some value of the term) involving trans people and thus is not able to commit as fully as they would prefer to making life horrible for trans people, due to a professional obligation to acknowledge reality now and then. As an aside, the similarly positioned Ray Blanchard, while not to my knowledge particularly interested in the attractiveness of children, lives in a similar purgatory of trying to reconcile his career, bigotry, and sexual hangups, yielding compromises like this:

Of course, that’s just looking at the straws transphobes grasp at when looking for scientific credibility. Real leaders of the movement include Germaine Greer, author of The Beautiful Boy, which is about what you are afraid it might be, and features a very young child in a cover feature he did not consent to posing for. Or Julie Bindel, who among other things is rather infamous for writing whole articles on subjects like whether a teenage girl she came across maybe has a huge penis you can totally see if you really squint at her skirt. Again, I will not share a link to go along with that one.

Transphobes terrorize and attempt to defund charities and other unambiguously good organizations.

Graham Linehan, previously best known for cowriting some sitcoms and possibly spending a year angling to get into my pants so awkwardly I didn’t pick up on it is now best known for trying to pull the plug on a children’s charity, in a story that somehow also involves Donkey Kong. Well, and the interview about nazis. And possibly the other interview about “defending me from nazis” until it got into his head that I might not be as young and hot as he imagined. Rather not link to a far right extremist youtube channel though.

There’s also a current effort to replace Stonewall (an organization named after the location where a pair of trans women kicked off a riot which is generally agreed to be the start of the LGBT+ rights movement) as the UK’s primary LGBT+ rights organization with the “LGB Alliance.” The hate group mentioned above, with the skull face and the rifle. Closest I can find to an article on that effort on short notice that isn’t propaganda.

Transphobes paper areas in truly disgusting propaganda.

I don’t want to directly link to grown adults skulking around children’s playgrounds and bathrooms plastering surfaces with mass printed stickers of crudely drawn penises, but would encourage you to read this very long post, being sure to load all the images, to really understand how deeply strange this behavior gets.

Finally, I cannot stress this enough, this really extreme behavior I’m citing, and the specific people involved in the examples I’m giving, these aren’t random cranks on the fringe of things. The people going on televised panel discussions, writing up news stories, and testifying before lawmakers in efforts to pass horrifically discriminatory if not literally life-endangering laws (there is a major ongoing effort to legally end all medical care for trans people, and I don’t just mean care directly relating to being trans) are literally the same people involved in the sexualization of children, nazi collaborations, and roving gangs assaulting people in the street. At a bare minimum I urge people, when booking guests and handing out writing contracts, to do background checks and see if they’re platforming actual terrorists. If we could actually bring legal consequences to bear against the worst of this, that would be great too. As things stand though, the whole world is just consistently citing a bunch of racist, woman-hating, serial liars with no real credentials, and questionable attitudes towards the sexual abuse of children, as “trusted experts” and refusing to seat actual trans people or people who have legitimately committed lifetimes to academic and practical work with trans people any seats at the table.

[fairfaxleasee]

"you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you" - reads like fenhawke but otherwise for pairing of your choice c:

For @dadrunkwriting

Hope you don’t mind I changed the quote a bit to make it fit with this story:

CW: modern AU; minor blood; injuries; do not try this at home, kids

“Fire!”  Fenris pushed himself off the ground slightly as he coughed, but not from the smoke he could see billowing around the corner of the ally.  

“Shit!” one of the three men in the ally with him dropped the lead pipe he’d been using on Fenris’ ribcage with a clatter.  The three goons shouldn’t have been a problem for Fenris, but one of them had got in a lucky punch at the beginning of the fight and he’d never managed to get back on his feet from it.  Literally.

“Fire?  Fire!”  The cries were getting more excited and even more smoke was pouring into the ally.

“Leave him, he’s not going anywhere, let the smoke finish this!”  The second man wasn’t through speaking when the three of them took off in the other direction.

The smoke would actually be merciful, Fenris didn’t want to think what Denarius would do to him if he had to explain he’d screwed up what should have been a simple job.  If he were lucky the man would just add the money Fenris had failed to collect to his ‘debt,’ but more likely he’d be put in as a ringer in a few of the blood sport matches the man liked to run to impress his friends.  He just hoped he wouldn’t be unlucky so Denarius wouldn’t decide to go looking into what had been ‘so distracting Fenris from his work’ lately.  Cassia Hawke did not need to be dragged into his mess.

He looked up again at the sound of a car entering the ally.

“Fenris!  Are you okay?  Shit!  What the fuck happened to you?”

“Cass?”  He winced as she lightly touched his side to help him up.  “Cass, get out of here, there’s a fire!”

“It’s a road flare, Fenris.  I went out on an extremely sturdy limb and assumed a bunch of reprobates who would gang up on someone in an otherwise deserted ally wouldn’t have read ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’“

“A... what?”

“’A Scandal in Bohemia,’ it’s the Sherlock Holmes story where-”

“Cass!”

“Oh!  Right, sorry.  I’ll tell you later.”  She helped him climb into the passenger’s seat then ran around the to slid into the driver’s.

“You started a fire with a road flare,” he asked her.

“No, I just set those off for the smoke.  People see smoke and hear fire and they don’t usually investigate further.  But we’re not in a crowded theater so I should be okay for shouting it even though there wasn’t one.  Although I guess there is some combustion in the road flare, so maybe that would count?”

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window.  He couldn’t follow what Cass was saying.  He doubted Cass could follow what she was saying.  She was obviously distressed, and if he looked anywhere near as bad as he felt he was sure about why.  And when she was distressed she would ‘chitter’ - say whatever thought popped into her head for whoever was around to listen, especially if the person around to listen was him.  Getting glimpses of the winding pathways and Möbius strips her mind took was fascinating, and her chittering was infinitely preferable to when things would overwhelm her to the point of her shutting down entirely, but Fenris was having a hard enough time just staying awake, let alone listening to Cass think about twelve thoughts at once aloud.  He sat in silence for a few minutes until he saw them pass the clocktower of the University.  “Cass, your apartment’s the other way.”

“Yes, but the emergency room is this way.”

“No!”  He straightened in his seat and instantly regretted it.  He flinched at his pain and the worry it caused lining Cass’ face.  “No, Cass.  I can’t... Just no.”

She bit her lip and shifted her gaze between him and the road.  Finally she whispered, “Fenris, you look really bad, are you sure-”

“Yes.  It’s not worth the risk, Cass.”  No one could know just why he’d gotten so injured.  Especially the woman he knew would stop at nothing, including her own destruction, to pull him away from it.

“I... Fine.  Maker knows I’m not going to force medical treatment on someone who doesn’t want it, but I’m stopping for some first aid stuff.”  She swung the wheel and pressed the gas to swing the car around on the road to head back towards her apartment.

“Hmm.  Just don’t go and crash the car on the way there or I might actually need to re-think the emergency room.”

“So... if I crashed the car you’d go to the emergency room?”

“NO!  Cassia,” he reached over to her to rub his thumb over her cheekbone, “Do not crash the car.  Okay?”

“Okay, but if you pass out while I’m getting supplies and I can’t wake you up, I am taking you to the emergency room.”

“I suppose that’s fair.  Just promise you won’t crash the car.”

“Well, it would be a good way to cover up whatever injuries you have-”

“Cass-”

“I mean, I’d try to hit on my side more than your side-”

“CASS-”

“But if you’re looking for plausible deniability-”

“Cassia, just promise me you won’t crash the car.”

“Promise me you’ll be okay?”

He’d been hurt far worse than this on some of his ‘errands’ for Denarius.  But he suspected telling her that wouldn’t make her feel any better.  “I’ll be fine, Cass.”

She made her discontented grumble as she parked the car, then sprang out to go into the store.  He tried to stay awake and wait for her to get back.  He obviously didn’t manage to because the next thing he was aware of was a tugging on a sleeve of his shirt and Cass whispering, “Fenris, wake up!  I don’t want to take you to the ER!  Well, I do want to take you to the ER, but not because I can’t wake you up!”  The tugging was becoming more frantic and he could tell she was crying by the stress in her voice.

“It’s fine, Cass, I’m awake.”

She leaned over and pressed her forehead to his, “Is this the same thing as when I keep telling you I’m fine.”

“No.  Nothing like that.  I’m actually fine.”

She scowled at that and he grinned back at her.  She huffed a final breath through her nose before she sat back in the drivers seat and brought them back to her apartment.

Her cat greeted them with its usual objections to Fenris’ existence, “Hey!  What’s Stupid Elf doing back here?  Ooh!  Is he hurt?  Did you bring him here so I could finish him off, Cass?  Please let me finish him off Cass!”

“Evil beast,” Fenris muttered in the thing’s direction.

“Not now, Dante!” Cass scooped the thing up and deposited it in her bedroom where her mabari was locked up.  “I’m going to have to let Squall out in a bit, but let’s get you fixed up first.”  She opened the bag and pulled out a bottle of cheap vodka, some gauze, bandages, and-

“Superglue?”  He turned the tube in his hands.

She turned back towards him as she turned on her electric kettle and pulled out a bowl, “Fenris, some of those cuts are pretty deep.  I can’t do stitches, but I can use superglue.”

“You can use superglue on cuts?”

“Well, a medical professional with stitches is the preferred treatment method, but yes, you can use superglue on cuts.  Just be glad I found the vodka and didn’t have to use sugar as a disinfectant.”

“You can use sugar as a disinfectant?”

She poured the boiling water into the bowl to rinse it out, then brought it back to where Fenris was sitting and emptied the bottle of vodka into it instead.  “Again, not the preferred method...”

She dipped some of the gauze into the vodka and began cleaning his cuts.

“Fenris...”

“Don’t, Cass.”

“But-”

“I know.  Just... leave it for now.”

“I don’t like it Fenris.”

He raised the arm she wasn’t bandaging and took a lock of her wavy auburn hair to twist between his fingers, “I don’t either, Cass.  And I’m sorry.”

“Is there-”

“No.”

“Okay.”  She finished patching him up in silence.  Or at least he thought it was silence, the vodka on his cuts was beginning to make things a bit hazy.

“Fenris?”  She was leading him back to the bedroom with one of his arms slung over her shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Fenris, do you trust me to take care of myself?”

“I...”  He stopped.  He used the hand that wasn’t dangling over her shoulder to coax her chin towards him.  “What, Cass?”

She met his eyes as she spoke, “Do you trust me to take care of myself?”

Her eyes were focused on an area slightly to the right of his face, but he knew that was as close as she could keep them to his.  He considered his answer.  No, he didn’t trust Cass to take care of herself.  She’d eventually manage to scratch and claw her way to ‘fine’ no matter what happened, but she was willing to endure far too much suffering while she was doing that and before she began even trying.  He just couldn’t see what good could come from telling her that.  “Why do you ask, Cass?”

“Because... because you’re the only one I’ll ever let take care of me, so if something happens to you, I’ll be left alone with just me again.”

“Cassia,” he shifted their weight so he could wrap both arms around her.  It was a bit awkward given that he was still leaning on her for support, and he could feel from the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest that the way they were pressed together was becoming painful for her quickly, but he wanted to be holding her while he spoke.  “I promise, Cassia - I won’t leave you alone.”

He felt her fingers press into his shoulder blades as she nodded.  “Just don’t forget that, okay?”

“Never.”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Poly!Laughing Jack x Fem!Reader x Offenderman

Title: Punish Me // The Odd Throuple

Plot: Y/N gets shot in the neck and through the chest and is rushed to get help at Slender Mansion. This is your boyfriends’ reactions to you being seriously hurt. 

Notes:

I wrote most of this on my phone on the train so I’m sorry probably lots of errors!! My autocorrect likes to correct properly spelled words to the wrongly spelled versions I’ve accidentally typed in the past. 😒

Why, oh why, are my fluffiest works always with these two bastards??? Comfort characters...

Warnings: Well, you get shot because Offender raped someone. So, decide with that how you will. Sexual references also

~~~

"This is for my daughter, you f-freaks!" The man behind you is sobbing now. When he caught you it was just an itchy fidget, now that Offender and L.J are here he's falling apart.

The gun pressed into the crook of your neck moves and shifts with his ugly, heartbroken cries and all you can think is; I'm sorry. Oh my god, I'm so sorry, even as your body goes cold and you shiver with fear at having such a lethal weapon pressed to your skin at the hand of someone so unstable at the moment. You didn't even do anything to this man, but you feel his pain and feel sick anyway.

I'm so, so sorry.

You can only imagine what he means. What happened to his daughter...

"Who's your daughter!?" Offender growls, desperately. And uselessly. There's no way he remembers, there's no way he could help now. He doesn't ask for the names, and he certainly doesn't bother to listen if they tell him. He's just pleading. He doesn't know what else he could do. Just don't shoot her lethally. Miss the heart, he chants in his head. He can get you to Slender then but if you're dead... there's just nothing he can do. Its out of his power and he feels useless.

And this is his fault.

L.J doesn't respond at all, standing beside him. His eyes are on you, watching carefully. Communicating through his eyes. He hasn't moved since he realised the situation, struck completely still. He doesn't know what to do. If he fights for you, and he loses you still? ... He doesn't know if he could do that.

And then again, if you're killed anyway and he did nothing, it'll still hurt... but then at least he would have plausible deniability. He can... he can live like that. The alternative is worse. Far, far worse, to him.

And more then that, he doesn't care about bartering with this man.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes- losing a few tears you didn't know, through the shock, where glazing your eyes.

"You... fucker... took her before it was time, and now... " The man takes a deep breath in, making it cold on your neck where his face is hidden. "I'm going to take something you care about."

"WAIT- "

BANG.

A searing hot pain tears through your skin, everywhere as the bullet rips your insides open and a terrible scream rips out of your throat, more from shock, as the man lets your body go and gravity drags you down, nearly knocking your head on the concrete. Before that could happen though, Offender teleports and catches you.

As your sight dapples away into blackness and L.J's cries for you to say something peter out, you feel the familiar terrible whooshing of teleportation just before the world goes

completely, 

and

   utterly,

           still.

___TIME SKIP___

"Y/N... Y/N... I see your eyelids flickering, are you awake? Or experiencing some kind of terrible neural damage I need to get Slender for?" Claws slide under your neck, against the pillow and sit there cool against your skin as L.J shifts his body, and his chair, more impossibly close to your bed. "Lollipop~ You have to give me a sign, I'm not a real doctor."

"You... play one... pretty well. D-don't you?" You whisper, voice croaky and hard to utilise. Your eyelids are heavy, too, but you manage to peak at him for a moment. He opens his mouth in a sharp grin, relieved.

"So no amnesia then??" He exclaims, excitedly.

"Was that," Coughing into the air, because your body is still too weak to really move, you taste metal on your tongue. "A possibility???"

"Well, Slender didn't say it in those words, but... I feel like it was unspoken."

Knitting your eyebrows together, you start to worry about your condition yourself, before a weight like a folder or a clipboard drops on the bed by your feet and Slender heaves a great sigh.

"You were worried." He says sternly, assuredly to L.J. "You were in no danger of enduring inflicted amnesia, Y/N. L.J just has a wild imagination due to a birth defect called stupidity. Unfortunately there's nothing we can do about that."

L.J says nothing in response to that for a moment, and you can imagine him just looking deadpanned at the taller creature. "You're toad, Slender."

"Whatever. However, Y/N, while you do not have amnesia you do have a number of other inflicted injuries and because of that I am suggesting you stay here where you can properly be watched until they're manageable for you to deal with on your own." He pauses, apparently tired of our presence already. "That is unless, of course, you want to rip your many stitches or contract any kind of infectious disease because you trusted the man that thought you had amnesia, and the one that fully trusts in the 'psychologically healing' properties of copious amounts of alcohol," Oh, so that's where Offender is. "to take care of you medically."

"Um," Your voice is high, unsure quite how to respond. Slender and his bluntness does this to you a lot. "No, that's okay? Thanks for offering for me to stay?"

Another cough forces itself suddenly out of your throat from the use of your voice, as your throat is so dry - How long were you asleep?? - and, this time, L.J extends his free arm to gently cover your mouth like you would with your own if you could move right now. As soon as you're done, he retracts his long, loong arm and your stomach squirms pleasantly about how cute and affectionate that was for him.

He takes a deep breath. "Very good. I'm leaving. Offender can read your chart when he gets in here." Then, like a light, the heavy atmosphere that Slender carries with him everywhere disappears from the room and you feel L.J stretch and snatch the folder object at the end of your bed.

"I can read this, thanks." With one hand to hold the thing, L.J peers at it for a moment... for so long, in fact, that you risk your energy to peak at him again just see him use his pointed nose to slide the page up to look at the next one... Before he frisbee-throwing the folder back to the end of the bed and returning his attention fully back to you, crossing one elongated, stripy leg over the other. "Never mind. What’s with this family? They make up there own language?"

Grinning at his antics like you always do, your eyelids fall shut again and you feel the relief of not using so much energy. "I think medical charts everywhere are like that."

"So the whole medical profession started there own code, then. Bastards."

A chuckle escapes you, as you're slipping closer to sleep. "L.J, I think I'm... gonna... go back to sleep... for a bit... "

"You do that. I'll make up jokes."

"Okie, yay... "

As you fall back into the welcoming arms of sleep, L.J puts his free claws to work removing the crinkles out in your bed spread and nightgown- unable to stay still. Unable to leave you alone.

He has to stay with you.

___TIME SKIP___

The next time you open your eyes, Offender has joined L.J, but instead of sitting in a chair he leans sloppily on the wall by the door, evidently still feeling the effects of his 'psychological healing' with the alcohol.

This time you're able to open your eyes a crack and keep them open like that. You’re able to to see the room now, which is basically just like any other bedroom in Slender mansion with hard wood floors and dark walls, except there’s an IV beside you and sheets on the floor.

Again, L.J's keen eye catches your consciousness first. "You're awake again!"

"Hi." You grin in greeting, noticing L.J's claws are on your tummy now, the one on his thumb rubbing up and down a small area.

Offender comes forward immediately and leans close to your face over your bed, draping an arm over the bed frame to hold himself up. "You good there, squirt?" Wincing at the nickname, because it does not come from Finding Nemo, you shift your head on the pillow in a nod. He chuckles.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well, you're not, but that's my girl." He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling back and picking up the medical chart on hi way back to the wall. Blowing air out of his cheeks in reaction to the information, he leans back on the wall again and starts reading the 'code'. "Now, lets see what's wrong with ya... "

L.J and you sit - and lay, - at attention as he lists and explains what it says. Some of the things that come out of his mouth do scare you, but honestly most of it was just stuff you expected. You still may be in a bit of shock, to be honest, but at the moment you're just more concerned with the fact that Offender really can read it! Unless he's making it all up, in which case, boo.

When he's done, you're all quiet for a moment, taking in how long that took - and therefore how much damage was really done by that bullet, - before L.J, of course- well, doesn't lift your spirits exactly, but changes the course of the worry in the room, for sure. And that's why you and Offender love him. Well, one of the many reasons. Raising his pointer claw off your stomach, he announces, "I call conspiracy!!"

Offender puts down the chart and crosses his arms, bemused at him. "What this time?"

"These charts. You say this is English??" L.J squints, looking between your and his boyfriend.

"Yeah."

"I don’t buy it. I'm British and I tried to read that, and it was total gibberish. Tell him, Y/N."

"He is British and he did try to read it." You concur.

L.J nods at Offender. "Yep."

"And he did fail." You grin, this time.

L.J nods again, without shame. "Yep."

"Well... " Offender leans menacingly forward, towards L.J who leans back despite them being feet away from each other, then grins. "I read it just fine."

"I feel like I'm being gaslighted."

"Oh jeez." You grin, turning your head on your pillow to set L.J with a look, amused by him.

"Oh, and- Your brother called me stupid. Again. You need to fight for my honour." L.J informs Offender, swivelling in his seat to properly face him, while still holding me.

"Oh, you poor victim, you." Offender shifts, shaking his head amusedly at L.J. "Tut, tut, tut. What a cruel world."

L.J ignores that obvious sarcasm. "Yes, precisely. Oh woe is me, and all that. Hop to it." Nodding to the door promptly, L.J turns back to me. A little grin plays at his black lips.

"Oh sure thing." Offender shakes his head again, before pushing off the wall and straddling the arm of L.J's chair instead. "Anyway, the only honour I care about right now is Y/N's." L.J seems to agree with that, eyes going steely and lips curling at the memory of why you're all in this room in the first place. "So, what'll it be, beautiful? I'm the reason you got hit, so, by Vikings oath I've vowed to endure whatever punishment you decide is necessary." You open your mouth immediately to laugh him off, but he makes no movement like he usually would if he were joking. Instead, he quickly adds, "Go on."

"... hold on, you're German. Aren't Vikings Scandinavian?-"

"Shut up, clown man; I'm old. I've been places. Get with the program."

Rolling your eyes, unintentionally fondly at the two, you look around the room. "Um," Unbelievably croaky, and painfully, you ask. "Get me a cup of water?"

"Oh!-" While Offender quickly teleports off to get you that, L.J just absentmindedly brushes some hair out of your face. Offender comes back in a young moment and they both help you sit up. L.J helps guide you by your hands, while Offender stuffs pillows securely at the base of your back.

"Thanks, guys," You accept the glass of water with a gracious smile. "Thank you."

As you're taking a sip, Offender returns to his spot on the arm of L.J's chair and watches you expectantly, heavily. Swallowing the water, you raise a curious brow. "So? My punishment?"

You nearly choke on the water, but instead take a moment to compose yourself. "Wha- I thought that was the punishment!"

"Getting water??"

"I didn't say please!"

L.J clicks his finger claws, lifting them off you for a moment to point and nod in agreement at Offender. "Right, that's true. She didn't. 'S not her fault you have no sensitivity towards good manners." He turns back to you as Offender makes a perturbed shape with his mouth. "You have lovely manners."

"Thank you!"

"Of course dearest."

"Wha- I- F- hah???" As you and L.J have your 'Old British Sit Com' moment as Offender would always refer to it from then on, he stutters and looks between the two of you confusedly. "Hold on, hold on stop that this instant-" Reaching over and waiving a hand between the two of you as you were looking sweetly at each other, he successfully snaps you both out of it. "Neither of you are taking this seriously. You," He points his finger at L.J, who narrows his eyes at the offending appendage. Probably thinking 'And your manners, are terrible.'. "Shoosh. And you, “ L.J presses his lips firmly closed as Offender turns his stern finger to you, making you sit up straighter at attention. “Come on, baby.” He slips to his knees as you start to fully understand his desperation right now and grips the side of your mattress. His hat slips to cover the top of his face and your eyes flicker to L.J’s, which are also sheened in a very covered layer of worry, and back. “Punish me. It’s my fault. You got bandages and tubes and... fucking bloodstains. I did this. And in order for our relationship to continue healthily you need to get back at me somehow. So come on, one more time I’m gonna say it so L.J if you say something about masochism I will throw you out the window; Y/N, punish me. Goddamnit, please.”

“Offender,” You start in a scolding voice, pushing yourself off the pillows with difficulty, wincing at the pain shooting through your collar bones. When L.J’s eyes flicker over you and your pained features, because, while Offender is clearly perfectly fine with showing his affections, L.J certainly is not. You flash him an ‘its fine’ smile as you push your legs off the end of the bed. “I’m not that hurt! And I’m certainly not upset with you in any way, its not necessary!” 

“You were shot, Y/N!” 

“Yeah, well.” You roll your eyes, as if the infliction wasn't a big deal. Like there are more important things, which in the moment you do think there are in Offender’s outlook at the moment. It honestly scares you. It isn't him. Dropping your hands on his shoulders, you dip your head to look seriously at him. “Its not that bad! I mean, I think Slender woulda told me if I was gonna die, don’t you think? And you read the chart! You know I’ll be okay.” 

“... Yeah, he would've. And then the little punk woulda left the room chuckling."

"Oooh," L.J leans back in his chair, thumb claw between his teeth as he imagines how it would have gone, arctic blues glazed over with imagination. "He totally would... "

Nodding in agreement, you kneed your thumbs into Offender shoulders comfortingly. "Yep. Same thing for if I wasn't going to recover at all. Don't you think?"

"Y/Nnnn,” He groans, resisting. 

“I’ll, be, fine.” Leaning down, you press your forehead to his- breath hitching when you feel your stitches stretching but forcing your self to stay put for a moment. “Don’t feel so guilty. Or, at least try- its an odd colour on you.” 

“Mm.” Offender’s mouth twists like he tasted something gross. Then he sighs, the muscles in his shoulders easing. “Oh, what, you think a good old ‘belligerent’s more me?”

“Maybe a gentle ‘creepy’, at most.” L.J pats his back, breaking out of his dream world. You grin and nod. 

“That work for you?” 

“We can try it on for size.” 

L.J snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Offender turns and looks up at him, a bemused smile on his face. Still reluctant to let it go, but trying. “What? Does BEN need to re- try on his used condom hat now, too??” 

With that, Offender and you dissolve into barks of laughter, you hiding your pink face in your hands while L.J just shrugs, holding up his hands like ‘Aren't I right though??’. “What?? Its one of your charms!” He adds, a corner of his dark mouth fighting to point up even as he looks confusedly at your shaking bodies. 

“OKAY,” Slender pushes the door open then, interrupting and dropping his shoulders slowly. “I’ve heard enough. It time for Y/N to return to sleep- what. What is she doing out of bed? Put her back. And then, both of you, can get out of my house! ... and take your unfortunate analogies with you.” Shoulders slumping, he then mutters, “... I’ll never be able to look at that hat again without thinking about that... “  

Offender heaves his own sigh, so like his brother in the moment as he pushes himself up and guides you back into a comfortable laying position, muttering himself. “You would think, after so... so, many centuries with that man, I would be immune to his annoyingness... But no.” 

Snickering, L.J leans back in his chair, reaching down into the pockets of his pants as you start to feel exhaustion wash over you again. Slender’s right, you do need more sleep... 

Slender just opens the door more fully and gestures towards it for his brother and Laughing Jack. Slowly, he drawls the next word. “Out?” 

“G’night sweetheart.” Offender gives you another kiss on the forehead, completely ignoring his brother this time. “Just keep thinking about that punishment, okay? Just... keep it in mind.” Chewing on your bottom lip, you wish Offender would let it go... but nod anyway, for his sake. Not like you actually will think about it at all. L.J brushes your hair back after he steps back and taps your forehead gently with his thumb. 

“Sweet dreams lollipop!” 

Then L.J returns to his chair and Offender drags up a chair beside him for himself and Slender grips the door tighter. “Oh, no. No no no. Get, out, of my home.” 

Slowly L.J looks over at Slender, then squishing his butt down further into the chair pointedly, and Offender props his legs up on the end of your bed. You chuckle, and close your eyes. Embarrassed by your weirdly good boyfriends.  They aren't perfect by any, a n y means, but they are pretty cool sometimes. You like them- and that's an understatement. 

“Aghhh, don’t think I’m bringing you dinner.” Slender lets up quickly, disinterested in putting up any fight and rolls his shoulders of you all, closing the door as he walks off. “Hooligans.” 

As you close your eyes, and pull the blankets up further over your body to your chin, relaxing into a resting, sleep exposed state Offender crosses his arms, setting in probably for a nap himself, with no other idea how to pass the silent time and L.J turns promptly to him, with a colourful but mostly black box in his hand. 

“Silent Uno??” 

[vegalocity]

The Interrim-Red Groom AU

So i’m diving backward into the ‘Dont worry about it’ pool after that finale

SO DON’T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT YOU GUYS WHO’S UP FOR MORE PRINCESS BRIDE AU?

I had to make an entire scene up because for the Story to keep going Princess Bride Style Red Son needed to get fucked over one more time

--

Soon enough three days time had passed and Red Son was ready to make his escape. Due to the nature of his ruse against the prince he hadn't made any arrangements to set up a forge or workshop for his passions, so he didn't have much by way of equipment to make his escape, and every day the prince asked to join him for at least one meal, wherein he would 'politely' ask over Xiaotian, claiming to want to know a little about the man whom had stolen his groom right out from under him.

He said these things in jest and laughter, but Red Son was no fool and could easily see the flint behind his eyes, ready and willing to twist any information Red Son gave about Xiaotian against him, to try and convince him that his beloved wouldn't take him back. Willing to take whatever details he gave him and put them in some falsified letter of rejection in attempt to make him believe his love wanted him no more, so he wouldn't put up a fight any longer.

So he lied. He spoke of not the Inn that he'd met Xiaotian in, but implied he'd always been the lord of his mountain. How they hadn't been able to be engaged due to his parents having a letter of neutrality between his family and Xiaotian's own, and how he'd had to go on a perilous journey to nullify that arrangement, but they'd believed him dead. He told him Xiaotian favored poetry, and was in fact a gifted shapeshifter, preferring a more human appearance like himself as it made travel far easier when people underestimated you.

The prince had soon grown bored of his prattling, and Red Son found it almost ironic that for once he was not speaking of tinkering and his projects when his conversational partner stopped listening. After those meals scarce as they were, the prince ended up straightening his back primly and claimed he had a meeting of some sort with his macaque general, and left him to his devices.

So now here he was, ready to make his escape.

It took actually took the longest time to try and pare down an outfit from this place so that it would be inconspicuous enough to use for travel, but he'd managed, sneaking some nonperishable food and a spare dagger into his pack for preparation and extra protection had been easy. He just made it seem to the servants that he was still anticipating the response to a letter that was never sent, and eagerly awaiting for a letter that would not exist that stated his return to Xiaotian's mountain was expected, and thus was slowly yet steadily prepping for the journey. The pitying glances he could sense the servants shooting him definitely told that they were aware of the fact that he was being 'tricked'.

But Red Son paid them no mind, after all, he knew the prince was full of lies, and he was going to be gone before the night's end anyway.

But then Red Son was summoned for his usual meal with the prince, and he willed his nerves to freeze over. He couldn't let his plans slip, while he'd long since regained his strength form his injuries in the forest he was only one demon and there was a mountain of servants and guards that would be standing between him and making a break for it if he didn't have stealth on his side.

“Beloved.” The prince greeted him as he entered. “My messengers have returned from their trip.” In three days time? How oblivious did he take him for?

Nonetheless he perked up, did his best to look eager and excited. He was never quite sure if he looked convincing, but he just needed to pretend for a few more hours.

The letter was brought right over to him, and he quickly undid the seal to reveal a message that in no way was written by his love. Though they did a good job at pretending, claiming it was written by 'his mother'—Xiaotian had never spoken of his biological parents, and his adoptive ones were both men, but in his prattling Red Son had invented a mother for his fake backstory—and that she was writing in 'her Son's stead as he was too upset and angry to be able to make a readable response. Going on to say that Xiaotian had returned to 'their mountain' in tears and had sworn that this was one too many cruelties Red Son had delivered him, and that he never wanted to speak to someone so two faced he convinced him twice of their supposed love only to twice have his heart ground into the dirt by him ever again.

It was well phrased, he'd give the prince that. It even stung a little when the supposed 'mother' had regaled that 'Xiaotian' had bitterly given 'his blessing' to his impending marriage. The thought of his love, bitter and betrayed, felt so wrong his heart hurt just at the idea.

But he couldn't let himself linger on that lest he lose his courage.

“This cannot be...” he breathed, hoping beyond all hope his knowledge of the deception read as simply denial.

“Is there something wrong?” The Prince asked around his cup. “Surely your beloved made it home safely.”

“This cannot be...” he didn't know what else to say without possibly giving himself away, so he could only hope that it sounded like shock.

“Beloved?”

He stood, he had to get out of the prince's sight before he failed to properly mask his knowledge.

“This is a lie! She... She never approved of us!” Red Son hoped at least that gave his reaction plausible deniability.

“Didn't you recently just regale to me that Xiaotian's mother loved you as a suitor for her son?” He cursed internally, but before he could scramble to cover the lie the prince continued. “Beloved, I know it must be hard to hear, but we had an agreement. Xiaotian wants no more to repair what he believed you threw away, his mother;s missive reveals as much. You gave me your word that no matter his desire you would respect his choices. Don't be selfish, love.” Red Son would be lying yet more if he claimed that that didn't sting a little.

But he'd get to that bridge when he got to it, so he turned on his heel and stormed from the room. The servants gave him a wide berth as he marched towards his rooms, face fierce but mind preoccupied with escape plans.

So preoccupied in fact he didn't notice a particular shadow following behind him.

Upon reaching his quarters he made sure to scare off any staff that would rat him out and began to scream, his fire coursing and bursting out from his body in waves, scorching the furniture around him and leaving piles of soot to build up atop his shoes. Soon enough the room had enough damage for word of his fury to have been carried to the prince, and the servants far too afraid to make their way in for quite some time. He'd have about an hour of being given a very wide berth before someone came in to check up on him.

Red Son darted for his bed and hidden among the luxurious blankets was his makeshift bag, he double checked the contents inside and nodded to himself when he came to the conclusion that everything was in order. Then he approached the writing desk and reached beneath it. Feeling around for a moment he grinned slightly to himself as he pulled out the small bottle. He'd always gotten praises in potion making, but this wasn't a potion that would make his tutors proud. He didn't NEED any magical properties in it, he just needed it to be flammable.

Which it was.

Just as he went over his plan one more time the shadows in the room seemed to flicker, and Red Son felt strikingly cold despite the amount of fire he'd just unleashed.

“I told him you were more clever than he was expecting out of you.” The voice startling him and nearly causing Red Son to drop the potion in his hands, he scrambled with the glass bottle and turned to the source of the noise.

The Six eared macaque had appeared in his room, how had he gotten in there without him noticing?

“Oh... I uhm...” He didn't have a lie prepared, Red Son's mind raced to try and come up with a plausible excuse but improvisation was never his strong suit, he would so quickly grow flustered and frustrated and usually do himself in so how could he be expected to lie convincingly on first bout?

“Don't waste a perfectly good lie trying to cover up what we both already know.” The macaque stated, a sort of boredom in his voice that made Red Son stiffen. “You know the letter was false, you know what the prince has planned for you.” The macaque took a step forward and Red Son prepared to fight him, but remembered after a beat the fire resistance charm he'd had on his person scant few days ago. He likely had it on him right now.

“I love it, he can't stand it, but I love it... Of course that also means his plans are a complete waste of your talents as far as I'm concerned.  If he hadn't planned that whole 'spider queen and her ilk' situation Your lover wouldn't have found out until it was too late, and we probably could have convinced you to go to war if he'd just been a bit more patient.”

“You're talking an awful lot for someone who supposedly is on his side.”

“I'm on MY side, highness.” The macaque said easily. “The Prince is no one to sneeze at, but then again, neither are you. Tell me, should I endorse this little sneak about and help you escape? What would benefit me from not telling the prince about your little explosive and your plans?”

He racked his brain for a moment. “I can tell my parents of your assistance in enabling my escape, they'd no doubt give you the same power you have here, accompanied by my family's resources you'd find yourself with more force behind yourself than you'd know what to do with. Or if I told Xiaotian he could do the same at his own mountain, he's not exactly a nobody either-”

That second part was a mistake, by how the macaque's expression darkened. “Yes I know He's the 'New Monkey King'. Sun Wukong's Body double.” He stated simply. But before Red Son could take it back or just ensure alliance with his own family, he found his arms being restrained. A pair of clones made of shadow clung to his sides and while they dispersed quickly under his fire  it was only for a moment.

Then there was a golden glow, and his arms all at once felt very heavy indeed as a cold pair of cuffs—the second set of wrist cuffs that the macaque had shown him- how had he forgotten about those?—activated and forced his wrists together. The magic quickly worked its way through his system again and he felt a cold shudder wrack up his spine.

“Your 'beloved' was quite loose lipped once I got him going on the machine. Don't hold it against him, highness, I haven't met a single man that could hold up against that level of pain.”

for a moment the words didn't process in his head, abut when they did any other thought flew right from his head.

There was only rage.

It was pathetic really, how quickly he'd been apprehended, how his fire had only a moment outside his body before once again being turned back round onto him, and his body—now remembering the pain he could do onto himself—forced his magic to cease. There was no instinctual blaze to shatter the cuffs this time, because he realized as more of the macaque's shadow clones pinned him down, that he didn't believe him.

There was no way that Xiaotian had been this monster's plaything. He had learned whatever it was he'd implied he'd learned through other methods, maybe as simple as recognizing Flower Fruit Mountain and Xiaotian had to explain the situation to him.

But If it was just his own escape the macaque was stopping then wouldn't he have not wasted the time in toying with him like that? Wouldn't he have just told the prince and been done with it? Put the cuffs on him without the monologue? Why would he waste his time in trying to trick Red son into believing him possible to sway?

Unless-

Unless he'd heard about Xiaotian planning on coming back for him himself

He almost wanted to laugh even as the clones forced him back to his feet and the Macaque crushed his liquid fireball in his hand. He was unsure if anything could make him as fearful or angry or whatever feeling it had been to make him break his restraints again as they did back in the forest, but it explained his knowledge of Xiaotian's identity, as well as his anger, and his attempt to trick Red Son. To test to see how far Red Son was willing to go to to defy the prince and follow his own heart.

But that didn't matter.

Xiaotian was coming for him.

It was a bitter medicine to take, to have to once again rely on his love to save him, rendered with naught but his intelligence on his side and left close to defenseless with these stupid cuffs back around his wrists, but He'd make it up to him.

For everything Xiaotian had done for him and how thoroughly Red Son had proved himself unworthy of such devotion, Red Son swore then to himself, that once this was all over, once he and Xiaotian were safe he'd make it all up to him. For every moment for the rest of their shared lives together.

Because when he saw him again he was never letting go.

–

“Captain I've heard rumors that the Monkey King is planning on killing my groom.’”

“My prince I've heard no such rumors-”

“Are you implying my spymaster lies to me?”

“Of- of course not my prince! What must be done to protect your groom before the wedding?”

“I'm currently having my beloved moved to a safer, more secure room in the palace to ensure no harm shall befall him before the wedding date, and we're moving the wedding itself up a few days. Go to the village and nearby forest, and the closest town, and round up all with former criminal histories. I want every possible hired gun behind bars by the time of my wedding in three days time.”

“Three days time your highness? Such a feat would require more men than we have at our disposal at the moment-”

“Then form a brute squad! You have my clearance! I want my prince safe from all harm! If He dies, then we'll have no choice but to go to war and we lack the men for such an insurgence against the Monkey King! I would have to go to his parents begging for assistance and that is not a bar I am willing to lower myself to!”

“Yes your highness!”

“Go! Waste no time!”

“Of course!”

–

Xiaojiao stared into the bottom of the jug of wine. Drained, just like all the others.

Her head was pleasantly fuzzy and the wine in her blood buzzed comfortably. It was a familiar state, she wasn't dependent on intoxication, but when she was at her lowest she would often find solace in the buzzed pleasantness of a good bender. Because here she was again.

No work, no leads, no friends.

Spider Queen had told her if they got separated that she should go back to where 'it started' i.e. The inn they'd gotten the job at. So she'd rented a room, and spent the next few days waiting, and when it became clear neither the Spider Queen, nor even Sandy were turning up, when Xiaojiao was made aware that she was well and truly alone, she blew most of her money on as much wine as she could get her hands on and began to chug.

She felt much like the scared twelve year old she once was, clinging to the handle of the Jade Sword and telling herself it didn't matter how terrified she was, as she HAD to fight. Her scar twinged at the memory.

At least no one would sell wine to a twelve year old. She didn't USED to be this pathetic when she was lonely and sad and on the verge of despair.  She used to have other avenues to vent it all when it became too much.

Someone could storm right in right now with news on finding the Six Eared Macaque and Xiaojiao couldn't even be sure if she'd believe them for how despondent she felt.

“Long Xiaojiao?” A voice broke her reverie. Xiaojiao blinked blearily up at the tough looking fellow before her.

“Who wants to know?” she slurred.

“You've been arrested twice for assault and once for theft, as a security precaution all with criminal records are behind detained for the next three days by order of the prince.”

She scoffed. “I'd like to see you try, buddy.” Her fingers felt heavy but she lifted the sword easily.

Her form was off, her limbs felt loose and limp, but she still held her own against the brute's clumsy axe swings. It would be pathetic to lose to this chump.

But before the fight could be solved one way or another, a pair of blue hands wrapped around the brute's torso and lifted him into the air.

And Xiaojiao was met with a very familiar (if blurry through her impaired vision) red bearded smile.

“Sandy!”

“Xiaojiao! So nice to see you again!” Sandy set the brute down but kept hold of his torso. “This is the friend I told you about captain, she's far more dangerous alone than she is with me. I'll keep her out of trouble, I can promise you that!”

She loved watching Sandy loom. The aura around him making anyone who didn't know him reel back as every alarm in their brains fired off danger signs. His pleasant grin and tone didn't change but to the people around them that was more frightening than before.

“Just mark her name right off there and I can handle the rest!” Sandy chirped and the shaking brute did just that, stiffly turning and marching out of the inn.

“Sandy you old bastard.” She cooed delightedly as Sandy shifted his focus back onto her and she felt the cool blue hands wrap around her own torso before she was pulled into a hug.

“You smell like wine, Are you okay, Xiaojiao you don't drink unless...-” Sandy shot her a far too knowing look.

“I've been better buddy, I'll admit.”

“Well, If it helps I've heard a lot of rumors and seen a lot of things as part of this little 'brute squad' some things that might interest you.”

“Hm?” She leaned into Sandy's embrace, her friend really gave the absolute best hugs.

“I think I found the Six Eared Macaque.”

Xiaojiao wasn't sure if it was disbelief, shock, sudden crashing cresting hope, or just the wine, but she suddenly got very dizzy.

And then everything went black.

[hq-cuties-pls]

THE LOVE SCRATCHES SCENARIO WITH TSUKKI, SUGA, KAGEYAMA, IWAZUMI, AND AKAASHI? PLEASE AND THANK

We have decided to combine these two asks because there is a lot of overlap. Please enjoy the final hours before Haikyuu’s Return!~The Admins 

—–

Tsukishima: 

“Tsukki…” Yamaguchi shot him a wry smile from the other side of the club room. He nodded at Tsukishima’s back, indicating the mirror with a flicker of his eyes. 

“Oh, shit…” Tsukishima ran his hands over the deep, vivid scratches on his back. 

“You and ___ have a good time last night?” Yamaguchi shot him a wry look out the corner of his eye. His smile was borderline smug, and the way he ruffled his short bangs in the mirror was definitely an attempt to bait him. 

It worked. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he growled, yanking his practice shirt on with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Mm-hm.” Yamaguchi shrugged, taking a seat to wrap his sprained ankle. “Whatever you say.”

 Tsukishima had never been more thankful for getting in the habit to show up first for practice, because he didn’t even want to think about what Kageyama or Hinata would say about all this. He’d talked to you about it, but in the moment, when you were under him and arching beautifully and blissed out and delirious, well… let’s just say he was a little distracted. 

“When did you turn into such a shit?” Tsukishima tugged his shirt down as if in effort to further conceal his back, smoothing carefully over the tender bits. 

“Once I was made Captain. I never knew why Daichi-san and Ennoshita-san were the way they were. Now I know it’s less a sports team and more a colony of feral cats. But I’m getting used to it.” 

“That’s good.”

“Just like I’m getting used to you and ____ and evidence of you two getting frisky.” Yamaguchi kicked at his hip with his good leg. “Seriously, you need to cut it out. What if the children saw? What if Yacchan saw?” 

“If Yachi-san is in here, then that means someone has had a stroke and no one is paying attention to my sex scratches.” Tsukishima neatly dodged Yamaguchi’s attack. “Seriously, Yamaguchi, you need to stop with the protective Dad schtick. You’re worse than Sawamura-san.” 

Yamaguchi scowled; “Just for that, I’m encouraging Hinata to slap your back later. As hard as he can. And you’ll deserve it.” 

Suga: 

“BWAH! Su-suga-senpai! What… what happened?!” 

Suga absently followed Hinata’s gaze, reminded of the evidence of your weekend alone with him on his back. He shrugged, trying to pass off the minor wince of pain as one of his shit-eating grins; “Oh, nothing. A Kitten got to me, is all.” 

“A kitten?” Kageyama poked his head out of his sweater, looking almost comically innocent. Suga hated to ruin it… almost. “Did you get a cat, senpai?”

Suga shrugged, his smile sharpening as he fought the ugly cackles that threatened to come out; “You could say that…”

Daichi groaned; “Oh, my god, Suga, Kitten is ____’s pet name, isn’t it. Don’t you fucking lie to me, you pervert.” 

“Such language, Daichi!” Suga put his hand over his (bare) chest in a pretense of scandal. “And in front of the children!”

“Says the guy who came into practice with SEX SCRATCHES? Suga, we talked about this–no marks in front of the kouhai!”

Asahi chose that moment to chime in, rubbing at his eyes like he had a migraine coming in; “And there goes all pretense of plausible deniability.” 

Suga packed up his neatly-folded school uniform, zipping into his team jacket with a definitive and sharp movement; “Bold of you to assume I ever had deniability. Besides, I said nothing. Daichi’s the one who outed me as a deviant.” 

“You are a deviant.” Daichi shot a narrow look at him, even if whatever rage may or may not be coming from him was basically nonexistent. “Why are you like this?” 

“Have to maintain my status as the pretty one, don’t I?” Suga ran a hand through his bangs, checking the tiny mirror on the wall before sauntering out. 

“How did anyone ever think you were Karasuno’s angel?” Daichi called after him.

Suga answered with a shrug, followed by a wince–you’d really done a number on him, regardless of how satisfying it was to aggravate Daichi’s Housewife Instincts.

Kageyama: 

“Hey, Kageyama! Nice sex scratches!”

“Hm?” Kageyama peeked over his shoulder at the long, bright red scratches running down his back. He scowled. “Those aren’t sex scratches. They’re cat scratches.” 

“Oh wow, that was a weak excuse, even for you, King,” Tsukishima said, pushing his dumb sports glasses higher up his face. “Sure those are cat scratches, and Tanaka-senpai is top of his class.” 

“Oi!” It was Tanaka-senpai’s turn to scowl. “That sounded like disrespect, Tsukishima.” 

“It was disrespect, Tanaka, keep up,” Ennoshita-senpai added. 

“RIP Ryuu,” Noya said with a smirk. “Don’t mind, don’t mind.”

“I feel like we’re getting off topic,” Kinnoshita said. “Suga-senpai is going to be heartbroken he missed this.” 

“The baby is growing up.” Narita wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “Kageyama went and got himself laid all on his own.” 

“What…” Kageyama blinked, unsure why the conversation was steering in this direction. ‘Laid?’ Like… laid down? Like a nap? “I don’t… yeah, I laid down at ____’s house and that’s how Tama got me.”

“Tama?” Hinata tilted his head, looking a bit like Tama when you opened a can of tuna fish. “Is Tama your weird pervy nickname for ____?” 

“No! He’s ____’s cat, you idiot!” 

“Ah.” Yamaguchi shrugged. “Seems he’s sticking with the cat scratches story.” 

“They are cat scratches!” 

“Sure, sure.” Yamaguchi patted his back, which just hurt… like a lot. “Come on, Kageyama. Get dressed. We won’t bother you about your…ah… “cat scratches” again.”

Kageyama scowled as he watched his teammates file out of the club room. Why did no one believe him about his cat scratches!? He’d have to ask you about it later…maybe you understood why everyone was laughing about it.

Iwaizumi: 

He should have known better.

He really, really should have known better. 

He’d even thought about it last night–he’d made sure you didn’t leave any marks that would show above the neck of a t-shirt, and he’d made a mental note not to change with the rest of the team.

A mental note that he completely forgot about until he’d gotten his shirt of and Oikawa let out a shriek.

“I-IWA-CHAN! MY EYES!”He dramatically slapped a hand over his eyes, covering them. “My poor, virginal eyes! How could you–no, how dare you besmirch this sacred space with your sex scratches!”

Iwaizumi closed his eyes, heaving a sigh and resigning himself to wait until Oikawa got it out of his system.

“Wait, sex scratches? For real?” Hanamaki said, and Iwaizumi groaned. Of course. Of course it wouldn’t be enough for Oikawa to see. Hanamaki and Matsukawa were like hounds on the scent, and once they got wind of it, they were never going to drop it. 

“Niiiice, vice-captain,” Matsukawa drawled. “She really got you good. Never took you for the kinky type, Iwaizumi.”

“MAKKI! MATTSUN! How dare you encourage this–this perversion in our sacred club room!”

“Ah, yes,” Hanamaki said, “The baked-in smell of sweat and dust. The pinnacle of sacredness, I’m sure.”

“The disrespect,” Oikawa said with a dramatic flair of his hand. “What about our kouhai, Iwaizumi? What kind of example are you setting for them?”

“D-don’t worry about us, captain!” Kindaichi said, though his cheeks and ears were bright, flaming red. “I mean, what Iwaizumi-senpai and ___-chan do in their spare time is none of our business, right?” 

“EXACTLY!” Oikawa shrieked. “None of our business. So he shouldn’t–shouldn’t make it our business by coming in here with his… his sex scratches!”

“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” Matsukawa said with a wicked grin.

“I–WHAT?! Mattsun, how dare you imply–I would never–I… you… GAH!” 

Oikawa, now red-faced himself, pulled his t-shirt forcefully over his head and stalked out of the room in a huff. As he left, he shouted over his shoulder–

“ANYONE NOT DRESSED AND ON THE COURT IN THE NEXT MINUTE IS DOING DIVING DRILLS!” 

Akaashi:

“Wow, Akaashi, your cat got you really good!” Bokuto said, staring wide-eyed at Akaashi’s bare back. 

Akaashi blinked twice, looking to the side and clutching his shirt in his hands. 

“Wait…”  Bokuto said, frowning. “You don’t have a cat. Did you get a cat?”

“N-no, Bokuto-san, I–”

“Oh! Does ___ have a cat?”

“No, she–”

“AKAASHI, WAS IT A STRAY?” Bokuto asked, grabbing Akaashi’s arms. “That’s really bad, you should go to the doctor! What if it had rabies?”

“Rabies was eliminated in Japan, like, 30 years ago,” Komi said, biting down a delighted smirk. “Don’t worry, Bokuto, I’m sure Akaashi is being safe. Right, Akaashi?”

“Y-yes!” Akaashi said, his cheeks flushing.

“Oh, so you went to the doctor?” Bokuto said.

Komi snorted into his fist, and Konoha slapped his hand against his forehead. 

“No,” Akaashi said, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Bokuto-san, there was no cat.”

“I–wha?”

“You see, captain,” Komi said, slapping a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder, “when two people love each other very much…”

“It was ____, Bokuto-san. _____ left the scratches, okay?” Akaashi said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Now, if it’s alright, I suggest we start practice.”

Bokuto stared blankly for long enough that it became genuinely concerning. Akaashi could almost hear that weird, scratchy dial-up sound.

Konoha laughed; “I didn’t realize it was possible for a human being to Blue Screen, but wow, Bokuto continues to surprise.” 

A solid 15 or 20 seconds later, Bokuto exploded into the most brilliant blush ever seen in nature, sputtering dramatically as he tried to shove his head through the arm hole of his t-shirt. 

“Ah…” Komi said with a shrug. “And there he is. Really, Akaashi-kun, you should do something to protect his innocence. He isn’t ready for that.”

“My apologies,” Akaashi replied with a small smirk. “I’ll try to get ____ to be less…affectionate next time.”

Semi:

“I see you have been enjoying your… extracurricular activities, Semi,” Ushijima said in his usual near-monotone.

Semi stared back at him, his brow creasing. “I–I’m not in any other extracurriculars, though? Just volleyball. I mean–I am enjoying that, I guess?” He blinked in confusion, but Ushijima’s ever-stoic face gave nothing away.

“Eita-kuuun,” Tendou crowed, popping up over Semi’s shoulder. “I think Wakatoshi-kun was making a joke.” A catlike smirk spread across his face, and then one of his long fingers jabbed directly into the largest gouge you’d left in Semi’s back. Semi jumped, wincing at the pain, and then his eyes went wide.

“Oh–fuck.” Semi groaned, the memory of last night flooding back into his brain.

“Ahaha, there it is! Good for you, Semisemi. Make sure you put some ointment on those though, yeesh. Maybe tell ____ to trim their nails next time!” Tendou said before he pranced off to finish changing. 

Semi stared at Ushijima, who was–if he wasn’t very much mistaken–smirking. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi was smirking. 

“I keep antibiotic ointment in my bag, if you would like to borrow some,” Ushijima said simply, an almost-imperceptible twitch to his eyebrow the only indication he wasn’t utterly earnest. 

Oikawa: 

A low wolf whistle interrupted the typical chatter in the club room, causing everyone to fall silent. Matsukawa was leaning against the door wearing a wide, lecherous grin. 

“Wow, Captain, color me impressed. I really thought you were all talk, but you and ____-chan have been busy, haven’t you?”

It was clear what Matsukawa was talking about–Oikawa’s bare, pale back was ravaged, the bright pink of the scratch marks all the more stark against his fair skin. Oikawa blinked twice, his eyes going wide as saucers before he abruptly spun around, putting his back to the lockers.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mattsun–”

“Well, Captain,” Hanamaki interrupted, “it would seem ____-chan has left some rather impressive marks…”

“THERE ARE NO MARKS,” Oikawa screeched, his face going as pink as the scratch marks curving over his shoulders.

“Come on, Captain,” Matsukawa drawled, “just yesterday you were bragging about you and ____’s escapades.”

“A gentleman doesn’t tell, Mattsun,” Oikawa said, his voice wavering as he sidled awkwardly along the wall. 

“Funny, because they say a picture’s worth a thousand words,” Hanamaki interrupted with a devilish grin, brandishing his phone. “And this one’s got plenty to say.”

“MAKKI!” Oikawa shrieked. Hanamaki darted out of the club room, and Oikawa lunged after him–still dressed only in his track pants. 

“Three… two… one…” Iwaizumi counted down under his breath, and right on cue a chorus of girlish screams broke out outside the club room, followed by Oikawa dashing back inside and slamming the door behind him. He fell forward against the wall, his head hitting the locker with a metallic thunk. 

“My life is over,” he moaned dramatically. 

“There, there,” Iwaizumi said, patting him firmly on the back right where the scratches were worst. “At least you had pants on.”

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 5 - 2

This is a series. Start here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Content warning: unplanned pregnancy, discussion of death, PAST DEATH OF MINORS, self-hatred, past head injury, mention of mutilation (to cover a brand), past torture, emesis

~

Finn balanced the large paper bag from the pharmacy with one hand, and pushed open the door with the other.

Ellis sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the mostly unfinished puzzle in front of them. Their face was pale, their eyes dull and deeper set than they normally were. Finn wet their lips and closed the door behind them. Ellis slowly lifted their head.

“Hey, babe,” Ellis said softly. “How was the trip?”

“Frustrating,” Finn said as they hung up the car key on its hook beside the door. “The rizatriptan came in, but the Zofran didn’t.” They walked to the kitchen and set the paper sack on the counter. They looked at Ellis through the window in the wall between the kitchen and the living room, lined with barstools on the living room side that were pushed up against the counter. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s all good,” Ellis said weakly, and slumped down against the couch. “I’ll be okay.”

Finn chewed their lip as they pulled the multivitamins out of the sack and put them in the cabinet, next to the spices. “Yeah, I know, but I… I would have liked…”

“Yeah, me too,” Ellis murmured. Their gaze returned to the puzzle in front of them.

Finn watched them for a moment, then tucked the can of pickled ginger into the fridge. “You doing the new puzzle?” they said softly.

“No,” Ellis said. Their voice sounded thin as a string. “Just looking. You know I wouldn’t keep doing it without you.”

“Damn right,” Finn huffed with a laugh.

Ellis laughed, too, and the sound was soft heat in Finn’s chest. Finn looked over at them where they lay almost completely horizontal now on the couch, staring at nothing. Their hands went still.

“Ellis?” Finn said softly. “Is… is something wrong?”

Ellis shifted, then blew out a deep sigh through their lips. “Um… no,” they said, finally.

Finn abandoned the paper bag and went to Ellis’s side. They sat down on the couch next to them. Ellis shifted onto their back and stretched their legs across Finn’s lap. Finn gently rubbed Ellis’s knee, their hand inches from the spot where if Finn grabbed Ellis’s knee just right, just above the joint, Ellis would shriek and laugh and push them away, their cheeks flushing, their eyes sparkling…

They squeezed gently. “Babe,” they said, and watched Ellis’s gray-green-blue eyes laze slowly over the puzzle. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to move out,” Ellis croaked. Their voice was tight with tears.

“Oh.” Finn drew in a slow, deep breath, and winced around the ache that formed around their lungs as they did. “Okay.”

“With…” Ellis waved their hand vaguely in the direction of the back of the house. “…the new plan, the new rescue, taking in people DFS would have killed… it’s…” Ellis raised their gaze and met Finn’s. It’s… dangerous, Finn.”

Finn swallowed hard. “Yeah,” they rasped. They reached out and took Ellis’s hand. “But that’s… we… we knew that, babe.”

“We did,” Ellis said softly. Finn gently rubbed their thumb over the back of Ellis’s hand. Ellis’s free hand went to their belly, covering up the tiny little baby inside them. They weren’t showing yet. They wouldn’t, after only a month. The baby was only the size of a grain of rice, now, according to the book Finn had purchased in town. They and Ellis had looked at the book together just yesterday, and laughed at how the pictures of fetuses looked more like newly-hatched chicks or baby dinosaurs or anything other than a baby—

“It has your eyes,” Ellis had said, pointing at the two little black dots resting at the top of the little blob.

“And your tail,” Finn had said, and Ellis had pushed them away, laughing, then pulled them right back in for a kiss…

Ellis took in a slow, deep breath. Finn’s hand drifted to rest over Ellis’s, over the baby. Ellis’s hand was cool, but Finn could feel the electric current of excitement under it, the knowledge of the tiny little blob inside Ellis that was half Ellis’s, half theirs.

“I…” Ellis cleared their throat and swiped at their eyes. “I love this family. More than anything. You… you know that.” Finn nodded. “And…” Ellis blinked tears out of their eyes. “And we support each other. We keep each other safe. But with… with that…” They waved again at the back of the house. “I…”

Finn took both of Ellis’s hands and squeezed gently, their knuckles going white as they met Ellis’s gaze. “I think I—”

“I’ve already lost two babies,” Ellis said, heavily. Their eyes filled with tears, and this time, they let them fall, rolling down their temples and into their black hair, limp from not being washed for a few days. “I… I love this family, and I love this cause. But…” They looked down at their abdomen. Their shirt was pulled up just the slightest bit, revealing a thin stripe of their stomach. “No amount of refugees will be worth losing another baby. Or… or being killed, so she has to grow up alone.”

Finn’s mouth pulled into a strained and rueful smile. “I thought we decided it was a boy.”

“Well, right now, it’s just a blob,” Ellis said softly. “Sex organs don’t form until week seven, remember?”

Tears burned in Finn’s eyes. “I remember,” they murmured. They held Ellis’s hand to their mouth and pressed their lips firmly against the knuckles.

“So… I… I can’t live here, if we’re going to be bringing refugees through. DFS will find out eventually. He’s got… who knows how many people working for him. And I can’t… I refuse… I can’t…” Ellis’s voice twisted in a sob. “…lose this baby, too.”

Finn’s stomach lurched, and their heart squeezed painfully in their chest. Their hands tightened on Ellis’s as something poured into Finn’s blood, hot and sharp, filling them up, making them ready to fight, to die.

Daniel Schiester will die if he threatens my baby.

Finn bit down hard on their lip. “I… I know.” There was another pull, weaker, but there all the same. There was a pull into the fight. They’d always wanted to be in the thick of it, always wanted to go where things were hardest.

Why the fuck did I sign up to be a medic, then?

Because I’m a coward, and deep down I’d rather be on the sidelines than be the person to take the bullet.

Ellis’s gaze moved over their face. “What is it?” they murmured.

“Um…” Finn’s eyes flicked to the puzzle on the coffee table. Barely even the outside edge was finished. On the box was a picture of a desk, covered in lovely writing utensils and leather notebooks, smudged with ink. Really crafty stuff. Edrissa had picked it out for them from a store in Crayton.

But Finn had always wanted the fight. They’d emerged from Gavin’s warehouse with a head injury, but was otherwise unscathed. And… and Colleen’s fucking nightmare castle… They’d emerged from that with nothing but a brand. Their hand wrapped around their right forearm, over the bandage that Vera had placed after slicing the brand until it was beyond recognition almost two weeks ago.

When the team had disappeared into Colleen’s murder house, Gavin’s cane marks had been opened again, Isaac had been caned and burned and cut and beaten again, Sam nearly lost their fucking arm, Tori was lost in her own head more often than not… and all Finn came away with… was a fucking brand.

They wet their lips. Their eyes focused again, and they saw Ellis staring at them, a little wrinkle between their eyebrows. Finn bent forward and kissed the worry line. When they leaned back again, Ellis’s worried expression was still frozen in place.

“Um…” Finn chewed their lip again. “I… I know.”

“So…” Ellis swallowed hard. Finn’s heart broke as they looked at the uncertainty behind Ellis’s eyes, the worry that came not just from concern about the baby. “Will you, um… will you… come with me?”

Finn’s stomach dropped, and the air rushed out of their lungs like they’d been punched. “Ellis—”

“I know there’s so much work to be done,” Ellis said softly. They pressed their lips together, although Finn could see them trembling. “There’s so many people to save. DFS is an evil motherfucker, and he needs to be stopped. But…” Ellis’s face hardened. Their jaw set. Their eyes flashed. “Sorry, but nothing is worth risking this baby for. Are you coming with me?”

Beneath the fierceness, the anger, there fluttered a terrible, wounded vulnerability. Ellis looked up at Finn, their eyes still brimming tears. Ellis bit down hard on their lip.

Finn leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to their lips. “Yeah,” they said gently. “I am. They’re my baby, too. And… you’re my fucking family.”

Ellis whined softly against Finn’s lips. They pulled Finn down on top of them and clutched at them, holding them tight against their chest, as they pressed the kiss deeper.

“We could move into that little cottage down the road,” Ellis sighed. Finn’s hand went to cup Ellis’s face, then slid down their neck, over their shoulder, down their side until they pressed their fingers into Ellis’s hip. “It’s like a ten-minute walk, but far enough that we have plausible deniability. It’s kind of a shithole but the others would help. We…” Ellis gasped as Finn pulled them hard against them. “We just need to tell the others.”

The back door swung open. Finn groaned and pressed their forehead against Ellis’s. Then they extricated themself from Ellis’s embrace and sat up. Ellis pushed themself up to sitting and pulled their knees into their chest. A faint blush burned on their cheeks.

At least they had some color now.

Gray, Zachariah, Edrissa, and Sam all filed into the kitchen. Zachariah carried an armload of zucchini – or some kind of squash, Finn didn’t actually know – and set them on the counter. Edrissa carried two fistful of leafy herbs. Sam and Gray followed behind, holding a bowl of fresh string beans each.

Finn’s stomach grumbled. “Are we having all of that for dinner?”

“No,” Edrissa said with a light glare. “What dish that you know of combines all these things?”

“Fuck, I don’t know how to cook,” Finn grumbled under their breath. Gray put the bowl of string beans down on the counter and came into the living room.

“How are you feeling?” they said gently to Ellis, and sat at a couch next to theirs. “Still nauseated?”

Ellis shrugged weakly. “A little. I don’t think I have anything left to throw up.”

“Let me make you some tea!” Edrissa called from the kitchen. She darted to a cabinet and pulled down a tin with for Ellis scrawled across it in Edrissa’s handwriting.

The corner of Gray’s mouth pulled up as they looked at Edrissa. As she went to the drawer that held the tea strainer, Zachariah shuffled to the stove and grabbed the kettle. He filled it in the sink and put it back on the stove. He glanced at Edrissa as he lit the burner. Edrissa flushed and scooped out a tablespoon of dried herbs with the tea strainer.

Gray turned back to look at Finn. “The trip into town go alright?”

“No Zofran,” Finn said flatly. “But the rizatriptan is in. Hopefully no more migraines for Gavin.”

“That would be ideal,” Gray said dryly as they rubbed their forehead.

Finn glanced at Ellis. They looked back at them, their eyebrows pulled together, their mouth pressed into a painful smile. Finn reached out and laced their fingers through Ellis’s.

Ellis nodded once. “Gray… we should… probably tell you, um, something.”

Gray lifted their head and met Ellis’s gaze. A flicker of fear passed over their face, made all the more creased with stress and worry. Finn swallowed, their stomach burning faintly with guilt.

“Um…” Ellis nervously rubbed their thumb over the top of Finn’s hand, mirroring the motion Finn had made a few minutes before. “We… we would like to move out.”

Gray’s eyes went wide. They sat back slowly and folded their hands in their lap. Their eyes slowly unfocused. Finn chewed their lip and waited for Gray to speak.

Gray wet their lips and slowly opened their mouth. “I… understand,” they said, finally.

Finn blew out a slow breath and looked up to see Sam and Edrissa standing in the window of the kitchen, looking out with identical expressions of hurt on their faces. Zachariah stood behind them, his arms crossed across his chest, looking nervously between them all.

“We love you, so much,” Ellis said in a rush. “We love this family. Gray, I’ve been with you for, for seven years.” They gave a weak laugh. “And I’d die for any of you. But… with DFS doing his bullshit…” Their hand drifted again over their belly, as if they could hold off the world with only that. “…I can’t risk my baby. There’s a cottage just a bit down the road. We’ll visit all the time. But at the end of the day, when DFS comes knocking, because he will…” Ellis raised their shoulders jerkily in a painful-looking shrug. “…I can’t let this one get hurt. I… I…” Ellis’s chest heaved in a shaky breath, then another, then another. “I thought Finn was dead. I lost my family once already. And I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

Gray quickly stood and crossed to Ellis. They crouched in front of them, joints creaking as their knees bent, and pulled Ellis into their arms. Ellis shivered and clutched at Gray. They breathed hard against their shoulder, their fingers digging into Gray’s shirt, as Finn rubbed slow circles on their back.

“I absolutely understand,” Gray said, their voice pitched low.

Finn leaned over and pressed a kiss to Ellis’s shoulder. They drew in a slow, deep breath, and felt Ellis doing the same. They smiled.

“This is your baby. You protect your family, above all else.” Gray leaned back and their lips curved up in a watery smile. “Besides. You’re thirty-five years old. Plenty old enough to be moving out of the house.”

Ellis playfully smacked Gray’s shoulder, barely hard enough to even make a sound. “Fair enough.”

Gray took both of Ellis’s hands in theirs and squeezed. “This baby deserves all the protection in the world. I think it would be safer for them to be distanced from this…” They threw a glance at Zachariah where he stood in the kitchen. “…operation.”

Ellis nodded jerkily. Their eyes shone with tears. “Thank you for understanding.”

Gray leaned forward and pulled them both into a hug this time. “Of course I do,” they said softly.

“They’ll be your first grandchild,” Ellis said in a small voice.

Gray shuddered and squeezed Finn and Ellis tighter. Finn could feel Gray trembling, and they swore they heard Gray sniffle. When Gray pulled back, their eyes were red. “Oh,” they whispered.

Ellis wiped their eyes on their shirt. “You’ll have to think of what you want them to call you,” they said softly.

Gray let out a sort of twisted whine and smiled wide, showing a toothy grin. “I’ll give it some thought,” they said. Their voice broke. “Never thought that would, um… h-happen.” They drew their hand over their face.

“Yeah, me neither,” Ellis whispered.

The three of them burst out in half-laughter, half-sobs. Gray squeezed Ellis’s hands once more and stood. They groaned and rubbed at their knee. They straightened and rolled their eyes. “I’m certainly old enough to be a grandparent.”

Ellis grimaced. “Don’t say old.”

Gray tilted their head in concession. “Fine,” they said with a laugh. “I’m a fifty-three-year-old spring chicken.”

“Speaking of chicken, what’s for dinner?” Finn said, looking towards the chicken.

Ellis shot upright and gagged weakly. They smacked their hand over their mouth and dashed from the room. They disappeared down the hallway, and Finn could hear the weak sound of them retching into the toilet. Edrissa’s mouth puckered. She turned to the stove and stared at the kettle as it came to a boil.

Finn bit their lip. “What… what was it?” they said weakly. “They did okay with chicken yesterday—”

“I think it’s just the mention of food,” Gray said. They stared into the hallway with Finn. “This is just… a rough pregnancy for them.”

“It shouldn’t be Rh incompatibility,” Finn said as they wrung their hands. “We’re the same blood type. They checked at—”

“I think it’s the stress,” Gray said softly. “They…” They blew out a slow breath through their lips. “You all have survived… a lot.”

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle.

Continued here

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[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Patient

Cassell Academy Helicopter Platform.

Professor Schneider and Professor Manstein raised umbrellas against the sudden downpour, the winds buffeting their coats. They looked up as the helicopter lights pierced the heavy clouds and descended rapidly. A large Black Hawk helicopter with the symbol of the red cross splashed on its nose lowered down like a comet, daring in the poor weather, but familiar with the site, able to land completely blind like this.

The cargo door opened and a stretcher was carried out, rigged with devices and IVs protected from the weather with plastic. The only identifier of the person on the stretcher was a mop of dark hair.

Schneider was approached by one of the staff. “What is his condition?”

“Slowly improving. He’s off the ventilator.” He handed Schneider a clipboard. Schneider flipped through it. “And our other patient?”

“Sedated.”

Schneider and Manstein walked to the helicopter and stepped inside. The other patient was lying still, sleeping. He looked similar to Chu Zihang, Asian with dark hair, but his face was rounder, he was younger looking and his hair was much longer.

“This is the one they reported holding up the building debris until rescue could arrive?” Manstein said, his eyes widened in surprise. “I expected to see someone stronger.”

“So did I. He’s the hybrid kept captive by the organization. He may have used a Yanling.” Schneider gently pulled back the blanket covering him. Scars dimpled the young man’s pale arms and slashed deep into the muscles of his chest. “It was Chu Zihang’s goal of saving those captive, not just destroying that organization. That’s why he proposed such a perilous mission. It would have been simple to just explode their facilities remotely.”

He peeled back the cloth until he could see the young man’s wrists. Even though he was no longer bound by the shackles, the skin was pale and thin and discolored. The muscles were atrophied there, having been bound for years.

“He’ll need to be blood tested before we can admit him here. If he is over the blood threshold…” Manstein whispered.

“This is the one Chu Zihang nearly gave his life to save. And in return, he allowed Chu Zihang to live. I’m disinclined to believe that further testing will be required. Monitoring will be all that’s needed.” 

The staff returned for the second bed and Manstein stepped aside. “You’ll take responsibility if anything happens?”

“Naturally. If he’s a monster, we’ll quietly dispose of him and bury him with honors.”

The second patient was rolled out. The wind suddenly burst in fury and the doctors had to brace themselves against it, shouting and holding on to their hats. Schneider and Manstein watched in silence.

---

Lu Mingfei opened the clinic door to a crowd of people in the lobby. “Woah! So many people!” He stood there, holding a bouquet of flowers. But everyone here had bouquets, large balloons that said ‘get well soon’ on them.

“We all got the message that the Lionheart President was back at the same time.” Lancelot spoke up. “You’re a little slow to get here. But the truth is everyone arrived at once.”

“Are they letting anyone in to see him?” 

“They’re making sure he hasn’t suffered any from the journey here. Once he’s settled in, they’ll let you in long enough to set your gifts there. Nothing more. Do you need a towel?”

Lu Mingfei’s fine coat was soaked with the rain outside and he was shivering under the heavy air conditioning. “Yes if you don’t mind.”

“He was so worried about his Senior brother than he ran out without an umbrella!” Finger strode in behind him.

Lancelot walked to the nurses station and the woman behind the desk went to retrieve a towel. When he returned and Lu Mingfei put it on his head, he sighed. “You even warmed it up for me. You’re so kind.”

Lancelot chuckled. “It will be some time yet before we get to see him. So get comfortable.”

“What about that other guy?” Finger asked. “The one that came back with him? No one’s here to greet him…?” Finger pulled out a small picture, taken by one of his paparazzi. It was of a second stretcher, one that didn’t hold Chu Zihang.

Lancelot picked it up. “There was a second patient? No one said anything about this.”

“That’s why I’m curious. They’re both in this hospital, but I bet if you try to ask where he’s staying, they won’t tell you.”

Lu Mingfei looked at the picture. It was true, he had no idea this other person was here. Yet he had an idea where he might be. He recalled the incident with Little Dragon Girl. After she had rescued him from death on the Midgard Snake, Chu Zihang was very badly hurt, but because he was under investigation by the school board, he was held in a more secure area.

As his friends, Lu Mingfei, Little Dragon Girl and Lionheart were permitted to see him. But Mingfei couldn’t help but imagine that this person was alone, locked away in that area. It was sad.

“You think he’s here?”

Finger smiled confidently. “I know he’s here! They brought him in, but through the back.”

Finger and Mingfei exchanged glances. Finger waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t give me such a lewd expression.” Mingfei pushed his face away.

Lancelot chuckled. “I’m busy here, but if you want to go see the other patient, feel free.” He turned his back, giving himself plausible deniability.

They walked back under the weather. They came around the back to a loading ramp that was sunken into the ground behind the hospital. “Little Bro, get under the umbrella with me! Don’t be so prideful! What if you catch a cold!” 

“I’d rather catch a cold than be seen sharing an umbrella with you! Where is this back entrance!”

“Near the loading docks. Most suspicious patients are treated like cargo so they don’t raise alarm bells. I can’t get in but with your S-ranked credentials, you can!”

“So you’re using me again?”

“You can’t say I’m using you if you want to know about our mystery patient, too. And what do you mean ‘again’?!”

Lu Mingfei opened his mouth to run the long list: how he used him to get food and gamble on his test results? But then the large cargo bay door opened! The two scrambled behind a concrete barrier and crouched down. Two men wearing the executive department uniforms marched out from the cargo door and continued out in the rain. In a few seconds, the cargo bay door would close!

Finger grabbed his arm and dashed inside, ducking under the door as it closed. They both looked behind them to make sure they weren’t seen. “Hey, I guess I didn’t need you after all.”

“Well I’m here now!” Mingfei shook himself from Finger’s grasp and looked around. He started getting an uneasy feeling. It took him a moment to place it. He remembered sneaking into a medical facility like this. The secret vault in the Genji Heavy Industries building where a beautiful girl lived in solitude her entire life. It was no wonder when he listened to the description of someone lying alone, with no one to comfort him, his heart was moved.

“Earth to Mingfei… something wrong buddy?”

Mingfei muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just go.” 

“Oh come on you can tell your brother. No secrets between us!” Finger suddenly stopped talking.

Mingfei glared at him with a deep, clouded expression. This glance was like a gun pointed at his forehead. Not a threat, but a firm command with real consequences if he didn’t comply immediately.  Mingfei continued walking and Finger widened his eyes at Mingfei’s back.

The two didn’t say anything more. Mingfei seemed to be walking on his own down the hall in a strange daze and Finger followed him. 

He suddenly looked up. “Wait where are we going?”

“I don’t know, I'm just following you.”  Finger stood, looking down at the shorter man with a knowing smile. “Whether or not you realized it, you led us right to our destination.” he pointed over his shoulder.

Mingfei felt his heart squeeze in his chest. 

A vault door. It was just like before. He looked at his Student ID card and then put it away and pulled out his phone. The app was still there, the one that led him through the labyrinth of Genji to get to her.

He raised it and swiped it. 

There was no voice welcoming ‘Ricardo M. Lu back’ but the door clicked open.

Finger was completely astonished. “How did you…”

Mingfei walked in, silent, unwilling to give an explanation. Cassell having the same secure technology as the Hydra of Japan shouldn’t surprise him. After all, Hydra was officially the Japan Branch of Cassell and they shared tech. Still, he found it unnerving to go through the same motions as before.

Finger’s hairs were already raised up. To him, Mingfei’s sudden serious silence, his demeanor… everything about him seemed different than what he was outside the hospital. He walked into room where the patient was lying on the bed, sedated. He watched Mingfei look around.

Mingfei was looking for machines similar to the ones he saw when he met Erii. But he didn’t see them. The hospital room only had the basics. A heart rate monitor, a monitor for blood pressure and that was all. Mingfei came to the conclusion that he was not an unstable hybrid. So why the secrecy?

He cautiously approached the person lying there while Finger watched. Mingfei rested his hands on the railing on the bed and the man’s eyes opened. His eyes were covered with a strange film that peeled back to reveal pure golden eyes. His hand reached out and grabbed Mingfei’s wrist!

Mingfei gave a short shout of terror and pulled away from him. The man looked at him a few more seconds before his eyes rolled back in his head and closed again.

Mingfei was gasping and clutching his chest in fright. “I thought he was asleep!”

[facepalming-since-chernobyl]

Shit I have recently read, #1 No Logo by Naomi Kline

Because I have a shit memory and read too much, I decided to please you with my thoughts about books I have/will read. Maybe if I write some shit down, I will remember more later, lol

(x)

Anyway, the book is quite famous and covers the topic of “the insidious practices and far-reaching effects of corporate marketing—and the powerful potential of a growing activist sect that will surely alter the course of the 21st century.” It’s not anything new, it was first published in 2000, so for sure a lot of things have changed, but it presents quite nicely the history of branding and how the shit was going on to the 90’s.

Basically, we are fucked, while fucking people in other countries, while living the lives of living billboards. Also, fuck modern capitalism.

On some point the big companies realized that the way to make more money is build their brand around reputation of the company, not around the products they wanted to sell. Aka what they do is not selling us a product (shoes, clothes, car, food etc.) but an idea, way of life, style and shit like that. It’s like when you hear Samsung, you  don’t really see a specific product, but you know they sell good, high quality stuff. In a way, we don’t buy something material but a concept/idea (what is weird, when you think about it, but this how advertisement works).

Because of that, they did everything to cut off themselves from the production. Producing shit? Ewwww, that’s ugly and problematic. That’s why they closed most factories on Western countries and moved them to Asia, Africa and South America. They don’t own factories. All shit is produced to them by contractors and trading partners. Cool, huh? Because when there are accused of treating the workers in inhuman way, don’t pay them enough and when the factories burn to the ground killing hundreds they can play the ‘plausible deniability’ card and say, the factories are not ours, they belong to the contractors, our hands are clean, uwu :)))))

What is also fucked up, the big corporations suck the money from the teens and young adults, especially from poor districts. They check the trends there, check what is seen as ‘cool’  and then steal the ideas and sell them, while advertising things as a “way of life, buy Nike and it will help you break from poverty”. All advertised by cool, successful, beautiful sport people and celebrities.

The biggest irony is, the big companies ran away from Western countries, closed the factories and fired thousands of people, making the districts in homelands even poorer. And then they sell the products to the children of people they fired, forcing them to buy some horrendous price (250$ while they were produced for 30$, for example). And the shitload of money they earn? Of course it doesn’t go to help people, improve shit etc. It goes for advertisement and building the reputation more, for creating the BRAND.

The problem is much deeper, because you may see how big companies like Nike, sponsor playgrounds or sport fields in poor districts, playing the good uncle? The problem is that the big companies were allowed decades ago to pay lower taxes, what means less money goes to the public sector, so it means schools, hospitals etc. are not founded enough. So, it’s not so weird that schools try to get some contracts and get founds from corporations, allowing them to invade their spaces, classes and canteens. Because, they have no choices, while allowing big corporation to brainwash the kids more.

And that’s a problem of the regulation of world trade, globalization and capitalism in general. The governments of developing countries want to fight with poverty, attract big companies by offering them tax credits and creating special economic zone where basically, the corporations… oh wait, their partners, can do whatever shit they want and are above local law. Aka they create a war zone, with their own police, breaking all the worker’s laws and treating them like shit. But because the countries don’t have the power over that places, the poverty doesn’t end and gets worse. People, CHILDREN, die there.

Btw, every time big companies “support” social justice movements etc. it’s not because they are changing or they are sympathetic. They do it, because it’s profitable for them. Remember that :)

Any ways to fight shit? Well, as it was mentioned the corporation try to protect their names and reputation at all cost. It sometimes gets ridiculous when for example McDonald’s sued some restaurants that belonged to Scottish people, whose names starts with MC. I shit you not.

That’s why, when shit happens and people go after one specific company (Nike, McDonald, Shell), things may improve. Because if one company gets bashed and is forced to change some ways of producing, selling, treating employees and workers, the other companies will try to change their ways, before shit hits their fan. Because for example, going to courts and even winning the cases, still will put them on spotlights and may trash the brand. What is once again, fucked up, but say hi to capitalism.

Activism and awareness may help, but the fact is the September 11 attacks changed some game. Because after them, attacking capitalism and free trade is seen as attacking democracy, siding with terrorists etc. And well, past decade showed nothing really changed for better. Kids and young women are still slaves in the factories in the developing countries.

How to fight it? No clear answer, but the knowledge and awareness is the first step. That we can imagine a world without being living billboards, being proud of having a name of brand printed all over our boobs.

7/10

p.s. for anyone intrested, a great book about how fashion comapnies screw the environment and the workers, I recommend  Fashionopolis: The Price of Fast Fashion and the Future of Clothesby Dana Thomas. 

[sarcasmisakindofmagic]

Inciting flashback

Pairing: Poe Dameron x reader 

Word count: 2,300

Warnings: fluff, making out, alcohol

Tags: @huliabitch who very kindly provided a prompt for me. I hope it lives up to your expectations! (I may or may not have started on one of the others) ❤️

"What did you do to my bird, Dameron?" You threw your hands in the air at the near wreck of a ship. Poe had clearly been attempting to fix it before you got down to the hangar, or at least stop the smoke billowing from the rear end. Beebee-ate whistled a lot of information at you, detailing the gory details of the fight. You ignored the clench of worry, he was on the ground and offended enough to be fluffing up like a tooka cat in a rainstorm.

"Your bird?" He protested, blocking your path to the ship as though you couldn't see how bad it was. One of hangar drones beeped disapprovingly as it put out the fire.

"Look at her! Your shield generators are leaking!" You ducked around him, spotting more and more issues. If it wasn't so much work you'd almost be impressed. It took effort to wreck X-wings like this, especially when he hadn't been flying in atmo. You narrowed your eyes at the seeping puddle of suspicious liquids as it crept closer to Poe's boots.

"Look-" He tried again as you whirled to look at him, flinging an arm behind you at the mess.

"They're not supposed to leak, Dameron!" You bulldozed through his attempt to defend himself. "There's no fluid in them! And the flashback suppressor? That's the cause of the smoke. It's inciting flashback!"

Poe ran a hand through his hair, gaze flicking from Black-one to your face guiltily. He opened his mouth to speak

"Ahh. Ah." You held up a hand to stall the no doubt heroic explanation of how he'd wrecked your baby. You did not need more fuel for your anxious day dreaming and if you let him talk he'd probably talk you down; let him be the one to sweat a little.

"Out now. Beebee can stay and help. You go and clean up. And stay away from this bird, she has trauma." You ordered briskly pivoting on your heel, pointedly not watching him walk away.

Beebee whistled apologetically before leading you over to the ship, fire suppressant foam drifting past you on the breeze. It was going to be a long day.

Banging. That was definitely a banging noise. It wasn't the siren to alert the base to approaching TIEs and your alarm was more of a beep. The noise got louder, you groaned hoping the noise would scare it away. You burrowed further under the blankets, maybe if it couldn't see you it couldn't wake you up?

The banging subsided, leaving you to blissful silence.

A heavy weight landed on the bed instead, making you roll into the dip.

"Twist, wake up!"

You groaned again, pressing your face into the mattress hard enough to push your nose into a weird shape, making it whistle with every exhale.

"Twiiiiiiiiiist, come on!"

The demon bothering you had Jess's voice; maybe that was a sign about your friendship.

"Go 'way." You muttered blackly, firmly clutching the blankets in case the demon Jess got ideas about stealing your covers.

“Twist, it's the party. You agreed to come to it. You even sounded excited." Jess coaxed, rubbing your shoulder.

"Poe broke the thing. It's fixed. I sleep." You protested, cracking open one eye to glare at her through the blankets.

Jess lay down on top of you, ignoring the halfhearted poking you resorted to, resenting your sudden demotion to mattress.

"You fixed the ship yesterday. Time to face the light and party like a pilot, baby."

She pulled the blankets off your face, grabbing the chrono to prove time had passed since you'd passed out after fixing black one.

"Kriff."

"Come on. Poe's been driving everyone crazy asking about you. I promised to bring you to the party to shut him up." Jess said cheerfully, yanking the covers off and forcing you into an upright position.

You gave in and opened your eyes, yawning obnoxiously to ensure Jess knew you were tired.

"So you don't really want me there,"you muttered mutinously, "just want to shut Dameron up." You pulled on a dress, too lazy to figure out which leg went where in trousers and put a top on.

"Yep!" Jess agreed. "And you wriggled your way out of the last party and were smug about your hangover free morning. Revenge is a dish best served to the sleep deprived."

She tamed your hair easily, smacking a kiss to your cheek when she'd finished. You smiled in spite of yourself.

"Hate you too, Pava."

"You know it, Twist." She chirped, pulling you out of your room and back out into the world.

The party was in full swing when you arrived, complete with bonfire. Beebee spotted you first, whistling as it barrelled towards you at high speed. You crouched down to greet him, laughing as he jiggled his body sphere in excitement.

"Fully recharged, Bee, I promise." You said, nodding solemnly to their advice about the importance of regular recharging for humans.

"There she is!" Snap hollered from the bonfire.

"Twist!" Kaydel called, leaning heavily on Snap’s shoulder to stay upright. "Come join the fun!"

The pilots all yelled some form of encouragement, chorusing a toast to you. It would be embarrassing but last time there had been toasts to the inventor of caf, in reality they just wanted to down their drinks.

Jess led you to the circle, firmly pushing on your shoulders so you sat next to Poe. She winked with the subtlety of a nerf herd and swanned to the other side of the fire to sit with a grinning Tallie.

Poe offered you a bottle wordlessly. You took a gulp, smiling gratefully.

"Thanks Poe."

"I'm Poe again? Wasn't sure after you kicked me out the hangar." He teased, eyes gleaming in the firelight. He took a pull from his own drink, lips wrapping around the bottle stem distractingly.

"You reversed the polarity of the flashback suppressors, flyboy. You're lucky I let you back behind the joystick." You retorted, smile ruining the delivery.

"I needed the power!"

"You ruined a perfectly good X-wing!"

"I took out four TIEs!"

"Well, I'll be sure to send my condolences to their mechanics. Not the point, Poe!"

He burst out laughing, sending you into a fit of giggles, helped by the near empty bottle in your hand (when had that happened?)

"Truth or drink!" Kaydel cried, swaying a little on Snap's lap.

"How long have you guys been here?" You asked Poe, ducking your head closer to his so Kaydel couldn’t overhear the question.

"An hour, maybe less." Poe replied, leaning closer so you could hear. "Kay's just a lightweight.” He widened his eyes at you as she began hiccupping sending you into another giggle fit.

"Truth or drink!" Jess took up the call.

"Do you think I can escape without them noticing?" You looked around for an exit. Poe grabbed your wrist, hold easy enough to break if you really wanted to get away. The heat felt nice on your arm though, enough that you gulped a drink to suppress a shiver.

"Truth or drink." He said grinning, repeating himself more loudly for everyone else's benefit.

"I fix your x-wing and this is what it gets me? Betrayal." You gasped only a little serious, you did not need Jess' machinations with the combination of alcohol. He leant back to grab you another bottle as compensation.

"I'm right here, what's the worst that could happen?"

You shot him a flat look.

"Tempt the force, why don't you."

He chuckled, running a hand through his curls.

"I'm serious, it’s just a drinking game. You can do it with juice if you'd prefer."

"Kriff no. I'm keeping my plausible deniability for anything embarrassing I do or say."

He laughed again, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked at you.

“To plausible deniability." He said solemnly, clinking your drinks together. You smiled, ducking away from his gaze and tuning back into the game.

"Twist, truth or drink" Kaydel half sang, waggling her eyebrows, "who was your worst kiss?"

"Girl back home. Too much tongue." You grimaced, wrinkling your nose at the memory. Kissing really shouldn't involve that much of your face being wet.

You shuddered, physically rearing back from the memory ending up pressing your leg against Poe’s. You hesitated over moving it away, the decision made for you when he returned the pressure.

"Jess, why do we all call Twist, Twist?" Tallie asked innocently. You knew it was genuine curiosity, only Kaydel and Jess knew that story.

"Oh no." You whispered, closing your eyes.

"Yeah Jess, why do we call Twist, Twist?" Kaydel singsonged, Snap's arms around her waist acting like a seat belt to stop her keeling over.

"Funny story?" Poe asked amused, raising an eyebrow.

"Just embarrassing." You moaned, meeting Jess's eye across the fire and drawing a finger across your throat.

She smiled and nodded exaggeratedly.

"You ever had a pretzel, Tallie?" Jess began grandly, grin far more evil than normal.

"I hate you!" You wailed, turning to hide yourself behind Poe's shoulder. He patted your thigh sympathetically but made no move to actually stop Jess telling the story

Jess winked as she finished "Easy to get up there, harder to get down. When we found her she was all twisted up like a pretzel. Her ankles were round her ears.”

"I didn't know people could bend that way." Kaydel agreed seriously.

Poe choked on his drink, coughing loudly. You slapped his back a couple of times, rubbing over his shirt to soothe the sudden fit. Cheerfully ignoring everyone else as they carried on the game.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It went down the wrong pipe." He wheezed.

"You've only been drinking for about thirty years, Poe, maybe you still need practice." You laughed, graciously ignoring the obscene hand gesture he made in response.

"Poe, Truth or dare?" Snap asked, mischievous gleam in his eye.

"I thought it was truth or drink?" Poe frowned, waggling his bottle at Snap.

"Please, it takes a barrel of Yavinese moonshine to get you drunk. Truth or dare?" Snap insisted.

Poe glanced at you, huffing resignedly.

"Dare."

Jess got up and whispered in his ear, too quietly for you to overhear even as close as you were. There was a pause as Poe glared at her before Jess whispered something else, a little more harshly.

Poe made a low rumbling noise of discontent in his throat but nodded anyway.

He took your hand gently, pulling you into the surrounding trees.

"Wha- Poe!"

You half stumbled to a wave of cheers and whistles from the pilots. You flushed unsure why exactly they were cheering.

He led you away from the firelight, shifting his grip to weave his fingers through yours.

"If you murder me, I will haunt you forever." You warned him, other hand coming up to hold his wrist so he couldn't vanish in the dark. "And if you abandon me out here I will find my way back to base and move all your furniture two inches to the left."

He stopped walking, smile clear even in the dark.

"No murder or abandoning, I promise." He said softly, tone just a hair too serious for a party game.

"Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear." He linked his pinkies with yours, squeezing once before flipping them to hold both your hands in his.

"Poe-" Your voice was softer than you meant it to be, trying to read his expression for clues

“I want to kiss you." He whispered, eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I?”

You nodded, leaning in to press your lips to his.

He pulled back, your hand reaching to tangle with his hair so he couldn't go far.

“Poe?”

“You’re sure, I know we had a drink and-“

You kissed him, sliding a hand into his curls to hold him closer to you.

“I’m sure, Poe.”

He grinned wolfishly and kissed you again, firmer this time, pulling you closer to him until you were flush with his front. He pulled back again.

"Love it when you say my name." He confessed, pressing his forehead to yours.. "Try and get your attention just so you'll say it again."

He dipped to kiss you before you could answer, swallowing the whimper you made. One hand slid to the small of your back as the other cradled your jaw. You tugged on his curls, licking into his mouth and smiling at the harsh sound he made in response. Poe pushed on your hips, guiding you backwards until you were pressed against the nearest tree. The surface letting you arch against him without falling over.

"Poe!" your head rested on the trunk as you tried to catch your breath. He mouthed at your neck, nipping hard enough to make you buck against him.

"Dameron! You were supposed to tell Twist about your stupid crush, not abscond with her!" Jess's voice echoed through the trees.

"Abscond is a big word." You observed quietly, breath hitching as he sucked on a sensitive spot under your jaw.

"Is that really what you have to say?" He huffed, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"You have a crush?" You asked instead, smiling smugly, seizing the opportunity to return the favour and lick a stripe up his neck. The grunt was as gratifying as you suspected.

"A stupidly big one." He admitted, panting slightly. "Best mechanic in the galaxy, can't stop thinking about her."

"What a coincidence," You bit your lip as Poe's hand began encouraging you to rock on his thigh, "I have a crush on this pilot. Always driving me crazy, hanging about where I can look but not touch.”

Poe kissed you again, all wet heat, pinning you to the tree until you yielded to him.

"Dameron! Twist!" Jess's voice yelled, much closer. You looked at Poe, biting your lip to stop a laugh at his arrested expression.

"Walk me home, Poe?"

He pressed another searing kiss to your lips, taking your hand to lead you back to the base.

"You can touch me all you want when we get there."

[writinginthesecrettrees]

A Little Off

Things are a little off with Sammy. He’s been secretive, and at first Dean thinks it’s normal kid stuff. Puberty or something - Sam’s twelve, and they just had an awkward talk about wet dreams and “just wake me up so we can change the sheets, all right? I don’t wanna sleep in it.” 

(sam blushing furiously as he nodded, red on his cheeks like the girls dean sweet talks into the backseat and out of their panties, makes dean’s belly hot with anger at his baby brother for making him think these things)

Maybe Dean could believe that Sammy’s just exploring himself a bit, looking for privacy they can’t find in motels and shared beds. But there’s more to it than Sammy disappearing after school, coming back just before dinner in a rush to finish his homework. There’s clothing, vanishing from Dean’s duffle and showing up the next day freshly washed. There’s Sam, watching him with dark eyes when he flirts with pretty girls.

(“please, dean, can’t you stay in and watch a movie with me? please?” sam’s voice high, begging the way a girl does when dean’s got his tongue on her clit and two fingers in her pussy and she’s begging for his dick and dean can’t stay in even though he wants to, wants to paint his baby brother with bruises for making him feel these things)

Dean usually sleeps late after a night out with a girl, likes to stay in bed long after he wakes up, thinks about soft breasts and intoxicating kisses when he pushes his hand down his pants and jerks himself lazily until he’s about to come, then finishes himself off in the shower thinking about falling asleep with his arms around Sam. But Sammy’s been acting off lately, and getting up early on weekends to sneak out of the motel without Dean. 

(little brother sneaking out like the girls dean talks into breaking their curfews - “my dad doesn’t let me date yet,” whispered between kisses under the school bleachers when dean’s already got his hand up under her bra - and how is dean supposed to keep sammy safe from the monsters of the world when he doesn’t know where he is)

It’s past noon when he finds Sam in a cornfield, stalks tall overhead rustling in the breeze. Sam’s got a bucket of water and a pile of Dean’s clothes, so focused on scrubbing at his shirt from last night he doesn’t notice Dean getting closer. And Dean’s so intent on Sammy that he doesn’t notice the hole dug in the soft ground, almost falls in. Sam’s got more than just Dean’s clothes from last night - got his date dead in the dirt, too. 

(oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck)

Sam hears him stumble, looks up at him like a deer caught in the headlights, like he used to when he was five and Dean caught him stealing Twinkies meant for Dean’s school snacks. The water in the bucket is stained pink and his hands are stained red and his mouth is opening and shutting like he’s trying to talk but no sound is coming out.

(girls gone missing just before they leave town and dean’s never thought twice about it but here’s one of them and her family’s gonna be looking for her - thank fuck they won’t be looking for him thank fuck he was her dirty secret - good girl didn’t want people knowing she was getting fucked by the bad boy who just blew into town - how many sammy?)

“Whatcha doing, Sammy?”

Sam’s shaking harder than the corn stalks over their heads, still won’t - can’t? - speak.

“Know you don’t like me going out with them, but isn’t this a bit… extreme?”

Sam’s eyes get wider, whites all around. “I-I’m just cleaning - I didn’t do this...”

Dean shakes his head. “Sammy. I caught you, literally red-handed. Wanna try again?”

(sammy shaking shaking shaking like a leaf and breathing fast, fast as the dead girl did last night when he was behind her with his hand on her neck and his dick in her pussy and her cheek pressed hard into the soft dirt of the cornfield and her hair, soft and long and brown and falling across everything, and her slender back, and the little gasps and grunts he fucks out of her are just like the sounds he wrings out of sammy when they wrestle.)

“How long have you been doing it, huh, Sammy? Killing the chicks I get off with? Why do you do it, Sammy?”

And Dean could keep going but Sam’s scrambled to his feet and he throws a shoe at Dean’s head. Kid’s got good aim, would have hit him if Dean hadn’t dodged. “I don’t, Dean! You do it! I just… just clean up after you.”

(tears in his eyes, like the tears in hers last night when he had her on her back in the dirt after she pushed him off and slapped him for saying the wrong name. “isn’t sammy your brother? you’re sick–” and she couldn’t say anything else because dean’s got his hands around her throat, squeezing tight while she claws at his arms but he never bothered to take his shirt off so she only gets flannel. “you don’t say his name,” he says, gets one hand free and slaps her hard.)

Dean reels, takes a step backwards, and Sam steps towards him. “I’ve been covering up for you for months! Months, Dean! Covering with Dad when he calls while you’re out screwing any girl who’ll have you, covering up all the… the blood, and mess, and god you don’t even try to hide the bodies and now you’re saying I did this? Screw you, Dean.”

Sam glares at him through his tears, stands with clenched fists and panting from his outburst.

(she panted just like that, when dean took his other hand off her throat after she stops struggling and her eyes started to roll up because she doesn’t get to die that easily, not when she saw the secret dark corners of his soul and was stupid enough to notice, panted beneath him and he’d fuck her again if he thought she was willing but it’s a point of pride that he doesn’t take anyone who isn’t begging for it. when she catches her breath, starts to try to wriggle away, he pulls his knife and slashes out, a deep cut across the throat spraying him with brilliant red blood. she’s already forgotten by the time he gets back in the car, leaves her body in the cornstalks and drives back to his bed and sammy.)

Memories of this girl and others are rushing in, filling his head with blood and weapons (once laughing, when he let her think she got away before taking aim and dropping her with a headshot at fifty feet, just like the zombies in the arcade that Sam begged him to go to) and through it all Sam withdrawing and clinging close all at once and fuck.

“Fuck!” Dean falls to his knees, hands tugging at his hair, and Sam squats down next to him, puts a hand whisper-soft on his back, somehow takes the weight when Dean falls into him and comes apart.

-

Things are a little off with Sammy, and the off part is Dean. It started months ago, Dean going off on another “date” and ignoring Sam flipping him off as he left, then coming home with his clothing covered in dirt and falling into bed, unaware. They left town in the morning, Dad calling just after sunrise, and Sam didn’t think about it until he saw the news a few days later - a girl found dead, strangled, and no one knew who did it except Sam remembered Dean pointing her out to him three days ago.

The next time Dean has a date, Sam sneaks out after him, steals a bike and pedals furiously through town to find his brother with a girl spread out beneath him in the backseat. Sam’s too far away to hear them, but he sees her writhing under his brother and he hates her, and when Dean suddenly sits upright and slams his fist into her face all Sam can feel is satisfaction and that sends him running, racing back to the motel to hide trembling under the blankets. Dean joins him not much later, falls into the bed and slings an arm across Sam’s waist before falling into a heavy sleep, and Sam lays awake until light peeks in around the curtains.

He can’t stay, has to know for sure, so he wriggles out from under Dean’s arm. Grabs Dean’s clothes from last night off the floor, and the rest of the laundry too, and shoves it all into a duffle before heading out. He finds the body left unhidden at the side of the road, and “fuck” it’s a long, hot trip, dragging her back into field far enough that no one will see him digging.  When he’s done, the sun is setting and there’s a bruised and battered body in a shallow grave, just deep enough that he was able to bury a roadkill rabbit above it in case the cops bring out dogs to search.

Dean shakes him and shakes him when he gets back, full dark outside and duffle full of clean clothes and all he can say when Dean asks where he’s been is “out.”

It becomes routine before long. Try to keep Dean in with him - that’s unchanged, but there’s new meaning in it now - and when that fails go out and cover up the inevitable. Pick a fight when Dad comments that he’s gotten better at digging up graves the next time they have a ghost to salt and burn. Try not to cry when Dean doesn’t kill the girl and she shows up at school the next day, looking smug and satisfied and then Dean takes her out the next night too, even though Sam begs him to stay in, watch a movie with him, anything. Does cry later, in the shower, trying to wash away the satisfaction he felt with every shovelful of dirt he dumped on her body when Dean slit her throat on the second date.

He’s in the middle of yet another clean-up, burying Dean’s last date where she died in a cornfield and scrubbing as much blood out of Dean’s clothes as he can before hitting the laundromat, when Dean finds him.

-

Things are very off with Dean. He can feel his mind unravelling, feel the earth crumbling away and the only real thing left is Sammy and Dean clings to him. Baby brother arms around him and Dean should pull away, that’s only allowed at night with the plausible deniability of sleep but he can’t move, can barely breathe, needs Sam to hold him, needs to know Sammy’s with him and won’t leave.

Whispers of “don’t leave” and “sorry” and “stay” fall between giant gulping breaths and Dean’s only half aware of saying anything.

“Never” and “I don’t care” and “always” are the replies, until Sam pulls back slightly, forces Dean’s head up out of his shoulder and presses their foreheads together and Dean falls silent, pulled out of his own head and all he can see is Sammy eyes.

“I’m glad they’re dead,” Sammy says and Dean starts to shake his head, but Sam grips him hard, fingers digging into his shoulders and the pain is grounding. “I hate them. Every girl you ever look at, every girl you think about, I hate them all and I’m glad you killed them. I just…” 

Sam slumps and his hands fall away from Dean. Dean whimpers at the loss.

“I just wish you’d, like, try to hide the bodies? Or wash up, or something. Do you know how exhausting it is?”

“... no?” 

“Well, it is. ‘Cause you can’t just dig the hole, you have to fill it up again and I swear most of the girls weigh more than I do so getting them in isn’t exactly a picnic and then I have to make sure there’s no evidence and wash your clothes and clean your knives and once I had to dig a bullet out of a girl’s brain, Dean, I had to go digging in her head for it–”

“Why d’you do it, Sammy?” 

“Why do you?”

Dean searches for something, anything other than the truth because Sammy might be okay with the murder but he won’t, he can’t be okay with the reason, and he opens his mouth to lie but it comes out true. “They aren’t you.”

Sam’s arms around his neck, soft lips pressed to his in a kiss that is technically terrible but perfect because it’s Sammy, mean that the truth is maybe not as terrible as he thought. Dean’s arms close around Sam, a hand stroking up to cup the back of his head and hold him in place.

Then Dean leans forward, tips them over so Sam’s beneath him, head pillowed by the mound of dirt that still needs to be shovelled over a dead girl, and Dean grins as he sets about teaching Sam the proper way to kiss.

(sammy under him, arching up as dean strokes over the roof of his mouth with his tongue, tastes like sweat and spit and heaven and better than any girl dean’s ever had and dean chases the sammy taste down the side of his neck. sammy’s hands tugging at his hair and a high whine coming from the throat dean nips at, and dean’s never burying his want in anyone but sammy ever again.)

-

Things are a little off with his sons, and John doesn’t know what and he’s scared to find out.

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.