#I wonder if kids still do this or if it died out after the nineties

[otatma]

okay, so neopronouns.

lemme get my bona fides in the open first. your neopronouns are valid, likely to have more historical precedent than you think, and you have every right to be called with the words that feel good to you.

that said.

what I want to talk about is the regressive / conservative hostility to neopronouns.

even that is too much for me to cover exhaustively, but there's one particular aspect of it that I want to dig into a little bit.

the aspect in question is a problem I'll call the Regal Couch problem. Stay with me for a bit.

there's a game children play. It has no name that I know of, so I call it Regal Couch. Regal Couch is a game about phonics. The goal of this game is to ambush a child and get them to utter curses as fast as possible, with large bonuses for making this goal within earshot of an overbearing adult. The speed is important, because if you get slowed down in any way then the intended victim's thoughts catch up and they begin to figure out that they're being pranked.

Yeah, this is the game people were playing when they tried to get you to unwittingly say "so fucking" or "I see you pee" or whatever low-hanging profanity felt the most fun on that day.

(This was a very frustrating thing to encounter as a neurodivergent fun-hating kid, but I digress.)

So, there's a lot going on here. It's almost a template. The important thing about Regal Couch for the neurodivergent person is the particularities - the phonics, the speed of the hustle, the proximity to gullible authority figures, the viscerality of the desired curses, etc.

It's important to outline these particularities because it's important not to be distracted by them. The important thing about Regal Couch for the perpetrator is that if your hustle is good enough, you get a pull on a slot machine. The prize you get when those reels line up is someone else feels bad, ragefits, gets in trouble, or all of the above. Which is to say, some agency and control over another human. (Kindly remember how these can be potent rewards when you're eight and every adult thinks they have to train you like some kind of dumb animal.)

Despite being neurodivergent, I'm not (just) bringing this up to fulminate about how kids can be monsters sometimes. It's relevant to the neopronouns thing. It's relevant because it captures an important aspect of regressive praxis, and that is the relation it establishes between hustling and speech and power.

When we ask people to use pronouns unfamiliar to them, it shouldn't be too surprising when the more regressive ones react as if we're playing Regal Couch. And they often do. Many of the same elements are there. They don't know what these sounds mean. Etymology doesn't get as much traction on neopronouns. They're already in a tenuous situation (learning about a new person living in a category that they feel is a threat). For the same reasons they're much more likely to be preoccupied with the precedent and power relations that Regal Couch is actually about. (And of course there's a massive raft of regressive preoccupations that don't relate to Regal Couch in any way, which I still refuse to treat with exhaustively today — but they're there and I do see them.)

The difference of course is that neopronouns are not about establishing who can play dirtiest for stakes, they are about courtesy and comfort and acceptance. If I was going to compare neopronouns to a game that it's actually similar to, I'd probably say it's got more in common with a trust fall.

Q: So what? Why make this comparison in this kind of detail?

A: There's one grain of truth here. The meaning of these words - the neopronouns themselves - is often unclear.

We therefore shouldn't have any trouble asking "Okay, and what does that mean?" This does a few useful things - it seizes on an opportunity to learn, it creates more detailed patterns to remember the neopronouns with, it proves we're not regressives*, and it models the right behavior for the situation.

It isn't without risk though, because of tone. If someone asks you in sincerity to practice a trust fall and your reaction is suspicious and hostile in tone, you probably don't ever get to know that person. Also asking people to do any extra work at a time like this will never be ideal.

That question "What does that mean?", then, should be as soft as the circumstances allow for. Make it a real and vulnerable request for information, not a micro-aggressive riposte on the entire project of neopronouns. Listen hard to the answer, even if it was nothing like you expected. Ignorance is curable, if you want.

* — for various reasons which I don't have time to list, regressives consider this kind of earnest vulnerability in any social situation to be literal suicide.

[queen-of-the-avengers]

CATFA: Part Four

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: canon violence, language, and angst

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

After lights out, Bucky wanted a few more moments to spend with you. It's a strict rule that the other men can't be in your room after hours, but that doesn't stop Bucky. He picks the time when the guards are changing to run to your room across the field. You pull him into your room just as he closed the door, and both of you fall onto your bed in laughter.

Bucky captures your lips with his and the laughter dies off. Heavy breathing and the bed creaking are all anyone can hear if they press their ears to the windows or doors. Maybe they don't care or maybe they let it happen, but Bucky spent the entire night with you inside your room. If you made noise, then no one heard it enough to care what was happening. No one said anything when he left your room the next morning, but he left before everyone was up.

Boot camp can be brutal, but it's ten times better with Bucky by your side. You did so well that they wanted you on the field with the rest of the men instead of inside a medical office. You passed every one of their tests with flying colors and got perfect scores whereas the best man would only get ninety percent.

When you graduated boot camp, you got shipped off to the same Advanced Individual Training to further hone your skills. It's there that you and Bucky quickly climbed the rank ladder until he was Sergeant and you were a Lieutenant. You're the first woman to have achieved this title, something you're very proud of. He got put with the 107th, and you moved on to your own group that wasn't part of him. You and Bucky remained in a relationship, but you didn't get to see each other as much after that.

Two years after you enlisted, so 1943, you two were granted leave for a weekend which you two took seriously. It's been eight years with the love of your life, and you're going to make this weekend count the most.

The second you showed up in town, the first person you wanted to see is Steve. He's been trying relentlessly to get into the Army, but he's failed over and over again. You wonder what shenanigans he's gotten up to since you and Bucky have left.

"Bucky!"

You run into his arms and kiss him like your life depended on it. It's been so long since you've seen him face to face and you're going to make the most of it.

"I've missed you, doll," he grins and pulls away.

"You're still in one piece. I guess I should thank them for taking such good care of you."

"I guess I could say the same thing about you. You're being careful, right?"

"Yes. You're the only one who knows what I am. I might have cheated a few times, but I was careful."

"Good girl," he grins.

You're about to kiss him again when you hear a man shout from the alley next to you.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

You and Bucky rush into the alley to see a large man trying to beat up Steve. Your friend is holding a trash can like a shield, but it's clear he's not backing down. This kid doesn't know when to quit.

"I can do this all day," Steve says as blood drips down his mouth.

"Hey!" Bucky yells and runs over to the attacker. You move stealthily around them to get to Steve who clearly needed medical attention. "Pick on someone your own size." 

The man glares at Steve before pushing Bucky off him. He grumbles on his way out of the alley, and only until he is out of sight do you scold Steve.

"Sometimes, I think you like getting punched," Bucky chuckles.

"What the hell were you thinking?" you frown.

Steve mutters something you can't understand, but you do catch the word "language".

"I had him on the ropes," Steve shrugs. 

A piece of paper lies between Bucky and Steve, and the older man picks it up to see what it is.

"How many times is this?" Bucky asks and holds up Steve's enlistment form. 

"Steve, you're going to get yourself killed."

"Oh, you're from Paramus now?" Bucky reads from his form. "You know it's illegal to lie on the enlistment form. Seriously, Jersey?"

"You two get your orders?" Steve changes the topic when he finally takes in your uniforms.

"The one-o-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing Monday morning," your boyfriend grins.

"I'm staying in the States. I'm going to miss you so much," you sigh.

"Don't worry, we'll be together soon."

"I should get going."

"Come on, man, it's our last weekend." Bucky looks around and sees newspapers thrown about on the ground. He picks one up and grins from reading the headline. "We gotta get you cleaned up."

"Why? Where are we going?"

Bucky turns the paper to show you the headline: World Exposition of Tomorrow 1943". Famous inventor, Howard Stark, is making an appearance tonight, and you're kind of excited to go. You can let one of your girlfriends know you're back in town, and she can be Steve's date to this thing.

This is going to be fun.

The Exposition is crowded enough as it is, but you don't mind since you're here with Bucky. Steve didn't really want to go, but you convinced him this could be a good thing. Bonnie, your friend, is waiting by the entrance for you three. Steve might not know you're setting him up, but he's going to love her.

"I don't see what the problem is. You're about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know, there are three and a half million women here," Bucky points out as he wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

"Well, I'd settle for just one."

"Good thing we took care of that," you grin and spot your friend.

"Y/N!"

"What did you tell her about me?" Steve asks.

You leave them to join your friend, and you give her a big hug.

"Only the good stuff."

"Steve, meet Bonnie. Bonnie, this is Steve, the guy I was telling you about."

Steve is a bit shorter than Bonnie, but she doesn't seem to mind since she needs a night out.

Howard Stark, the inventor of most things in this Expo, will be the face of the show. He'll be demonstrating his products for everyone to see and hopefully buy when they come out.

"Welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow. A greater world. A better world," the female announcer started the show.

"It's starting!" Bonnie squeals. 

Her brother just got deployed for the army, so she's been a bit depressed since he left. It's good for her to come out and have some fun with you and the guys. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Howard Stark!" the announcer says just as he walks on stage to greet everyone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all?" he asks as female helpers take the wheels off a car that's sitting on the stage. "With Stark robotic reversion technology, you'll be able to do just that."

Howard flips a switch on his machine, and the car begins to hover above the ground. Suddenly, the car sputters before slamming back on the stage. It dies shortly after, and Howard chuckles nervously into the microphone.

"I did say a few years, didn't I?" Howard laughs along with the rest of the audience.

"Hey, Steve, what do you say we treat these girls--" 

Bucky turns around to face his friend, but he's gone. Your boyfriend nudges you and you sigh when you notice Steve is gone. There's a recruitment center not far from here because they figured they'd get good business from people attending the event. Steve's there longing for what he can't have.

"Where did he go?" Bonnie asks.

"He's over there," you gesture to the younger man. You three leave your spot to join Steve. You don't want her witnessing what will happen, so you stop her before you can get too close. "Just wait here, Bonnie, okay?"

"Okay," she sighs. 

Steve is standing on a platform that shows him what he'd look like as a soldier, but he doesn't quite reach the height the picture is in front of him. You and Bucky approach him, and your boyfriend grabs his shoulder to get his attention.

"You're kind of missing the point of a double date. We're taking the girls dancing," Bucky groans.

"You go ahead. I'll catch up with you."

"You're really gonna do this again?" you wonder.

"Well, it's a fair. I'm gonna try my luck."

"As who? Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you or worse, they'll actually take you."

"Look, I know you don't think I can do this," Steve starts.

"This isn't a back alley, Steve. It's war!" Bucky shouts.

"Bucky's right. We might not be there to protect you. This is real life. You have asthma, Steve. You won't be able to take an inhaler with you onto the battlefield. Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many other important jobs."

"What am I gonna do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon? I'm not gonna sit in a factory."

"Steve," you sigh.

"Guys, come on! Men are laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand. This isn't about me."

"Right. Cause you got nothing to prove," Bucky scoffs.

"Y/N are we going dancing?" Bonnie calls out.

"Yeah, give us one second." You pull Bucky off to the side to speak to him privately. "Look, she needs this night out. I don't want to leave Steve, but I don't want to leave her. I think you should take her dancing. She'll have more fun with you than with me. I trust you."

"What about us? This weekend was supposed to be for us."

"I know. I'll meet up with you tomorrow. If I have to, I'll fly to England to where you are just to see you. We won't be apart."

"If they take him, you're better equipped to protect him than I can. You need to look after him."

"I will. Now go, Bonnie's waiting."

You lean up and kiss him for a few seconds. You don't want to keep your friend waiting for long.

"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," Bucky says to his friend when you two join him.

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you." Bucky gives you one last look before joining Bonnie's side. She knows Bucky is in a faithful relationship with you, but all she's looking to do is have a nice night out dancing. "You didn't have to stay with me."

"Yes, I did." He still doesn't know what you are, and you're not sure when or if you can tell him. "Look, we're more alike than you might think. There was a time in my life when I defied everything and everyone to do the right thing. You have fight in you, kid, and if enlisting is what gets you going, then I'll be there for you."

"Come on," Steve urges.

He takes you into the medical examination room after he hands in his slip. The nurses check him out and whisper to the doctors before standing up.

"Wait here," the young doctor says.

"Is there a problem?" you ask.

"Just wait here," he repeats before walking out.

You're both in a small room with only a few items the doctors need to clear someone. On the wall behind Steve is a sign that warns against lying on your enlistment form. Steve must have seen it too because he starts to get up.

"Let's just leave."

Before he can get off the chair, an Enlistment Officer walks in with a doctor. It's only the officer left did that doctor speak.

"Uh, this is a private matter," he says to you.

"It's okay she can stay."

"So, you want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis," he gets down to business.

"Excuse me?"

"Dr. Abraham Erskine. I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

"Steve Rogers."

"Y/N Y/L/N."

"Where are you from?" Steve asks. 

The doctor has a thick German accent, and in this day and age, it's very bad to be German in a place like this. Especially with the war going on.

"Queens. 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany. Does this trouble you?"

"No."

"Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? Is it New Haven? Paramus? Five exams in five different cities," he reads as he flips through his file.

"That might not be the right file."

"No, it's not the exams I'm interested in. It's the five tries. You didn't answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"

"Is this a test?" he asks nervously.

"Yes."

"I don't wanna kill anyone. I just don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."

"And who are you?" the doctor addresses you.

"Lieutenant Y/L/N. I've seen a lot of bullies, as Steve likes to put it, and while no one deserves to die, they do need to be stopped."

"Well, there are already so many big men fighting this war. Maybe what we need now is the little guy, huh? I can offer you a chance. Come," he instructs and leaves the office. "Only a chance."

"I'll take it."

"Good. So, where is the little guy from?"

"Brooklyn."

"Congratulations, soldier," Dr. Erskine stamps his file.

He hands it over and leaves to do other business.

"You did it!" you grin proudly.

"I did it," Steve says with relief.

x

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[90363462]

20 Greatest Comebacks in Hard-Rock and Heavy-Metal History

These artists shook the world by rising from the ashes

Heavy music is for underdogs and comeback kids, anyone who has been considered down and out, but kicked and scratched to earn respect and make their place in this unforgiving world. It's no wonder then that headbangers love a good comeback story — and that heavy music has been full of them.

From unexpected reunion tours to dazzling new albums that rival the records that made them famous in the first place, here are 20 of the most surprising and inspiring comebacks in all of metal, punk and hard-rock history.

Having sold over 50 million copies worldwide, Back in Black is the bestselling hard-rock album of all time, an accomplishment that's all the more incredible considering that AC/DC recorded it just months after the 1980 death of revered singer Bon Scott. The group considered disbanding but ultimately continued with the blessing of Scott's family, and their comeback album — with its opening bell tolls and equally resonant title — is heavy music's definitive statement of rebirth

When lead vocalist Layne Staley passed away in 2002, it seemed like the final nail in the coffin of Alice in Chains, who had already been largely sidelined for years due to substance abuse issues. But in 2005, the surviving members reconvened to play shows, and soon after, enlisted new singer William DuVall and made their first original record in 14 years, 2009's Black Gives Way to Blue. Named Revolver's Album of that Year, it stands up to anything in their discography, and they've continued to chug along ever since. 

No record inspired more contemporary metalcore (see Killswitch Engage, As I Lay Dying, Darkness Hour, et al) than Slaughter of the Soul, these Swedish melodic death metallers' final studio album, released a year before their 1996 breakup. To say that their return to the stage in 2008 was meaningful to a generation of metalheads who never got to see them live is like saying fans at those reunion shows were singing along to every word of "Blinded by Fear": They were fucking screaming along to every word.

Drummer Jimmy "The Rev" Sullivan was a childhood friend to his bandmates and a major songwriter to his band, so when he died unexpectedly in late 2009, it was a crushing blow that nearly ended the group. But Avenged Sevenfold rallied and called in one of Sullivan's idols, Mike Portnoy of Dream Theater, to record on and tour behind their mostly completed new record, Nightmare. It debuted at No. 1 on the charts, A7X's first album to do so, and re-ignited the band's passion to push ahead.

Carcass' comeback came in waves. The Birmingham, U.K., death-grind trailblazers blew people's minds when they re-materialized onstage in 2008 after a whopping 12 years out of the game, and the tours that followed weren't just lazy cash grabs — the dudes could still rip. However, even more impressive was their 2013 comeback album, Surgical Steel, arriving 17 years after their last and legitimately rivaling all of the material from their Nineties heyday. It's one of the greatest reunion albums in metal. Period. 

Celtic Frost's reunion was short-lived but monumental. Having been a crucial building block in the extreme-metal fortress, the Swiss band — helmed by the core duo of Thomas Gabriel Fischer, a.k.a. Tom G. Warrior, and Martin Eric Ain — came roaring back in 2006 with the stunningly great Monotheist and a career-celebrating world tour, including U.S. dates with Type O Negative. Sadly, the album proved to be both reunion record and swan song, the final nail put in the band's coffin when Ain died in 2017 at age 50.

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There's only one word to describe what it was like when Faith No More reunited to play shows over 10 years after the alt-metal superheroes fell to pieces: EPIC. With vocalist Mike Patton's calendar seemingly always packed with a variety of zany projects, it seemed impossible that he would ever find the time. That FNM would then later release their first new album in nearly two decades, 2015's Sol Invictus, and it would be awesome — well, that was a minor miracle.

How do you pick up the pieces when you're the drummer of the most important rock band on the planet and your frontman dies by suicide? Well, you become the frontman of your own band, of course, write hit single after hit single, and sell over 10 million albums in the U.S. alone. Amid this, you use your now-astronomical fame to spotlight your favorite metal singers with a killer side project (check Probot ASAP, if you're not already in the know). Dave Grohl now faces another tragedy — the death of Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins — but we know he'll come back again, stronger than ever.

The name of GN'R's initial reunion run says it all: The Not in This Lifetime... Tour. Because that's how improbable the reconciliation of Axl, Slash and Duff seemed for a long-ass time. Bad blood and bitter words constituted their decades apart, but it turns out, all fans needed was a little patience. The trek — which spanned from 2016 to 2019, and marked the core trio's first performances together in nearly 25 years — owns the title of the third-highest-grossing concert tour of all time. Even more amazing, the guys are still getting along and the reunion continues.

At the end of Bruce Dickinson's then-final concert with Maiden in 1993, magician Simon Drake "killed" him, using the band's titular torture device. Far from dead, the vocalist pursued a successful solo career while his bandmates recorded their two least successful albums to that point, with singer Blaze Bayley. But when Dickinson returned in 1999, it sounded as if they hadn't missed a step. These days, Maiden continue to sell out stadiums playing great material both new and old, cementing their spot as metal's still-vital pioneers.

In 2005, after becoming a born-again Christian, OG guitarist Brian "Head" Welch left the band that had made him famous: As the joke went, "Korn gave Head to God." The nu-metal godfathers soon also split with founding drummer David Silveria, and spent years trying to re-find themselves creatively. When Head re-joined the group onstage at Carolina Rebellion in 2012, it seemed like a heartwarming one-off, but a year later he was back for good. Korn have been on a hot streak ever since, with 2019's The Nothing standing out, in particular, as their best album in over a decade.

"No warning?" asked Dave Mustaine when Metallica booted him over his erratic behavior in 1983. "No second chance?" He wouldn't get one from them, but the thrash-metal world welcomed him back later that year with a new group, named after a word he found on a pamphlet during his bus ride home to L.A. from Metallica's New York abode. Within the decade, Megadeth would become the second-best-selling metal band of their generation, and they're a still a genre pillar to this day. 

2016 was an amazing year for reunions. First, GN'R, then the Misfits. In fall of that year, founding members Glenn Danzig and Jerry Only — plus Only's brother, guitarist Doyle Wolfgang von Frankenstein — performed together for the first time in 33 years, under the name the Original Misfits. For a gnarly, underground horror-punk band that played basements in their first incarnation, the results were incredible, culminating in a monumental sold-out headlining gig at Madison Square Garden.

Even though fans clamored for it for years, Mudvayne didn't come back until it was fully on their own damn terms, which made their eventual comeback all the more special. The alt-metal aliens ended their 12-year hiatus with a few chaotic festival shows in 2021 (including one when frontman Chad Gray played while suffering from COVID) and then hauled ass across the country on a 2022 summer tour that rejuvenated them as bandmates and fully made up for all the lost time. Now, new music is even on the way.

To many punks, metalheads and goths who grew up in the 2000s, My Chemical Romance are their Nirvana. The New Jersey band lifted emo's ragged hooks and raunchy guitars out of VFW halls and into stadiums, built up a formidable discography — and then dipped for six years while their legacy metastasized. The way they've conducted their momentous reunion — playing shows with young openers, packing the setlists with hits, and dropping their heaviest song yet as a one-off single — has ensured that they've still got their edge.

Rage Against the Machine's latest reunion has been one of tension and release. After nine years, they were supposed to hit the stage in 2020 until the pandemic squashed that — and then again, and then again while the world grew shittier and the band's political screeds became more relevant than ever. Finally, they took the power back in summer 2022, and played riotously hard through Zack de la Rocha's leg injury, staying true to their convictions and reaffirming their status as all-time greats. 

Sepultura were at the height of their power and popularity in 1996, having released a career-defining album, Roots, early that year. Then everything went to shit, and the Brazilian metal trailblazers acrimoniously split with founding frontman Max Cavalera, whose brother, Igor, remained in the band. Suddenly unmoored, Max had a lot to prove and lots of pressure. He responded with a new band, Soulfly. The group's self-titled 1998 debut was a "life-changing" success, Max told Revolver, complete with the song he's most proud of: "Eye for an Eye."

System of a Down had only been releasing music and touring at a national level for eight years when, at the height of their Grammy-winning notoriety, they decided to go on hiatus in 2006. Suddenly dissolving at the peak of their powers like that was devastating, so when they reunited for a string of shows in 2011, it felt like an act of divine intervention. After gigging sporadically in the ensuing decade, they dropped their first songs in 16 years in 2021. C'mon, guys: Now we need that album. 

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[madcatdaderpydrawer-blog]

Alright so apparently you all haven't heard of the magical tale that is "Unlikely Friends, Unlikely Fate" so buckle up

Before Sun, Moon, Bentley and Paxton, there was a FNaC AU Maddy made that is INSANELY canon divergent but here me out it's great

Draw the curtains, hoist the spotlight:

It's sometime supposedly around the nineties, and there's this kid named Roderick. Roderick is lonely. He is also a douche bag. But he has a brother named Vinnie that he loves very much.

Vinnie is a ray of sunshine that loves literally anything and everyone. He is the light of Roderick's life.

Roderick, however, has to raise Vinnie on his own as his actual father is out trying to get the ladies after his wife died (note: I THINK it was due to giving birth to Vinnie, but it's been a while so I can't remember.)

Overtime, Vincella and Roodbark encounter a cast of lovable characters:

Carl, a super extroverted, funny little guy who is the highlight of every conversation and also an idiot most days.

Cindy, a shy but sweet baker who is the twin sister of Carl.

Chester, an awkward but affable tall fella who loves the banjo.

Pedro, the very definition of Napoleon syndrome that also loves to cook and is super close friends with Chester (albeit, not at first).

Kate, probably Roderick's first actual friend who wasn't his brother, a good leader who tries her best.

Chris, a very blunt introvert who's highly focused on work and affectionately by Maddy's Discord friends called "Maddy's bitch".

And Brett, a very bulky, fit dude who has a close bond with Roderick and is important for his arc.

The most notable part about this story besides Freddy's and Candy's is that their arcs revolve around different types of abuse.

Cindy and Carl have a good blend of it, I don't exactly remember how are why but I THINK it had to do with the foster care system.

Chester was severely emotionally abused by his stepmother, who is in-turn one of the most unlikable pieces of garbage and I'm sure you'd all love her.

Pedro was physically abused by his drunk father.

Kate and Brett aren't necessarily TORMENTED per se, more or less Kate has overbearing parents and Brett has over controlling parents. Obviously still terrible but quite tame in comparison.

Chris was horribly neglected by two arguing parents.

And Roderick, as previously mentioned, is victim to a lesser known type of abuse called "parentification"; in which a child has to raise their sibling/parent. Of course, this means Vinnie doesn't really suffer from too bad of a childhood, although the two brothers DO get bullied rather harshly at Freddy's.

Now you may be wondering: Cool, but what's the climax?

Obviously, with all the mentions of "Freddy's" and "Candy's", you can see where this is going.

I don't think Maddy wants me to spoil the Freddy's incident, but it might be swell to know that the cast all slowly dies one by one from a certain SOMEONE who also happens to be my favorite character, and each possess the animatronics most similar to their name (Kate = CAT, Roderick = RAT, Pedro = Penguin, Carl = Candy, Chester = (you'll never guess this one) Chester).

There's also more to the story in the sense that there are Monster animatronics (which have AWESOME designs btw), and my favorite rage-inducing group, the New animatronics (Mouse is the only thing that would get me to punt a child).

But this is just a summary so you understand Maddy's "Unlikely Friends" characters. I will take my bow now and leave the man of the hour in charge.

[cacoetheswriting]

little mystery

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Warnings: tattoos, alcohol consumption, gambling/betting money, mild swearing (i actually don't think there is any but just in case), baby spence!!, no smut/or implied smut but it reads a little dirty (so i’m gonna rate this 18+ anyway) Word Count: 1.8k Summary: Bets are placed to see who can be the first to figure out the secret location of your tattoo, and what the tattoo is.

A/N: i was browsing pinterest for my next ink inspiration (the whole country is currently in lockdown, but a girl can dream), when i stumbled across a particular tattoo, featured in this fic, and this idea just came to me ah i hope you ENJOY!

 -

“A recent study concluded that people with tattoos are more likely to be so called experience seekers, and they tend to lean more towards rebellious, non-conforming lifestyles.” Spencer stated glancing between the group. His eyes lingering a little longer on you. “Research also shows, people who choose to get tattooed feel a stronger need to claim their identity and stand out from the crowd.”

Derek chuckled while taking a sip of his drink. “Kid, not everyone that has a tattoo is an attention seeker or a criminal. Many who get inked lead perfectly normal and stable lives.”

“It’s a form of self expression.” Morgan continued. “It doesn't necessarily mean people with multiple tattoos are wildings. I mean look at Y/N, she’s got like ten and she's far from a non-conformist.”

All heads turned in your direction.

“Ten is an over exaggeration Morgan.” You replied with a light giggle before looking directly at Spencer. “It’s eight. I have eight tattoos.” You said shooting him a smile. A mix of intrigue quickly spread across his features.

Of course, he was aware you had a couple of tattoos. Like the tiny heart on your left index finger. The crescent moon just above your right elbow. Or the rose on the inside of your left bicep. Given that the two of you were similar in age, the young doctor didn't think you would have that many.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s a huge difference.” He teased, granting Penelope to nudge him in the arm. The bubble blonde then turned to you. “You have eight tattoos?” She asked with a raised brow. “How come I didn't know this about you? I know everything.”

“Because you never asked me and eight really isn't that much. Plus they’re all pretty simple and dainty. Well... actually... all apart from the snake slithering between my boobs.” You responded nonchalantly causing the males at the table to simultaneously choke on their drinks.

The girls all whistled before erupting into laughter at the suddenly red faces of the three boys. Hotch stared silently at the half-empty class in his hands, Derek nervously cleared his throat, while Spencer gaped at you completely wide-eyed.

The image you just painted circulating in his mind.

“Don’t be shy, tell us, any other risqué body art?” Emily chimed once the laughter died down.

“Uhm, there is one but I really don't think it’s appropriate to share.” You answered, a sly smile circling your lips. JJ and Emily both groaned at your response. “Now you have too!” The blonde exclaimed, but you just shook your head.

“Only a handful of people know what it is, and where it is.” Your eyes locked briefly with the brunette doctor sat across from you. Not enough time for anyone at the table to notice, but enough to get him a tiny bit flustered.

“What if we guessed?” Emily enquired, her eyes sparkling mischievously. You giggled. “If one of you manages to guess both what and where it is, I will tell you whether you’re correct.”

“I want in on this little bet.” Derek chimed confidently. “I can get you talkin’ hot stuff.” He shot you a playful wink and took another sip of his drink. Hotch snickered next to him. “I wouldn't be so certain Morgan.” “Oh, and you think you can?” Derek asked sarcastically. “Maybe.” Hotch poised, shrugging his shoulders.

“Right.” JJ clapped her hands. “Let’s make this interesting. Everyone that wants to take part place a ten dollar bet on themselves, and the winner will take the pot.” She turned to you. “We’ll give you the money for safekeeping and once one of us guesses correctly, you can rightfully pass the cash onto that person.”

“Sounds good to me.” You replied with a grin. “But what if none of you guess? Who keeps the money then?” “Do you forget who you work with? We’re FBI agents, profilers, one of us is bound to figure it out.” Morgan stated making you giggle.

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Oh! And whoever wins gets to see this mysterious ink of yours.” Emily added teasingly.

Just like that a pile of cash formed in the middle of the table. You reached out to grab it when a hand slowly slid across with a neatly folded ten dollar bill between two fingers. Your eyes snapped up to meet the determined gaze of none other than the resident genius.

“I want to take part too.” He said, trying his best not to appear jittery. The grin currently embellishing your features swelled, and Spencer took note of the devilish sparkle in your eyes. “Well all right.” You responded, fingers brushing lightly against his as you retrieved the money. An instant spark tingled through both you and Spencer.

The night carried on. You were bombarded with questions that would give the team any sort of clue as to what the tattoo could be, but you didn't budge. It was a lot more fun seeing your friends struggle. The only person that didn't say anything further on the matter was the young doctor sat across from you. In true Spencer Reid fashion, he simply listened and observed.

About an hour later, he accompanied you to the bar for another round of drinks. After ordering for everyone, you quickly glanced at him. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” You asked causing him to break away from his thoughts and turn his attention to you. He lightly scrunched his nose.

“I’m just wondering when is the most appropriate time to tell everyone what your secret tattoo is.”

Your mouth parted ever in shock, eyes widened. “There is no way you know.”

“Actually, I not only know what and where it is. I also know when you got it and why.” He stated confidently.

“Alright then, tell me.” You challenged taking a step towards him. Spencer stiffened for a brief moment. Your sudden closeness caused the heat to rush to his face and his heart to skip a beat. All he could do was hope you didn't notice; which of course you did.

With a raised brow and your fingers tapping lightly on the wooden bar, you waited for Spencer to respond. You were about to say something like, ‘See, I knew you were bluffing.’, but he cleared his throat. Regaining his confidence.

“It’s the word ‘bite’ written in cursive on your ehm, on your left b-buttcheek. And you got it your freshmen year of university as a result of a drunken game of truth or dare with your friends. I believe it was either getting the tattoo or shaving your head.” He was, of course, correct. Every word.

You stared at him in disbelief. This you definitely did not expect. Spencer on the other hand seemed quite pleased with himself. It’s not often he’s the one to rattle you.

“H-how, how did you-” You shook your head. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.” Your lips twirled into a smile. “Congratulations doctor.” Without really thinking, you leaned in closer and placed a soft kiss on his cheek causing once again for the blood to rush to his face. Once you pulled away, his hand immediately travelled to the spot.

“What, uhm, what was that for?” He asked and you shrugged. “An extra prize considering it didn't even take you ninety minutes to win. I hope that was okay?” He quickly nodded his head. “Ye-a, yes.” “Good.” And with that you kissed his cheek again.

He couldn't help but grin proudly as the two of you ambled back to the table, each holding a tray of drinks.

“What’s got you so happy, kid?” Morgan asked, drawing attention to Spencer’s expression.

“Spencer just won your little bet.” You replied, placing the tray down and reaching into your purse for the money. Although his win was definitely part of the reason for his increased good mood, it had more to do with the spot on his cheek that was still tingling from your kiss. But he’d never say that out loud.

Gasps of shock echoed through the team. “What?! There is no way he’s won already!” JJ exclaimed. “He cheated. Did you give him extra hints because you have a soft spot for him?” Emily accused, narrowing her eyes.

“Nope.” Your mouth popped. “He definitely won fair and square.” You stated before shifting your body weight to look the young doctor. Smiling, you handed him his winnings. He didn't hesitate to take them, eyes never leaving yours.

“Well pretty boy, what is it?!” Derek enquired eagerly. Spencer waited for you to nod your head before turning to address the team. He revealed the design and location of your secret tattoo in one breath as you watched, finding their reactions amusing.

“How did you figure that out?” Penelope asked.

“A little mystery never hurt.” You chimed before Spencer got a chance to respond, and proceeded to intertwine your fingers with his. His head snapped first down at your glued hands, and then up at your face. He wanted to ask what was happening, completely forgetting what else the winning prize entailed, as you were leading him away from the table.

Morgan and Emily whistled after the two of you, the rest of the group laughing.

It wasn't until you were walking into the bathroom, locking the door behind, that the realisation hit Spencer. He swallowed his breath and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

You quickly noticed the nervous look on his face. “We don't have to do this if you don't want to. If you’re uncomfortable.” You said in your usual kind and caring tone.

“No, uhm, it’s okay. B-but if you don't want to?” He mumbled. “I don’t have to see it if you don’t want to show me, or anyone for that matter. We can just pretend.”

You smiled at him, your hands travelling to the zipper of your jeans. “A bet’s a bet, and like I said, you won fair and square.”

“Y-you, are you sure you don't want to know how I figured it out?” Spencer asked, voice breaking. The palms of his hands began to sweat. He wasn't sure where to look. Did you want him looking directly at you? Or was he supposed to keep his attention on something else until you were ready to show the tattoo?

“A little mystery never hurt.” You repeated what you said earlier to the group and pulled your pants down, just low enough to display the tattoo in question.

Spencer’s gaze landed on the writing. At this point his heart was hammering inside of his chest, and he was sure it would explode any second. His eyes widened as he slowly licked his lips. He was sure this was the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Do you like it?” A seemingly innocent question, although the intention behind it was anything but.

Spencer nodded his head. “I-I...y-es, I do.” His eyes gradually moved up your body until they once again locked with your gaze. His pupils now flared.

A mischievous smirk escaped your mouth. “I always knew you had a naughty side, doctor.”

-

spencer reid taglist: spencer reid taglist: @no-honey-no​, @calm-and-doctor​, @idroppedmygourd​​, @averyhotchner

masterlist

[rredboard]

i know we’ve all seen the nightwing movie intro post and i want to propose an intro to a tim drake (as robin) movie. also this is long so its under the cut

first of all i think that in this movie jack should still be alive and married to dana at the town house, after he gets out of his rich person depression. so if i’m remembering correctly, that would also mean to include steph, bernard, and darla as his friends. i think that one of the best aspects of tim’s run as robin is the fact that he’s hiding being robin from his dad, and the way that forced the robin run to focus on more than just being robin. i think that of tim’s generation of heroes at the time he was the only one who had to actively hide his hero status from his parent. (actually no that’s wrong there was anita fite, but i’m going to maintain this bc her dad was already entrenched in weird shit working for the deo, so a superhero daughter was not an insane jump i would say, esp with her family situation, by which i mean the guy that killed her parents) so anyways all this to say that i want the tension btwn his civilian life and his robin life to play a large role in the story, bc i love that shit.

so in that vein, i would want the movie to start out in his civilian life, and in a similar way to the nightwing movie idea where it doesn’t show his face until the title screen. like, we’re in the theater, we know what we’re seeing, so all we have to introduce is his civie life, bc we know who batman is and how he works.

so anyways to get to the actual intro…

we start out in literally the messiest teenage boy’s room you’ve ever seen. stacks of cds, messy notebooks with papers half ripped out, a half deconstructed computer tower, a picture of steph in a purple frame on the desk. there’s a photo booth strip of photos peeking out from behind with the core four, one of them wearing large oversized sunglasses so you can’t see his face. you hear a rustling sound off screen and a hand reaches onscreen and grabs a skateboard as a female voice (dana) yells for tim vaguely from a room away/downstairs.

we see tim’s legs/board as he jogs downstairs, then scan over like, family photos? to show the circus photo, show that janets died, jacks remarried, and like maybe some school awards? that taper off over time to show the effect of robin on his grades? like he’s focusing even more on being a hero, adding to the tension btwn civilian/hero life. maybe on the fridge there’s a report card with a c or d grade circled with the words “we will talk about this” or smth on it in red pen. tim opens the fridge, grabs a snack, and continues out the building, calling out a goodbye to dana/his dad on his way out.

outside, we see tim throw down his board and start skating (this part i see being soundtracked with i wanna be sedated by the ramones. major 90s teen movie vibes is what i want from this in general). he starts skating and we see the people he skates by wave at him, maybe with birds of prey-style notes pointing to each person saying what robin saved them from? idk maybe too derivative lol. anyways he keeps skating, doing a few tricks as he goes. the board obviously has like robin, nightwing, wonder girl, superboy, and impulse symbol stickers on it. maybe there’s like a handmade purple “s” design too for spoiler. anyways he keeps skating until he gets to a skatepark, where he meets steph, who says smth like “you ready to go?” and has either roller skates or in-line skates, obviously purple bc i want to really commit to stephs love affair with purple. we hear like a yes or smth from tim, who then skates into the park and we do a freeze frame on tim in the middle of a trick mid air, where we actually see his face for the first time, and get the big robin title over it. i want this to be disgustingly nineties.

i don’t know which robin arc i would want this to follow, or like a different plot, but i would like jack to find out he’s robin and make him quit. i’d rather have steph just get closer to bruce than become robin. i lovelovelove steph as robin but i’d want the movie to start and finish with tim as robin and i 1.) don’t want steph to die and 2.) just think that war games is too much to tackle to get him back as robin. i also don’t want a war games movie bc despite the fact that tim’s part of wg at his school is my favorite part of the arc, i really don’t want thay in a movie. like i would hate that in a way i can’t describe.

but also, i do want steph to be in a lot of this movie. she’s a really important character in tim’s run as robin, and at this point in the run, a lot of the issues were like half steph stories. also, as much as i love the core four, i’d like to focus on just gotham. i’d also like to maybe do tim’s 16th birthday arc, but i’d want him to already be 16 so…🤷‍♀️

soundtrack: lots of 70s/80s/90s rock and pop. the ramones, the clash (obvi), some led zeppelin, deceptacon by le tigre, blondie or maybe some spice girls? teenage dirtbag by wheatus is kind of a must. so is the cure. also when bernard hangs out with tim i want stacys mom to play when he sees dana. i have a brand and i stick with it. also maybe some rooney. during a steph part i’d really like chick habit by april march to play. also kids in america playing during a spoiler and robin fight montage.

so anyways yeah. that’s all i have. a lot of words for a little substance. and skater boy tim. i want tim’s vibes to be like a mix of both ferris and cameron from ferris bueller’s day off

[your--isgayrights]

How about 999 yjh and uriel?

This went a bit past just 999, but I had fun with this prompt! Here's some cannon based Jonghyuk angst with happy ending lol.

The nine hundred ninety ninth regression was one that Yoo Jonghyuk planned based on his previous regressions, as he always did.

Although, it wasn't as if the previous two regressions, the nine hundred ninety seventh and eighth, were really the worst the starstream had seen of Yoo Jonghyuk. That title would probably be saved for the forty-first from which Yoo Jonghyuk was conscious of the fact he had to deliberately block memories from to stay sane.

No, the problem with the last two regressions wasn't the presence of any memories that were wretched to the point of novelty. The problem was the fact that Yoo Jonghyuk barely retained any memories of them at all.

It was all a haze… it was honestly hard to tell if those regressions had been even markedly different from the ones previous to them, as all of the repeated events seemed to mush together and meld with the centuries of anguish he had already endured.

He hadn't felt anything new. Done anything new. So much so that he would forget his place in the new regression and wander aimlessly thinking of the old until some high level constellation punk got a lucky shot at him.

And then all of a sudden, Yoo Jonghyuk woke up in that familiar train car. The one that no matter what would only last for the first thirty minutes of the scenario.

Almost out of habit, he looked for that boy he had been keeping an eye on. The one who always died.

He stopped when he realized.

999.

That boy had died one thousand times.

Yoo Jonghyuk had lived one thousand times. Been in this train car one thousand times. Failed to save anyone one thousand times. Died one thousand times.

Was he really that useless? Yoo Jonghyuk thought to himself, as he went through the motions of beating Choi Han-gyu to death before he could blow up the car.

Honestly, at this point maybe he should accept that he was just like the boy in this car.

No matter what he did, he was going to die anyway.

If he thought about it like that, then…

Well, what was the best thing that he could accomplish with his own death, knowing that it would come to him no matter what he did?

So in the nine hundred ninety ninth turn, Yoo Jonghyuk took more risks than ever before. He made choices and plans that he never would have before because experience had shown they were the antithesis to his former dogma. That which put his own means of survival above all else.

And little by little, Yoo Jonghyuk began to notice that things could be new again.

In this regression, his companions cared more about him. They respected him more, and opened up about things they never had. As if something in his actions connected to them. Made them think he acted out of love for them since his actions clearly showed no care for himself.

And maybe Yoo Jonghyuk wanted to believe them, too. That he was still capable of that sort of love. That desire for connection.

So he let himself fall into it. He made his decisions based on everyone's survival except for his own.

And his comrades continued to show new sides of themselves. The way Lee Jihye tried not to weep aver the bloody remains of his leg, even though no one had died that regression. How Lee Hyunsung's lips trembled while trying to stop the blessing where Yoo Jonghyuk's arm used to be. Shin Yoosung's open bawling, as it began to set in on Yoo Jonghyuk that he would never see this version of her's face ever again.

But Yoo Jonghyuk knew whose response to his actions had surprised him the most this regression.

"Jonghyuk. Are you ready?" The voice of a certain archangel was heard near his somehow still intact ears.

Uriel's face was close to his, a tight grip on his arm and waist along with the angelic wing steadied on his back the only support keeping him held upright as the others had followed his instructions in forging through the final battle ahead of them.

"There's no need to watch over me so closely, Uriel." He told her. It was, in fact, something he had been telling this strange angel recurrently ever since she had stepped down from Eden to join their group.

That was one thing he had never expected of the entity he had once known as the Demon-like Judge of Fire. In all the timelines he had been through Uriel had been just that, a silent judge. Reacting positively to his lawful actions in the early scenarios with coins, and expressing disappointment over his more morally dubious actions. Only descending after the destruction of Eden occasionally to cast judgement in person.

But something about this round had moved the archangel to act differently after the destruction of Eden this round.

"No offense, but there's obviously a d**n need for it, Jonghyuk." Uriel casually censored herself, as though the restrictions of Eden were still in place. "You can't see how the others are looking back towards you right now, but they know it too. That it's always times like this that you feel the need to go and take unnecessary risks."

Yoo Jonghyuk thought that he heard it in her voice, then.

That lilt in Uriel's voice that suggested she was talking to an old friend, even though the span of time in which he had met this version of her was infinitesimal in comparison to the life he had already lived before her, and perhaps compared to the life of a constellation as well.

Maybe Uriel, too, had lived through this all before. A war where she was called upon to support a comrade close to death.

Perhaps she also knew what it was like to be too helpless to save someone important.

Yoo Jonghyuk should be sorry that she would have to go through it again.

He could already feel it. No matter how close Uriel and her sword stayed by his side, Yoo Jonghyuk could feel his death coming to him.

It was because the outer world covenant wasn't an outside threat. It was something that was inside of him. A hole that came from the very center of him. Almost as if there were no outer world god involved, and Yoo Jonghyuk had really only done this to himself.

When everything was fading, and he could recognize her voice as one of the ones desperately calling out to him, Yoo Jonghyuk thought that he should apologize to her.

Instead, he died with a smile on his face.

.

.

.

The one thousandth regression was one that Yoo Jonghyuk planned based on his previous regressions, as he always did.

When he woke up on the train car again, he wasn't smiling as he had been when he died.

It was because he knew that he wouldn't let the events that let him get so far in the last regression repeat.

He couldn't live like that.

Suicidal idiot that he still was, he couldn't let the same thing happen to his precious memories of those friends in the nine hundred ninety ninth that had happened to every other memory he had of them from all those other regressions. Let them repeat until the point of oblivion. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't, even if it would be the right thing to do, even though it could save their lives, Yoo Jonghyuk just wasn't strong enough.

And he hated himself, for that weakness.

That was when Yoo Jonghyuk decided that he had to die, sitting there in that subway car before the scenarios started.

No matter what it took, killing every constellation in the starstream, losing distorted versions of old comrades, finding and wringing out his sponsor's neck…

Yoo Jonghyuk had to survive long enough to stand in front of that wall once more.

And join all of his once treasured memories in the deepest oblivion of death.

From then on, the only times he saw that Demon-like Judge of Fire descended from Eden was when she was sent with the express purpose to kill him in a way that didn't matter.

The only thing new he learned about her thereafter was how her corpse looked with a sword through the middle.

That was, until he met her as an outer god.

Secretive Plotter had wondered if it would please an angel like Uriel to know that he had prayed for the first time in that moment.

Prayed against all odds that her firey sword really could pierce through his curse of life and see him to his end.

But some dumb guy saved him that day.

And now, in the present, Yoo Jonghyuk was watching the kid version of that guy pick the green bits out of the omelette he had made him.

He had been trying to remember from the timelines where he had kids how he had tricked them into eating their vegetables, but like most of the times he tried to recall those deep memories of his, something in his brain had gotten caught up in that pesky number 999's time.

It was probably because his current company made those times hard to forget.

"Aaaaah I'm going to be late!" Uriel ran into the kitchen in a flash of blonde curls, going for the bread in the fridge as if she was going to run out of the house with toast in her mouth like a schoolgirl from one of her animes. "Jonghyuk do you know where Jihye is?"

"She already left." Yoo Jonghyuk reported, as he batted her hands off the bread and gave her a fork for the small omelette he had already put on the table for her. "Her first class this semester is in an early slot."

Even though he had told that girl to schedule her classes with the university early if she wanted good times…

"Shi-" Uriel seemed to remember there was no system to filter out her swears as she spared a glance toward Dokja before correcting herself. "Shoot. I mean shoot." She started speaking between bites as she scarfed down the omelette "I think that [munch] girl borrowed the shoes I was [chew] going to wear to my interview [gulp] without asking…"

"Does it really matter what shoes you wear?" Yoo Jonghyuk commented as he used his chopsticks to start placing Dokja's vegetables back into his omelette. "A former constellation is going to look strange submitting her manhwa manuscript to an editor for review no matter what."

"Give me a break." Uriel frowned. "It's not my fault that your world somehow made the mistake of making creative skills look more appealing on a resume than demon slaying skills."

Yoo Jonghyuk thought that there was truth to her observation, as he watched Uriel ruffle the hair of the pouting Dokja, before putting her clean plate in the sink for him to deal with later.

Everything about this world was new to Uriel. One could see it plainly in the very way she moved, unused to not carrying wings everywhere she went and walking ever so lightly on the earth wherever she went. Whether it was because she knew what it was to fly or because her shoulders had never felt so light before, Yoo Jonghyuk couldn't be sure.

"Good luck." He called, as Uriel walked out into the fray ahead of him, donning combat boots instead of the professional heel she seemed to have misplaced.

"Thanks Jonghyuk!" She replied, seemingly not compelled to look back to check on him as she walked out the door.

Yoo Jonghyuk had this certain feeling, then. A feeling that he often saw himself having in this new life of his, with these old friends of his.

Even though he thoroughly knew these people already, that fact made it all the more exciting to watch them grow into their roles in this world. Become the people that he never got to see them be.

"It's that look in your eye."

Yoo Jonghyuk almost startled, as he remembered he was being watched.

He turned to find young Dokja looking him with a gaze that seemed to see beyond his stoic expression.

"My father never looked at anyone like the way you looked at her just now, Hyung." He said, in that small, knowing voice of his, before a shyness seemed to come over him, and he looked down at his plate.

"That's why nine hundred ninety nine was always my favorite." He admitted, in a little voice

The emotion that Yoo Jonghyuk felt then was a rare one, but not entirely new.

A mixture of pride and bashfulness that only his own children had ever raised out of him, a glow that seemed to start from his chest and go on to cover his cheeks.

Perhaps an erstwhile familiarity with that feeling was the only thing that allowed him to save himself from smiling, as he tried very hard to tell Dokja sternly to eat his vegetables.

And when Uriel came home that evening to announce that her manuscript had gotten picked up… well, it wasn't hard to admit that Yoo Jonghyuk too was now living through a life that he never had before.

[capseycartwright]

“All I wanted was for you to be happy.”

:)

i had to jump on the eddie getting shot spec train for this one, no regrets 

more readable on ao3 here

send me a prompt from this list 

Eddie is pretty sure he’s dead. Which, in the grand scheme of how he’d hoped to spend his Tuesday, wasn’t all that great - he’d had his fingers crossed for surviving his shift, going home to his son, and probably watching that ridiculous Trolls film both Christopher and Buck were obsessed with - but instead he’s dead.

He has to be dead, because that is the only explanation for the fact that Shannon, his extremely dead wife, was standing in front of him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Shannon said, her tone accusatory. She was wearing a beautiful yellow dress - one Eddie had bought her actually, at an over-priced boutique in Miami on their first ever holiday together. 

“I hadn’t exactly planned on dying today, Shannon!” Eddie tried to defend himself.

“You’re not dead,” Shannon reassured, looking as though she was aching to touch him. “You might be soon, though.”

Eddie swallowed back his own tears. He - he’d thought about how he might die. Of course he had - during long, lonely nights on deployment, Eddie had wondered if that was how he was going to go - in the sweltering heat of the desert, gun on his hip and the weight of what he’d done in the name of supporting his family pinning him to the sand. After he’d been discharged, and he got back to Texas, he’d been in survival mode - he’d never thought beyond getting through each and every day, one at a time. 

But - recently, he’d thought about it. Imagined growing old, and dying at eighty, or ninety years old - old enough that he got to see a career in the LAFD through, and he got to see Christopher grow up, and find his feet, and maybe get married, and have kids, if he decides he wants that. Eddie imagined how it might feel to die at the end of a long, happy life - a life well lived, not a life defined by the things he had done to try and survive.

“You’re supposed to die when you’re old and grey, Eddie,” Shannon sighed.

“So were you,” Eddie countered, wiping roughly at his tears. 

Shannon’s smile was sad. “I think that ship has sailed, Eddie.”

“You left me,” Eddie couldn’t help his anger. “You died, and you left me alone, Shannon.”

“If I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have,” Shannon shook her head. “But Eddie - you’re not alone. Surely you can see that. So many people love you, and need you - Christopher, more than anyone. Eddie - all I wanted was for you to be happy, but we couldn’t do that for each other.” 

Eddie wanted to scream, and yell, and curse whatever God had put him in this situation - teetering on the edge of life, talking to his dead wife. He finally had the opportunity to tell her everything he wanted to - to make sure she knew how hurt and devastated he had been by her dying, but now he could, the words weren’t coming. 

“It hurts, Shannon,” Eddie whimpered, almost pitifully. “Everyday of my life. It hurts, and I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Eddie,” Shannon said, in that soft, familiar voice she used to use on Christopher. “It hurts because it mattered - it matters. But it doesn’t have to be so hard, you know - you have people to share the burden with. I wish you’d open your eyes to that.”

“This isn’t real,” Eddie shook his head, squeezing his shut tightly.

“It’s as real as you need it to be,” Shannon said. “Eddie - be happy. Please. And - really happy, okay? You don’t have to just survive, or live a life you think will make your parents happy, or Christopher happy. If you’re happy - really happy, happy for yourself - Christopher will see it and he’ll love you for it even more.”

“I don’t want to die yet, Shannon,” Eddie admitted, looking at his wife, tears pouring down his face. He wasn’t ready to go - not yet. Not like this - bleeding out in the middle of the street. He wanted to die an old man, with Christopher at his side.

With Buck at his side.

Shannon fixed him with a steely glare. “Then fight, Eddie - harder than you ever have before. You need to fight, Eddie.”

“Eddie, Eddie, come on. Eddie, open - open your eyes, please, talk to me.”

“I’m so tired Shannon,” Eddie admitted. 

“Fight, Eddie,” Shannon repeated. “For Christopher - for me. For yourself. For Buck.”

“EDDIE!”

The pain was unbearable as Eddie forced his eyes open, Shannon and wherever he had been gone - he was back, at the scene of the shooting, concrete digging into his back as Buck desperately tried to stem the bleeding. 

Eddie hadn’t needed the reminder of how it felt to get shot. He - he would never forget the searing pain of the first time he’d taken a bullet, back in Afghanistan. Somehow - somehow it was worse, this time, and Eddie figured it was because he didn’t have any bulletproof gear. He’d taken a bullet to the cheap nylon material of his firefighter uniform - no vest, no thick military issue uniform. It felt like his skin was burning, fiery pain coursing through every inch of his body. 

“B-Buck,” Eddie could taste blood, as he tried to speak - that wasn’t good. Why wasn’t there help coming? He - he must have been bleeding out for a few minutes, now, but no one was coming, no one was helping him except Buck.

Buck -

Eddie squinted at his best friend, spotting the blooming blood stain on his side. “Shooter. Still active?” he managed to choke out.

Buck nodded, pushing his hands further into the wound, ignoring Eddie’s desperate whimper of pain. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s still an active shooter scene.”

Eddie looked at Buck. “You - moved?” he tried, a coughing fit making him groan in pain. He knew he was crying - he could feel the tears rolling down the sides of his cheeks, dripping onto the rough gravel underneath his head. 

Buck nodded again.

“Idiot,” Eddie mumbled.

“Yeah, maybe,” Buck tried to joke. “But there was no way I was going to let you bleed out, Eddie - so you need to do your bit and stay with me until help gets here. Okay? Because I’ve got your back.”

“You’re - hurt,” Eddie gasped, yelping as Buck applied more pressure to the wound.

“I know, it hurts, I’m sorry,” Buck seemed genuinely sympathetic, but unrelenting in the pressure he was putting on Eddie’s side. “And mine is just a flesh wound, don’t worry.”

“Buck,” Eddie knew he was slurring his words now, his vision hazy as he tried to grip onto Buck’s wrist weakly. “Don’t wanna die.” 

“You’re not going to,” Buck’s voice was desperate, and Eddie didn’t need to be fully lucid to realise his best friend was crying too, tears pouring down his cheeks as he looked around wildly, trying to gauge how far out help was. He must have fallen, Eddie realised - his face was scraped up. “You’re going to be just fine, Eddie - okay? You’re going to be fine. And when - and when we’re both patched up, I’m going to take you to that beach bar in Malibu I was telling you about. The one with the cocktails I know you’ll pretend to hate - but you’ll love, really.”

Eddie couldn’t help himself. “Like - a date?” he managed, breathing getting harder by the minute. He must have lost a lot of blood by now - Buck’s shirt was covered in it, and Eddie felt dizzy, and light-headed. 

Buck gave a wet laugh. “Yeah, if you want,” he said. “Break up with your girlfriend first, and we’ll talk.”

Eddie felt his eyes closing. “M’okay.” 

“Eddie, Eddie, keep your eyes open, okay? Keep your eyes open for me - I need you to stay awake a little longer,” Buck begged, and pleaded, but his voice was already starting to sound muffled, and far away.

“You need to fight, Eddie.”

Eddie really didn’t want to die, this time -

He had too much left to do, still. He hadn’t realised that until the bullet had ripped through his shoulder - he wanted to take Buck on a date, and he wanted to travel, with Christopher, and he thought it might be quite nice to get a dog, one day, and Chimney was convincing him to get his paramedic certification, and there was lots of things he’d never done.

Eddie had even thought about learning to cook - taking a class, maybe. 

He wasn’t ready to go, yet. 

He vaguely registered the sound of sirens and yelling but he was too out of it to know if it was real, or not - but Shannon felt real, her yellow dress stark against the white walls of wherever he was (hospital, maybe? Or heaven, he wasn’t sure.)

“You did good, Eddie,” she said, voice soft. “Be happy. Okay?”

Eddie felt a hand squeeze his - a hand he knew well enough to know it belonged to Buck, the only hands he knew that could dwarf his own, warm and familiar and grounding, holding tightly to Eddie - as though he was about to float away.

No - he wouldn’t do that.

Eddie had a few things to do first. “I’m okay,” he managed, his voice sounding like gravel, harsh and scratchy against his dry throat. “Buck. Ev. ‘M fine.” 

“I know,” Buck’s voice sounded wet with tears. “Sleep, Eddie. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Sleep. That sounded nice.

Eddie feebly tried to squeeze Buck’s hand in response. “Okay.”

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 282: Aizawa Defeeted

Previously on BnHA: Oh my god do we even care about that at this point. Tomura made a speech; Gran Torino died; Deku lost his shit and tried to strangle Tomura to death with his bare hands; Ryuukyuu came back from Wherever She Was and tried to grab Tomura but he punched a hole through her giant hand; and now he’s grabbing his Quirk-Be-Gone bullets and is ready to cause some mayhem okay?? That about sum it up?? Is anyone even reading this?? CAN WE JUST GET ON WITH IT I’VE WAITED AN ENTIRE WEEK.

Today on BnHA: Well I guess let’s start with what doesn’t happen: Bakugou doesn’t lose his quirk. HE LUCKED OUT!!... for now, anyways. Because, thanks to a near-impossible-to-predict series of events (seriously, raise your hands if you had “Aizawa gets shot but goes full World War Z on his own ass” on your bingo card), Tomura has seemingly regained his regeneration powers, which means that his other quirks are probably back online as well! So we’ll see how that all goes. Anyway so in the meantime Shouto’s back, looking very mad that everyone temporarily forgot he was a main character. And Gigantomachia is back as well! Or almost, anyway. Also, you’ll never guess who broke another one of his arms! Go on, guess. But at least he still has the arm, though, which is more than we can say for certain other people’s limbs. Poor Aizawa is literally on his last leg. He and Tomura really got off on the wrong foot. He chopped his leg off, is what I’m saying. It’s that kind of chapter folks.

you guys I’m losing my whole fucking mind. I straight up deleted the tumblr app off my phone for 24 hours so that I wouldn’t be tempted to log in and risk potentially being spoiled. and I’m happy to say that it worked! so here we are now, completely spoiler free, and let me just say that if Horikoshi decides to cut back to Gunga Mountain now, I will either cry for hours or abandon the series forever and go do something more productive with the rest of my quarantine like learning how to play sad songs on the guitar

all right. here goes

so we’re opening with Deku, who is currently comprised of 100% rage and 0% mercy, and is doing that thing where only the whites of his eyes are visible. and basically he’s just thinking “I’VE REALLY GOT TO HOLD ON TO THIS GUY AND MAKE SURE HE DOESN’T DO ANYTHING ELSE HOMICIDAL.” which is a solid game plan, but perhaps not so easily accomplished

-- oh my god this poor kid is still in denial, I can’t. why are you doing this

is there even still a Gran Torino to tend to at this point? after Tomura bulldozed a hole through his torso, and you went and finished the job with your own fucking attack? sob

but I guess the law of Tragic Shounen Mentor Deaths mandates that Gran’s should be at least as drawn-out as Nighteye’s was, though. so he’s probably only Mostly Dead, which is still Slightly Alive if I remember my Princess Bride correctly, and I think I do

so now the rest of these stooges are finally catching up with us here

yes, my friends. a bullet. WELCOME TO MY LIFE FOR THE PAST FUCKING WEEK. anyways I have a LOT of pent-up energy here just fyi. there may be a lot of unnecessary screaming in this recap

FUCKING WYOMING SMASH Y’ALLSSSS

I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT JUST HAPPENED SOB. DID HE JUST HAMMER FIST TOMURA’S HEAD INTO THE GROUND. DID HE SNAP HIS FUCKING NECK AT 100%. IN AN IDEAL WORLD HE WOULD HAVE JUST CHOPPED TOMURA’S ARMS OFF WHILE SOMEHOW MANAGING TO AVOID BREAKING ANY OF HIS OWN BONES IN THE PROCESS, BUT I HAVE A FEELING THIS SITUATION WILL NOT BE RESOLVED IN ANY KIND OF MANNER ONE WOULD CONSIDER “IDEAL”

(ETA: fun fact: this attack did absolutely nothing except make things approximately 100x worse. but you tried Deku. you tried.)

THE FUCK KIND OF PORTENTOUS BULLSHITTING TITLE IS THIS. OH MY GOD, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT EMOTION I’M HAVING RIGHT NOW, IT’S JUST A LOT OF LOUD THOUGHTS

anyway so if you’re just joining us, Tomura just pulled two bullets out of his pocket, the good guys finally noticed, and then Deku did a smash and everything exploded. the radius of this attack actually looks wide enough to have potentially involved Aizawa, who probably does NOT want to get any debris in his eyes right now, and also Gran, who probably doesn’t particularly want to be hit by another deadly attack for the third time in the past ninety seconds. anyway so I guess what I’m trying to say here is WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THAT YOU LITTLE GREEN LUNATIC

AHHHHHH

he got the one!! the one that was in Tomura’s right hand!! but what about the one in his left ahhhhhhh

(ETA: lmao at Kacchan being the one to blow up the same bullet I was so sure he was going to be shot with. saw the writing on the wall, huh kid? what do we say to the god of foreshadowing?? ‘NOT TODAY.’ ...except that we’re still not actually out of the woods yet so you still better watch yourself lol.)

...

based on the font here, these are Tomura’s thoughts. which he is thinking immediately after getting the lower half of his jaw very painfully cronched by the VERY homicidal sixteen-year-old still clinging to him. anyway so Tomura’s thought processes are as inscrutable to me as ever lulz

and Deku’s arm looks broken again, yaaaaay. but at least it’s his left arm and not his right! so that’s nice. now they can match

[SHRIEKS]

HE YEETED IT. IT HAS BEEN YEETEDED. HE DID A YEET. [sobbing] he DiD a YeEt oH my GOD

DID IT HIT SOMETHING!?!?!?

my reading process here is as follows: 1) scroll down exactly one panel. 2) scream even though absolutely nothing has happened yet. 3) WRITE THAT DOWN 4) REPEAT

DKSFJLKHSDLGKHLI

DID IT HIT HIM!?!? DID IT GET HIM IN THE LEG SOB ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS. JUST LIKE THAT?? BOOM GUN BULLET LEG!!?

YOU GUYS IT REALLY HIT AIZAWA AND NO ONE DID A GODDAMN THING?? it wasn’t even drawn out or anything??? it just HAPPENED, within like four pages??? NO SLOW MO?? NOT EVEN A REACTION PANEL WHAT THE FUCK

son of a bitch I would so dearly like to grab Manual and RockLockRock’s heads right now and just conk them together real hard. YOU STUPID FUCKS sob YOU HAD ONE JOB!!! IT REALLY WAS JUST ONE!! AND YOU WERE SHARING IT!! SO IT’S MORE LIKE HALF A JOB!! AND YOU STILL COCKED IT UP IN ABSOLUTELY NO TIME AT ALL OH MY GOD

(ETA: they should blow this panel up and make it into a t-shirt and make Manual and RLR wear the shirts every day for the rest of their lives. half a job, you guys. please go away I cannot even look at you right now.)

FUCK MY EVERYTHING

(ETA: I still can’t figure out if this horrific angle is due to the earlier damage from the Noumu, or if Tomura really just flung the bullet THAT hard. honestly I’m surprised it didn’t just slice right through him with that kind of velocity. “no thanks because then I wouldn’t get to write a scene where he chops his own leg off” oh okay well when you put it that way, Horikoshi.)

if I recall correctly this is the leg that he said was “twisted”, no? yeesh. might just want to chop it off real quick, then. s’not like it’s doing you any more good. does anyone know if zombie rules apply or not with this sort of thing?? shit

?!?!

“THANKS”?? okay what. did it hit him or not??

-- oh my god WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT

I WAS -- I WAS JOKING I -- FFFFFFFFKJK

jesus fucking christ. when I said “might just want to chop it off real quick” literally FOUR PARAGRAPHS AGO, I can tell you that the one thing I did NOT expect was for Aizawa to be all, “you know what, that’s a good idea”, and then YOINK OUT HIS TRUSTY HERO SHANK AND GO FULL 127 HOURS ON THIS BITCH. "LALALA WE’RE GONNA DO IT RATIONALLY TEEHEE” like excuse me, the fuck

anyways. I don’t even know what to say. thank you Aizawa’s leg for your sacrifice, and for always supporting him. literally. oh my god I came here ready for my son to enter a new phase of character development, and for the manga as a whole to enter a new phase of glorious, glorious angst. no one told me I’d be sitting here making puns instead. what a fine, confusing day

anyway though let’s just fucking hope it worked. and side note, if Aizawa Shouta really did chop off his own fucking leg just now and somehow STILL managed not to fucking blink, I think we might as well just go ahead and hand him the Biggest Badass In The Series award right now because no one is ever going to top that. nope. not happening

it is truly a testament to Shigaraki Tomura’s unfathomably mysterious sexy villain energy that he still somehow manages to look hot with only half a face

also no one in this manga actually feels pain, do they. not Deku, not Aizawa, not Tomura, no one. no wonder none of them have any self-preservation instincts to speak of

um

did someone just randomly explode just now. at this point it might as well happen, right

oh it’s the shockwave from Deku’s Wyoming attack, apparently. how nice of it to have a delayed reaction for absolutely no reason

anyway so Deku’s being flung back, but he’s grabbing onto Tomura again with Blackwhip. but oh shit you guys, if Tomura escapes Deku and Ryuukyuu’s clutches and still has any bullets left in his pocket, we may still be able to salvage this Bakugou quirk situation after all. would be nice to be able to actually do something with all of these “happy quirk losing day” balloons that I ordered

(ETA: actually, believe it or not I honestly like this better. Tomura using AFO was always the more dramatic option anyway. and now that we’ve done the bullet thing everyone has presumably let their guard down again, which, good.)

I love how Tomura apparently hasn’t noticed that Aizawa’s just amputated his own leg? to be fair he’s probably distracted by all the explosions and such

also gotta love how Deku’s arm-breaking attack seemingly just made everything worse for no reason. and also how Manual and RockLockRock are once again just standing there doing absolutely nothing

SO NOW GUESS WHAT’S HAPPENING

I MEAN IT! GUESS. BECAUSE YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE LOL

OH WELL OKAY THEN

just like we all saw coming!! ...

so is this Endeavor’s attack?? Bakugou’s?? either way, hot damn. fortunately for Tomura he is apparently operating under the same guidelines as the U.S. Federal Reserve, in which mutilated bills may still be exchanged at face value if more than 50% of a note identifiable as United States currency is present. basically as long as roughly half of him is still vaguely Tomura-shaped I assume he’ll be fine

(ETA: in hindsight I should have immediately been able to identify this as a Shouto attack based solely on how murdery it was lol.)

OH MY GODDDD

KRANCH?!?

OH MY GOD LOL WHAT. LOL. REMEMBER EVERYONE’S THEORIES FROM LIKE TWENTY YEARS AGO LOL. SHOUTO WHAT THE FUCK. DID YOU STOP FOR DRIVE THRU

AND MEANWHILE DEKU’S BACK ON THE SCENE GIVING ARGUABLY EVEN LESS FUCKS THAN BEFORE, IF SUCH A THING IS EVEN POSSIBLE. SO FAR THIS CHAPTER HAS PRECISELY ZERO THINGS THAT I ACTUALLY EXPECTED IN IT, WHICH IS VERY IMPRESSIVE

IT ALSO HAS A LOT OF SMASHING

a LOT. of smashing, guys. feels like... 60% smashing, 20% severed legs, 20% Kranch

-- oh no oh SHIT oh shit oh shit

(ETA: um so I really can’t tell how far that wound extends and whether or not Aizawa still has his right eye, shit.)

first of all how did Deku get here next to Aizawa when he was just over there with Tomura, what. and second, I think Aizawa just blinked, oh shit. probably on the verge of passing out after CHOPPING HIS OWN LEG OFF which STILL hasn’t been acknowledged yet?? did I just completely misinterpret all of that back there or what

(ETA: there was seriously so little attention called to this that I scrolled back up to confirm it probably like half a dozen times. apparently Horikoshi thinks that THE MOST BADASS THING TO EVER HAPPEN IN THE MANGA should be completely downplayed. whereas if it were me, there’d be an entire two page spread of JUST THE LEG. WITH MUSIC PLAYING. EVEN THOUGH IT’S A MANGA.)

YEPPPPPPP. fuck

look at him though. he’s so happy. this is why I can’t stay mad at you no matter how deranged you get you little maniac

so is quirk-stealing back on the menu then or what. don’t think I’ve been lulled into any kind of false sense of security by any of this lol

-- ARE WE SERIOUSLY CUTTING AWAY

so Todoroki really went after them ALONE. the better to put his dad right back up at the top of the Lose Your Quirk Sweepstakes finalists. well... second-to-top, maybe. like I said I will not be lulled

yuh-oh

why do I feel like the odds of Gigantomachia arriving to herald the end of this chapter just shot up DRAMATICALLY

so the next page is almost entirely just a list of cities that the news anchor is telling people to evacuate because they’re in Machia’s path. along with a bunch of dead heroes lying around everywhere, and Ochako being all ominous

(: weren’t they, though? heh. this is going to be so, so bad (: (: (:

-- fuuuuuuuuuuu

aaaaaand that’s it. hahahaha. okay then let’s summarize

Bakugou defied all expectations and kept his quirk (FOR NOW)!

Aizawa cut his own fucking leg off and it WASN’T EVEN REMOTELY ACKNOWLEDGED FOR REASONS I CAN’T UNDERSTAND (R.I.P. AIZAWA’S PRECIOUS LEG. YOU ALWAYS PUT YOUR BEST FOOT FORWARD)

Kranch showed up after 157 years and is probably wondering why the heck I keep calling him “Kranch” now. THINGS CHANGE WHEN YOU’RE MIA FOR A WHILE MY LITTLE STARBUCKS CHRISTMAS CUP

Deku broke his arm for the 78th time

Tomura regenerated but seems to think Aizawa’s quirk is actually gone for good, which I’m pretty sure it’s not. so if they can keep him from destroying everything long enough for Aizawa to turn it back on again, we might possibly still survive this

and lastly, Machia is about to kill all of these stupid people frolicking around outside of this fitness club who are probably so proud of themselves for not being glued to their phones 24/7 because they prefer to LIVE LIFE IN THE MOMENT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. well that’s on you my friends. at least it’ll be a quick death. ffff

[harrypotter-imaginess]

A/N: I just want to say, for my OG readers that have been reading this since I first posted the headcanon list last year, I love and appreciate y’all so much!! If you want, since this is a long term project, I can add you to the tag list if you like :)

Also Letter commission’s are open until 3/10, so if your interested, price and info are here. 

Based on this Headcanon list (x) : Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / Part 3 Here! <This is Part 4!>

You sigh, eyes glancing back at your watch.

Maybe it’s off?

You wouldn’t put it past Fred to screw up the time on your watch just so you would show up an hour early to your class, wondering if it was always this dark at eight in the morning.

But if Fred did mess with your watch, how does that explain everyone else? You turn to your right and look at a group of third and fourth years scattered around the room. Surely he couldn’t have changed the time in everyone’s watch.

Though at this point you know better than to assume anything is impossible for Fred Weasley, especially if he’s able to get George on board with his pranks.

You sigh, eyes sweeping over the room again. The chatting has long died down, now it looks like all those late nights in the common room playing exploding snap are finally beginning catching up.

Especially when the class was missing the particularly loud and somewhat entertaining antics of the one and only, Gilderoy Lockhart. It wasn’t that it was particularly fun to watch his nonsensical lessons or anything- but at least it was something to watch. And as long as you were barley competent, you could get by just fine on the “pop quizzes” he had. Though they were really more like magazine quizzes about how well you knew him.

Plus he was pretty good looking, though you would rather die than admit that to Fred or George.

Speaking of your favorite pair of doppelgängers-

You turn to look at your side, the two chair next to you on the long bench are vacant. Well, it’s not like it’s totally unusual for them to skip class. You can count on one hand how many times they’ve been excited to come to defense against the dark arts this year. But-

But... they usually invite you when they do decide to play hooky.

Maybe they didn’t invite you because you’re always persuading them to come to class instead. ‘You don’t want a howler from your Mum now do you?’ You would say, pushing them towards the class.

Maybe they just don’t think you’re fun to be around anymore. No, no, they’re your friends- you can’t start thinking like that, there must be a good reason why-

“Hey (Y/N/N)” George squeezes past you, plopping into the chair next to you with a soft rattle.

His hair’s sticking every which way, his robe is crooked, and his tie isn’t even tied, just hanging limply along his neck. 

“You don’t even have your bag George” you hiss, did he finally get into a fist fight with Draco Malfoy? You’ve told them both not to think too hard about how he called you-

“Wait where’s Fred?” You look to the door, expecting to see a messy head of fire red hair walk through the door, sporting bruises and maybe a grin like his black eye is a gold medal.

But instead, there’s a familiar head of golden hair standing in the doorway. It’s Gilderoy Lockhart. There’s no doubt about it, the image of him is perfect. Of course it’s your professor.

Of course it is.

But there’s something about the way he carries himself? Like he’s still getting used to having legs so short. The way his smile seems a little more...mischievous than usual, that twinkle of absolute delight in those strangely familiar eyes.

“Oh no” you mumble, but George grins from beside you.

“I’m not going to be needing my bag, and neither are you” George whispers in your ear, and you turn to look at him.

They didn’t.

“Good afternoon class, sorry I’m late! I was admiring myself in one of my thirty mirrors and the time just...got away from me.” ‘Professor Lockhart’ says flashing his class the most condescending smile you have ever seen.

“That’s not a lie you know, we did find him admiring himself in the mirror” George whispers, your face is in your hands but you don’t need to look at him to know he’s got a pleased grin on his face.

“It’s why it was so easy to knock him out and shove him into the teachers lounge- he never even saw it coming”

Well at least they didn’t shove him into a broom closet.

“Now class, I would like you to write a list of things you love about me-“ there’s a collective groan and the rustle of parchment but neither you and George don’t move a muscle.

“Four feet at least!” Fred, in his Lockhart-skin-suit bellows, which earns another collective groan from the rest of the class.

“So what, did you draw the short stick, why aren’t you up there?” You ask jerking your head towards Fred, it looks like the more fun part of the prank honestly. It also seems like the sweetest m form of revenge after old Gildy gave you three detention last week for showing up late to class, but you won’t mention that.

George only shrugs.

Honestly ninety percent of this situation was Fred’s poor impulse control. One second they were running late to class, and George was worrying about getting detention because if he has to scrub all those awards for Filch again he won’t be able to hold a quil - and the next thing he knows he’s carrying Lockhart by his feet into the teachers lounge.

“He’s the showman, I’m just the side kick.” George shrugs, it’s been that way since they were kids. Fred would come up with an idea and George would follow his lead.

Not that he’s upset about it. It’s always interesting, he’s hasn’t been bored in years. Still, he can’t help but wonder if they didn’t share the same face, would he and Fred be as close as they are now?

Or would he be just as easily replaced, most likely by Lee Jordan. Well Ron might make a more susceptible accomplice, would anyone do-

“And where would our fearless leader be without his trustworthy sidekicks?” You say, a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of your lips. Your voice drawing George out of his thoughts.

“Probably in detention” You muse, that or jail, because technically they assaulted their professor, and that’s got to be a serious offense.

George laughs next to you, well you’ve got a point. If it wasn’t for you and him, you three would have been expelled long ago. He’s about to lean over and whisper something in your ear when some interrupts him mid motion.

“Weasley and (L/N), less flirting and more quil movement, yes?” He really sounds like Fred right there, a hint of an accent peaking through. Not that anyone other than you and George seem to notice. They’re all too busy contemplating how embarrassing it must be to get called out for not paying attention by Gilderoy Lockhart of all people.

You manage to not roll your eyes, sifting through your bag until you pull out some parchment.

“Geez four feet? That’s kind of excessive” you mumble while George is holding back laughter so violent he’s actually shaking.

“You know he’s just teasin’ right? It’s not like Lockhart’s actually going to grade these-“ and then a horrible realization dawns on him.

Half of the reason they thought this plan would work is because someone as pompous as Gilderoy Lockhart would never admit that two teenage boys hit him over the head with one of his books, and shoved him on a sofa (after tying his shoe laces together).

No, good old Gildy would go along like nothing had even happened, perhaps he’d even believe that nothing had really happened. Not enough sleep and too much caffeine do result in memory loss. And who can sleep with ‘the heir of Slytherin’ on the loose?

Ordering-sorry, assigning them to write four feet worth of parchment about what they admire about their professor sounds exactly like something he would do.

“Fucking Fred.” George hisses, why did he bloody have to pick four feet? Wouldn’t just one foot have sufficed? But no, the great Fred could never- ‘it adds enthusiasm, it’s all about the drama’ he would say.

Well where’s your god damn drama now that your best friend and brother are about to fail this god forksaken class, all because you couldn’t say one foot instead of f*cking four, George wants to scream.

You sigh, cutting your parchment in half, handing one half to George. You’ve only got four feet on you, you didn’t think you would need any more than that, so the both of you are just going to have to turn in two feet each.

“Sure would be a shame if Fred came back to the dorm and found, oh I don’t know, fifty spiders in his bed” you muse as you pull out two quills, and a bottle of ink. You’ve only got the one bottle, you’ll have to share.

But George isn’t paying any mind to the ink and parchment situation, instead he’s grinning at your suggestion. He always knew you had a wicked streak.

“Yeah it would be a real shame if say, two people were to go down to Hagrid’s hut, collect some drool from Fang, and smear it all over Fred’s robes” You peer at George from the corner of your eye, trying to hide your smile behind your hand.

“Oh well now wouldn’t that just be awful, hypothetically of course” You say, looking down to your parchment

“Truly a tragedy” He responds with a grin.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Soldier Boy (Part 2)

Summary: The reader spends the day with Dean getting to know him some more when she catches him in a lie and discovers one of his most dark secrets...

Masterlist

Pairing: Superhero!Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,600ish

Warnings: language, mentions of death, angst

A/N: Enjoy!

____

“So how old are you, Solider Boy?” you asked the next day as you walked around the park. 

“Thirty,” he said with a smirk.

“Solider Boy’s been around since the second world war. So. How old are you really?” you asked.

“I was eighteen when I was injected. I’ve aged very slowly. I do age, but it’s slow. They...I shouldn’t talk about this stuff,” he said, kicking at the ground with his boot. “Ah, fuck it, it’s in the news anyways.”

“The compound V?” you asked and he nodded.

“First successful try right here. I was still going through puberty so it took,” he said. “I guess. The science is very complicated they said. They just said you want to serve your country and I signed up.”

“What year were you born?”

“January 24th, 1926,” he said. You paused and he chuckled. “I know some women aren’t into older men.”

“I must seem like a child to you,” you said, walking again and crossing your arms.

“You’re twenty nine. I’m thirty. What’s such a big deal about that?” he smiled.

“You’re sweet,” you said. You dropped your hands by your sides, Dean taking one of them in his. “Old man ain’t wasting his time.”

“Keep it up, kiddo,” he laughed. You laced your fingers together with his hand and smiled as you looked at him. A flannel and t shirt. Jeans and boots. A baseball cap on his head. He looked so ordinary and yet he was the first superhero in existence. “I’m sure you’re wondering if I ever had a family.”

“A bit. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you said. 

“No, I want to. I don’t talk to anyone anymore. Aside from the people at Vought to try and get in The Seven but that’s like beating a dead horse at this point,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently I’m too similar in the market sector as Homelander. Go ‘merica and color scheme and that shit. I didn’t ask to be the leader or anything. I just...want to get off the kiddie squad, go do real shit out there, help people, not the stupid stuff I do now.”

“Maybe that’s why you don’t fit on The Seven. You want to help people, you don’t care about the photo op,” you said.

“I’m gonna keep trying,” he said. “But to answer your other question you didn’t ask, no, I never had a family. I had parents and a brother but they’ve all passed away. All my friends are gone. It never seemed right to love a girl and have a family and watch them all grow old and...honestly I didn’t want to watch my children grow older than me and die. I can’t imagine anything worse than outliving them.”

“You’re a good man, Dean.”

“I had the occasional acquaintance, don’t get me wrong. But it was always casual, no titles, nothing formal.”

“Is this casual?” you asked. He shook his head and you bumped his shoulder. “What’s different this time?”

“A chemical made me this way. Maybe a chemical can unmake me this way. We are so advanced now compared to back then. Maybe I can age normally with some other combination. Maybe I’m stuck like this forever. I just know that the numb pit inside of me woke the fuck up when I met you and it has been quiet for a very, very long time.”

“My mom’s quiet a bit older than my dad. Age gaps don’t scare me,” you said. He chuckled and you held onto his arm. “You don’t sparkle like the twilight guy though right?”

“Oh my God, no,” he laughed. “No sparkles here. I do make sparks when bullets bounce off of me though.”

“Well now you’re just bragging,” you said. You rested your head on his arm, thinking back to a movie you used to watch as a kid, Solider Boy the lead in the thing. “Dean.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you just lie about not having a family?” you asked, pulling away from him. You knew you could have let it go, should have let it go for the sake of the mission but damn you were pissed off at him for lying to you. You crossed your arms and he frowned, going over to a nearby bench. You sat down next to him, Solider Boy rubbing his hands together. “You were in this movie my brother loved so I watched it all the time. He was a huge fan and he would never shut up about you. I never paid much attention but I remember. You had a wife and kids once.”

“You’re gonna leave after I tell you this part,” he said, a sad smile on his face.

“I’m gonna leave if you don’t tell me the truth right now. You will never see my face again. You promised you would not lie to me. Out with it Dean.”

“I wasn’t always a good person. It’s very...difficult to stay good when there’s so much bad around you. When there’s no consequences.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“My son and daughter died hating me, thinking I was a monster. They died because of me. That was the breaking point for me. I walked away after that, I started over. I’d turned into this thing I didn’t recognize. I became Soldier Boy. Dean Winchester...he died back in that war. Not until the nineties did I realize what had happened to me. So I left. Went away from the world. Brought Dean back to life and Soldier Boy came back but different. Good this time. Greed, corruption. It’s not happening this time. Then you said...you made that comment about me being naive, that I’d turn eventually into an asshole supe like the rest of them. I’m terrified of that happening to me again. Maybe that’s why I like you, cause you’ll remind me not to be a monster again.”

“Why do you call yourself a monster?” you asked quietly.

“The first time I killed someone, I was mortified. The last time I did it, I laughed. It made me happy. I hurt him before I did it even. I stopped caring about people. My wife wanted a divorce. I thought she was hot, she fit my image. I told her I didn’t want one so she took some pills and told me she’d rather die than live with the devil. My kids were young adults, late twenties. I snapped at them when they blamed me for their mother’s death. My son hit me so I pushed him and he hit his head. My daughter ran out, afraid of me and was hit by a car. They died because I didn’t want to lose my image. I wasn’t even that upset at first. I thought a widow superhero, that’ll boost my numbers.”

“If that didn’t…” you said, Dean running his hands over his thighs. “What made you change?”

“I found a drawing my daughter had made me when she was small,” he said. He took out his wallet and unfolded a laminated sheet of paper holding it out to you. It was done in crayon, a few stick figures with one of them wearing a superhero outfit and the word “daddy” written above it. “She loved me once. I ripped it away from her. I found that cleaning out the house and I realized what I’d done. I’m worse than any bad guy there ever was for doing that to them. I stopped caring. When you stop caring is when you lose those bits of your soul. They break off until there’s nothing left. I am a monster, Y/N. Nothing I ever do can make up for it and save whatever shattered pieces are in there. But I owe it to my kids to be good and stay good.”

You handed the sheet back and he tucked it away, his wallet going in his pocket as he stared out at the trees across the path. 

“I understand if you would no longer like to see or speak to me again. Or if you want to slap me in the face. That’s also acceptable,” he said.

“What year was all of this?” you asked.

“They died in ‘92. Then I ran away to Kansas, worked as a farmhand for a while,” he said. He rubbed his palm and stared down at his lap. “Just...be careful at night and try to stop walking down alleys for me, okay?”

“Why are you saying that?”

“I’m never going to see you again after you get up from this bench.”

You stood up and he let out a sigh. You took a step to your left and sat down closer to him, turning your head as Dean looked so horribly confused at you. You couldn’t walk away. It wasn’t an option. But while you knew you couldn’t walk because of the mission Butcher had you on, you didn’t want to. There was so much self-hate inside of Dean he hid well and part of you ached that he considered himself sub-human.

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

“Dean. What happened to your family was horrible but they were accidents. Your daughter, your son. Your wife, did she even let it sink in for you before she did that? If I was married to someone and they suddenly asked for a divorce my gut reaction would probably be no too. I’m not saying you didn’t play a part but those were her actions that trickled down and affected the rest of you. Letting yourself become corrupted means you’re human. We all make fucking mistakes. Yours are a little big, I admit that. But you try to make up for it. All you can do after the fact is try and you’re doing that. There’s a soul in there Dean. If there wasn’t this wouldn’t be eating you alive. Cut yourself a break. I gotta process everything you said but I’m not walking away. Promise you will never lie to me again and I can promise you that I won’t judge you, no matter what you’ve done.”

“I’ve been around 95 years and I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said. “That’s a good thing. I will never lie to you again. I swear. I’m sorry. I was...frightened of telling you who I was deep down. I like you. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s the first bit of happiness I’ve felt in a long time and I don’t want it to go away just yet.”

“It’s okay that you were scared. Maybe on our third date we can have a less intense conversation. We can talk about how you’re older than sliced bread,” you teased. 

“You youngin’s don’t know how good you got it,” he chuckled. You took his hand into your lap and he smiled. “Not a monster to you?”

“No. Just be a good guy and I’ll be happy,” you said. You leaned over and kissed his cheek, Dean looking you up and down.

“I wish I knew you when I was a dumb kid that let them shove that stuff in me. I never would have said yes if I had a girl back home.”

“Well, from now on, maybe just ask if you think I’d be proud of what you were doing. If the anwer’s no, maybe don’t do it,” you said.

“I’m gonna keep that one,” he said. “Also did you subtly drop that I’m getting another date despite all of that?”

“You told me the truth, even though it was hard. That’s why I like you too,” you said. “Plus you’re really old so you must have like, sex down to perfection by this point.”

“Gonna blow your fucking mind,” he teased. “Eventually. I know things are different nowadays but…you’re special. You’re not a hookup.”

“When you’re ready, you let me know and we’ll go from there, okay?” He nodded and you gave him a hug, Dean hesitant at first but he quickly relaxed into it. “You alright?”

“Been a long time since I had a hug is all.”

“You need one, just come to me,” you said. You sat back and he smiled. “So. Let’s go do something fun. You look like you could use it.”

“Night,” murmured Dean as he kissed you at your doorstep that evening.

“Night,” you said, not moving away from him just yet. His ears perked up and he forced himself away. “Trouble?”

“Yeah. Nothing major. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Bye Dean,” you said, watching him take off running far faster than any human man could. You smiled as you locked up, a loud thud coming from your kitchen. You unlocked the door and looked around. “Hello?”

“For such a nice house you have an incredibly small kitchen,” said Butcher as he walked out with the bottle of your nicest bourbon.

“Oh come on, that was a housewarming present,” you said.

“I swipe you some more,” he said, taking a long swig. “How’s it going?”

“Good. We got close today but Butcher you seriously can not come back here again. Dean was this close to coming inside tonight.”

“Dean. I thought he was Solider Boy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You want to wind up like his last broad did? You give him the puppy dog eyes and then we make a move,” he said.

“I’m starting to think we might get further with sugar over spice. Billy he wants to make up for his past. If he gets into The Seven he could be a serious asset.”

“Are you going soft on me?” he asked, an edge in his voice. 

“Let me work him the way I know best. Trust me,” you said.

“Don’t forget what this is for. You call when you’re ready,” he said. “Don’t take too long.”

He left out the back and you sighed, running your hands over your face. Sure, Dean had done some bad things in the past but who hadn’t? He wasn’t playing you, he had no reason to. The part of you that wanted revenge was still there but he didn’t cause your brother to die, not really. He was simply a prime target at the moment.

You swallowed and went to the kitchen, taking the bottle of alcohol to the family room. You sat on the couch and took a swig, letting it burn your throat.

You didn’t want him to get hurt. You liked him. A lot. Maybe you could convince him to go away, be someplace safer. Your head turned when you got a text, the alert saying it was from Dean and him asking you if you wanted to get out of the city and go hiking tomorrow.

Maybe that’d be a good time to tell him the truth. He was bound to find out eventually and if he got mad, at least you’d be the only one in danger. Billy’s voice was at the back of your head but you ignored it. He’d been angry for too long, couldn’t see the good in people anymore. Dean wasn’t what you thought he was at first. He was good deep down.

You’d tell Solider Boy the truth tomorrow and hoped you lived to see the next day.

______

A/N: Read the Final Part here!

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 1 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 1 - Dean I

           “Cas?”

           Dean waited, watching Cas’s lips. He waited for his name to be spoken, said in that same mixture of fondness and exasperation and gravel that ticked the tempo of his heart up a notch. He waited for his angel to smile, then tell Dean that he’s fine; that it wasn’t more than a scratch, that he’s still here.

           Any minute now.

           “…Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded scratchy, raw, like a needle ripped through a spinning record. He blinked back his tears, embarrassed, because Cas might wake soon and see him break, see him not be strong enough. His gaze broke from Cas’s bluing lips, staring at the starless sky above. He saw night begin its transition to early morning, a sun sliver dipping into the horizon, and wondered how long Cas will play with him like this. How long will Cas pretend to lie there? How long will Cas insist that he’s –

           “Cas!” Even with the extra help from gravity, Dean couldn’t stop the pinprick tears tracing their way down to his ears, wetness setting his skin aflame. He choked on a sob, the rubber band of his body snapping and recoiling into itself. His shoulders shook. He squeezed tight to his stomach. Dean closed his eyes, but inside that shuttered darkness was Cas, emerging from the portal. Cas with the blade in his hand. Cas with a blade, poking out his chest. “Oh… oh, God…”

           He’s really gone. He’s gone and Dean hurt. Dean hurt so much.

           Dean cracked one eye open, then another. In his periphery, he saw the tips of Cas’s limp fingers lying in the dirt along with the rest of his body.

           It was something he has wanted to do for some time now. Dean noticed what happens halfway into its journey, his trembling hand hovering over Cas’s. He lowered it cautiously. When there’s barely an inch of space separating his middle finger from Cas’s knuckles, Dean stopped. Dean couldn’t close that final gap. He stared at the emptiness between them, small but terrifyingly infinite, and was frozen in terror.

           “Dean!”

           Sam’s call stirred him from that horrid trance, urgency reminding Dean of all else that happened. Of Crowley’s sacrifice, of the portal closing, of mom on the other side; those events crashed into him like a terrible wave, washing him out into a roaring sea that denied him any sense or reason. Standing, legs ready to give out on him at any moment, Dean stumbled towards where he last heard his brother.

           He forgot about the steps. Sam caught him, guiding him past the threshold and into the cabin with lumbering haste. Dean’s vision returned to him soon, though. He drew Sam further to his side, for a loose hug, then shoved his brother’s oafish frame off of him. Dean supported himself using the wall instead. “What?” he asked, growling, “What is it?”

           Sam tried to speak but got cutoff by a shrill cry coming from another room. Sam shrugged, jerking his head to where, Dean guesses, the crying originated. He’d also take a stab at who’s responsible for crying, too.

           Kelly’s son. Lucifer’s son. The whole damned reason Dean’s life lay shattered in the clearing out back.

           Hearing those whines and sobs rattle the cabin’s chilly silence helped harden what remained of his heart, enough so that the baby’s shrieking echoed in the hollow chambers of Dean’s chest. It made what he must ask next much easier. “You didn’t kill him yet?”

           Sam visibly startled, jaw clenched that familiar way Dean knows meant an argument brewed within; his brother’s puppy dog features deceived, hiding his true feelings. Again, as Sam readied to speak, the baby took his cue and interrupted with a damning wail. Sam pressed his lips into a thin, mangled line while he waited his turn.

           A minute passed, and it’s doubtful the little guy would lose steam soon. Dean sighed. He pushed off the wall, passing Sam as he followed the noisy little bastard. Sam stayed right behind him, heavy footsteps and chiding tone mixing with the crying to shred Dean’s nerves into oblivion. “You are not doing this, Dean,” Sam hissed, tugging on his elbow, “we need to talk about it first –“

           “Who can talk over all this racket!” He wrenched his arm free, storming into the baby’s nursery while Sam dawdled under the doorframe. Their entrance meant little to the newborn, who continued crying despite their entrance. “And I’m not killing him –“ he kept his yet stored in the barrel of his mouth, unfired, conscious of how it will be received in the moment – “gonna shut him up for a while, s’all…” Dean punctuated his claim by grabbing the baby, Jack if the painted name on the crib meant anything, and tucking him into the crook of his arm. He bounced him like he did Sam decades ago, like he would for any normal baby, cooing sweet nothing that tumbled out of him as if they were sand in a broken hourglass, shards mixed within. Dean spied a rocking chair in the corner and, with Sam’s piercing gaze studying him, Dean collapsed into it.

           That seemed to work. Dean’s gentle rocking, paired with a hummed lullaby cherrypicked from his past, put the hellion in his arms at ease. Jack stared up, transfixed by what Dean guessed is the tall lamp casting a gentle glow on them both; a lamp Sam, now in the room and by his side, flicked on after Dean sat down. It must be the center of his focus, because Dean wouldn’t believe the baby looked at him like he did; like he’s a bright and beautiful thing, deserving of attention, of being the center of his known universe. He didn’t want that, especially from him.

           Dean swallowed a curse and ended their contest, sure if he looked into the baby’s eyes any longer, he would damn the consequences and wring the life from this tiny body nestled in his hands. He waited for Jack’s fit to tamper lower and lower, rising only after a moment of uninterrupted silence. Dean carried Jack back, returning him to his crib. He added another mistake into the column of ever-increasing errors and glanced at Lucifer’s kid a final time. He examined him, searching for little horns or a tail or tattoos of sixes; he found nothing. Nothing that proved he’s more than a child, innocent and carefree.

           Sam hung by his shoulder, buzzing halo bothersome in Dean’s ear. “I think he likes you.”

           Dean huffed under breath, “I wish I could say the same.”

           He left. Sam trailed in his wake; tread heavy from being constipated with a smug righteousness Dean dreaded will be shat all over him when Sam had the chance. He was silent until the kitchen, then Sam struck. “His mother just died, Dean.”

           Dean shrugged, “So did ours.” He expected that to feel weird saying, but it hadn’t. Sam gaped at him, like it had. Maybe Dean’s in shock. Maybe he was too used to having a dead mom. Dean carried on regardless. “If you think a sob story’s gonna convince me of anything, try hitting me when the kids got enough pages to fill a book larger than Moby Dick’s, or ours. Right now, he’s a table of contents and not much else.”

           “Exactly,” Sam needled, poking Dean’s chest. Dean swat him away with the refrigerator door, creating a makeshift barrier to protect himself from Sam’s crusade. He dug around for something to drink, something boozy, as Sam prattled. “Look, Dean, we… I know our thing is – our thing is killing monsters but, Dean, he’s a baby. He – he didn’t do anything –“

           “He was conceived,” Dean said, “that’s enough for me.” His groping fingers pushed aside the carton of milk for a third time; he still couldn’t find the beer.

           “That wasn’t his fault.” Sam rested his hand over Dean’s where it rested on the refrigerator door, pleading for Dean to look at him by touch alone. Dean relented, darting his eyes for a fleeting glance. Sam’s brows were drawn in like a steep hill, and he appeared absolutely ghastly because of the refrigerator’s light. Dean fell back to his mission. “Lucifer… he set this in motion, and we’ve dealt with him.”

           “And what did it cost us?”

           Sam sighed. “Everyone we lost knew what this was about,” he told Dean, “knew how it might end. They were ready to risk their lives for this.”

           “We were here to take down Lucifer, end of story,” Dean spat, knocking items onto the floor in his fervor. He tore through like a whirlwind, throwing food everywhere. Eggs, lettuce, ketchup and pickles – no beer though. Dammit. “And with the kid kicking, we haven’t even finished our mission.”

           “Jack is not Lucifer!” Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist, begging for more attention. Dean’s spiteful, rigid glare burned a hole in the back of the fridge. He refused to move even an inch. “He’s a baby, and we… we kill monsters. We kill the ones who have no chance of being saved. He was just born, Dean. He had no choice in that.”

           “Who’s to say that he won’t choose to be a monster, once he’s old enough?”

           Sam strangled his wrist, now, Dean’s fingers numbing because of his brother’s impassioned grip. “We’ll make sure. We’ll raise him right.”

           This drew Dean out of the refrigerator. “We?” he laughed, bitterness churning in his gut. “We, really? You think…” Dean didn’t finish, speechless at the insanity Sam presented. He and Sam, raising Lucifer’s kid? He and Sam, sheltering the baby who ruined their lives? He and Sam… “I hate to break it to you, Sammy,” he continued, his voice returning, “but this ain’t the nineties. We can’t have it all, clearly. And we are not taking that kid in like some muddy stray.”

           “Cas wanted to raise him.”

           Dean gagged. The toxic rush of seconds ago disappeared, spilling out from the seam Sam pulled loose.

           Sam, at least, was aware enough to briefly mime an apology. His face contorted into a pained expression, exaggerated to better mangle his earlier fury. However, that’s smoothed and replaced with sterner features as he detached himself from his words, and the ugliness that they inspired. He stood tall, committed to the outburst, and from the curl of his scowl, Dean wouldn’t expect him to take back what’s been said. It will linger like the other ghosts.

           If that was how he wanted to do this.

           “Sure,” Dean agreed, “and that got him what, exactly?” He slammed the refrigerator door, startling both of them and the baby. Jack’s wailing picked up where he left off, although sharper and more annoying. Dean pushed into Sam, instinct urging him to soothe like he did earlier. Dean stopped himself, hesitating. He spun on his heel, leaving where he came in.

           Sam shouted, “You can’t just run away Dean!”

           “I’m getting some air, is all!” he yelled back, ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

           A terrifying gust rammed into him almost immediately, giving him the very air he craved. Then, a second wind blows in the opposite direction; stealing his breath as his gaze landed on the body of his angel, immobile, with black skid marks in a shoddy recreation of what might be wings splayed beside him like oddly bent branches. Dean blindly descended, too focused with Cas’s form than the stairs. When his feet reached solid, uneven ground, Dean slowed to a glacial pace. Cas didn’t react.

           Dean tried not to, too. Hand at his cheek, wiping some more stray tears, Dean failed.

           He ripped himself away, jogging from the backyard space towards the front where his true escape was. Dean white knuckled his keys, jagged teeth biting into the palm of his hand. Pain kept him from spiraling, from thinking, from staying there. And when he couldn’t use pain, key nestled in the ignition instead of his hand, Dean had the next best thing – open roads.

           The engine roared, overpowering the blood rushing past his ears. Dean demolished the speed limit easily, bulleting across the asphalt, pedal his trigger. It’s early enough he needn’t worry about highway patrolmen or wayward pedestrians. He drove fast, loose, and recklessly. Fuck Vin Diesel, Dean thought. Vin had nothing on him.

           Kelly’s cabin was a blurry spot in his rearview mirror, a speck he might scratch off with his nail if he pleased. Trees became indistinguishable from each other. Not that it mattered, Dean’s tunnel vision blocking his periphery. His eyes remained fixed ahead of him, uncharacteristically so. It took most his focus to keep like that, hands cramping on the wheel from throttling it. He counted dash after dash and tallied potholes as he hit them, stuffing his mind with senseless figures other than the lone one he abandoned in the field.

           Soon, Dean reached a nearby town. The greenery became sparser, leaves and wood replaced by buildings and city blocks and lampposts and streetlights. He hit his first light, a blip of red flashing for attention. Thoughtlessly, Dean flattened his foot against the brake; Baby’s tires squealing as she fought momentum. Dean knocked against his dashboard from the force, falling back only after his car fully stopped. He couldn’t see the streetlight dangling above. Dean knew he sat over the line, his Baby’s hood hanging in the intersection, asking for an accident.

           A second later, and what he was driving from caught up to him.

           Dean gasped, curling in on himself, hands glued to the wheel. His body seized with sobs that bruise, each tremor punching his gut. He used what little strength he had and glanced at his reflection. That speck on his rearview, that he foolishly clawed at, didn’t disappear; it was caught in his bloodshot eyes.

           He couldn’t continue driving like this.

           Red light, green light, it didn’t matter now. Dean crawled along to the nearest lot that belonged to a tacky chain eatery. Parking inside, Dean threw his car door open and spilled free of his Baby. He fell to his knees, hissing, denim ripping on impact and gravel scratching his skin. Dean staggered to his feet. Blood trickled down his leg from the open wound on his knee. He walked forward, dazed, while Baby idled at an angle, keys trapped in her ignition. If it were later in the day, someone might steal her. If Dean were acting like himself, he might care.

           He didn’t go far. Dean slowed as he approached the fast-food joint, stopping inches from the backdoor. His bottom lip wobbled, Dean raking his hair with twitching fingers. He stared at the door, at the wooden sign hanging by a single, rusted nail. It depicted a stereotypical pirate, with hat, beard, and eyepatch, painted on a blue background and encircled by cartoonish rope that framed this pirate’s face along with an oblong addition underneath of the word ‘BUCCANEERS’. The pirate glared ahead, at some far point, as if Dean weren’t there blocking it.

           But he was. Dean was here, while everyone else – everyone he cared about…

           “Why me?” he muttered, “Why’s it always… why do I have to deal with it, with the after, with picking up the pieces of someone else’s mess.” Dean growled, head bowed, eyes unflinchingly locked with the pirate’s. “Mom… Crowley… Ca” – he stuttered on his name, wounds still too fresh – “you’re gonna bring him back. You’re gonna bring them all back. After everything I’ve done for this shithole, that I’ve been through, it’s the least that I’m owed. I deserve to… I – I don’t deserve this.”

           The pirate ignored his pleas, it couldn’t answer him. And Chuck, apparently, wouldn’t answer him.

           “…Okay.”

           Dean launched himself at the pirate, picturing a brown beard instead of black, and a grayish blue eye where a black one was painted. He smashed it with one punch, face splintering and spraying everywhere. Dean continued wrecking it, nearly destroying the door in his fury. Aiming a final blow, Dean hit the sign off the nail and sent it flying from view.

           Exhausted, knuckles as bloody as his knee, Dean collapsed near the stacked crates and leaning pallets.

           A shudder traveled across his body, from the top of his head, dragged along each vertebra like a sharp, clawed finger, and finally making his legs seize and stretch out in front of him. Dean vacuumed in a deep breath, chest ballooning to contain it. He won’t release it willingly.

           “Dude…”

           Coughing, Dean glanced up at some teenager standing nearby, gaping at the scene. He wore a large brown jacket a shade lighter than his skin over a deep blue polo that matches the visor currently worn like a headband, so his bangs wouldn’t  his face. A ring of keys dangled in his hands. Keys that, Dean guessed, were for opening the very door he pummeled as if it were a punching bag.

           “Hey, man,” the teen asked, glancing between Dean and the wrecked door, “are you… like, good? Do I need to call someone?”

           A repairman. The teen’s manager. Neither would do Dean any good, but both will need to know about the damage he did to the property.

           Dean groaned, climbing to his feet. He swayed with the breeze, a lone willow in this blacktop clearing. Some of the blood from his knuckles drippled like morning dew would off its leaves. He advanced, the teen tensing as he moves closer. Their shoulders brushed, the younger of the two stumbling back a few inches, cowering in Dean’s presence. Dean thought he should say something, let him know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

           That felt like too much of a damned lie, so he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down.

           He returned to his car, starting it like nothing happened, like his skin hadn’t torn and tears weren’t drying on his cheeks as he refused to wipe them off. Dean tapped the pedal and drove off. He drove the same path he took earlier, only in reverse. He drove to Kelly’s cabin, and all that waited for him there.

           Dean parked sloppily, again; however, pocketing his keys this time as he left Baby. He didn’t acknowledge the front door, shuffling into the backyard for another glimpse of Cas’s body.

           Cas was gone. His wings were still there, and Sam was, too.

           Sam dropped a stack of branches onto a large pile he must have begun gathering after Dean fled. He rubbed at his neck, steadily avoiding where Dean’s gaze was by looking at the pile. “I moved him,” he explained, “I figured we might as well start on the… on the pyres for him, and Kelly.” Sam paused. He grabbed a lone branch, snapping a twig from it. “I didn’t do anything else. Figured you would want to…”

           “Yeah.” Dean blinked, then imagined the shadows burnt into the ground rising and rising, flapping determinately, until they vanished. He blinked. Those wings hadn’t moved an inch.

           Dean headed into the cabin.

           He spied Cas’s body immediately, laid atop the kitchen table. Sam rearranged him during transit, closing his eyes and setting Cas’s arms at his sides. If he weren’t thinking about it constantly, weren’t reminded of Cas’s current state with every beat of his own heart, Dean might believe Cas was asleep. Or, at the very least, imitating it, since angels can’t sleep. They can’t eat. There’s a lot they can’t do. And Cas won’t ever not do any of that, not anymore.

           Sighing, Dean circled the table while tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. He reached the other side, where a gauzy pair of curtains hung. Dean swung his arm outward, going through the motions to free them. It’s quick work.

           Wrapping Cas with these curtains will take a lifetime.

            Dean started by lifting Cas’s head and slipping a strip underneath. He cradled him, unnaturally soft tufts of hair tickling his fingers. Holding Cas in such a manner encouraged further action, tempted Dean to do more. He succumbed to these voices, the fast few hours since they last sung weakened his resolve. Dean ran his bloodied knuckles across Cas’s face. He stained deathly pale skin red. He hissed, stubble like sandpaper against his cuts. He left no wrinkle untouched.

           Finally, Dean switched to his thumb and pressed it just below Cas’s lips.

           It’s maddening, touching Cas like this, like he always wanted. He dreamt of being able to for longer than he could remember. Daydreams and fantasies of Dean, curled into Cas’s side, leisurely and lovingly memorizing every inch of the other’s face. Those moments were always pretend, too human to ever be real, to expect from an angel like Cas. Now, as his thumb swept along the bow of Cas’s lips, Dean paid his respects to the thousands of imagined mornings and nights that would not be. Dean worshiped Cas in a way he never wanted to, but in the only way he’d ever be allowed to.

           “I’m sorry…” Dean placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. Then, unable to bear looking at him, he wrapped the curtain over his face.

           He shrouded the rest of Cas’s body with military precision, robotically completing his ritual. Dean hovered at his side, tightly clutching the final knot in Cas’s wrappings. His head hung listlessly, the foundations of a prayer forming on his tongue. He gnashed his teeth together, smashing it, and the sentiment’s remains tumbled backwards. It ripped apart his insides like glass. The only person who would listen, who’d care, who might heal this hurt, couldn’t.

           Cas was –

           Dean let go, marching into the backyard. Silently Dean joined Sam, amassing wood in his stead while Sam assembled the pyres.

           Together, they completed their duties by sundown. It might have been sooner if Sam didn’t slack off to play nursemaid to Lucifer’s kid. He ran off at the slightest bit of static coming from the garish, incongruently colored baby monitor clipped onto his belt loop, dragging their duties out because of intermittent breaks. When they finally set Cas and Kelly on their respective pyres, the sky darkened to the same shade it was that they lost both of them.

           Dean handled the fire. He struck two matches from a box buried in a kitchen drawer, then tossed them into the kindling. Sam, meanwhile, held a very fussy baby that showed no respect for ceremony. His piercing shrieks rung out clearly, somehow amplified by the open space. And as Jack’s cries mixed with the roar and crackle of flames, along with Sam mindlessly grunting back in a desperate plea for Jack to stop, Dean gave in. He stole Jack from Sam, nestling the baby against his chest.

           His temper lessened while in Dean’s arms, and Jack soon quieted.

           Dean felt Sam’s stare on his profile once more, an uncomfortable heat much different than what radiated from the cremating bodies before them. He hated it, being gawked at like some zoo animal. Yet Dean refused to turn, to bark at Sam that this momentary lapse meant nothing.

           He’s only exhausted. Too tired to shutter the devastation on his face, every crack of Dean’s heart was on full display. He’s not in the mood to fight with Sam, either, aware he needed him more than he needed to lash out. He’s broken and couldn’t even manage the energy to toss Jack into the fires like he imagined himself doing.

           Instead, Dean embraced him. He watched the smoke of his angel’s body drift upwards, Cas leaving him for good, forever, and rested his chin against the small, soft head of Cas’s destroyer.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

[incorrectbatfam]

hi! i’m really new to the dc universe and all the comics and characters.. i saw you wrote some descriptions on some of them, but was wondering if you could like dumb down like all of the (main) ones? thank you!

Original posts with Carrie Kelley, Cassandra Cain, Harper Row, and Duke Thomas

I’m just gonna cover the Batfamily since…it’s kind of what I do. As usual, we ignore the Bad Canon™

First we got the big bad Bats himself, Wayne Enterprises CEO Bruce Wayne. His grimdark nature is largely fueled by his parents’ deaths when he was eight (they got shot in an alley while he survived). He made it his mission to protect Gotham City from crime, and in doing so acquired a bunch of people in what we know at the Batfamily. Besides that, he’s also part of the original Justice League and he’s got like ninety years of canon to pick and choose from

Next we have Dick Grayson, oldest of the batkids. He was raised in Haly’s Circus and performed trapeze acts with his parents, John and Mary Grayson. While in Gotham, a crime boss tampered with their ropes and John and Mary fell to their deaths. Bruce took him in and trained him to be the first Robin. After a while they drifted apart and Dick rebranded himself as Nightwing and became leader of the OG Teen Titans. He also became a cop, Agent 37, and a Talon and maybe a few other things but for the most part he’s remembered as Nightwing

Jason Todd is the second Robin (and the last one without pants). He grew up in Gotham’s Crime Alley to a POS father and addict mother and was adopted by Bruce after trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile. He was killed by the Joker in his teens, only to be resurrected by the League of Assassins via the Lazarus Pit. After that, he became the crime boss and gunslinging anti-hero Red Hood because he believed his methods were better than Batman’s no-kill one. He also formed the Outlaws with old Titans members such as Starfire and Arsenal

Our third bat child is Tim Drake, AKA Red Robin, son of Gotham elite Jack and Janet Drake. Tim was a genius kid (and a bit stalkerish) from the start, able to deduce Batman and others’ identities and figuring out that the late Jason Todd was Robin. He demanded to be Robin, saying that Batman needed a partner. He was part of the Titans but is more known for his Young Justice team. Later Tim rebrands as Red Robin because Dick (as Batman) gave the Robin title to the little demon that’s coming up later

Next we got Stephanie Brown, daughter of a POS mother and the villain Cluemaster. She’s most notably known as Spoiler, the name coming from spoiling her own father’s evil schemes. She becomes Batman’s fourth Robin (don’t care what dudebros say) but dies after a couple weeks on the field. After some timeline alterations or whatever, she comes back to life. I’m not sure where her Batgirl storyline fits in that chronology but…yeah. Again, mainly known as Spoiler and often fights alongside Tim

Our fifth and youngest Robin (still goes by that) is Damian Wayne, a test tube baby of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul, raised by the League of Assassin to be a living weapon and heir to Ra’s Al Ghul’s legacy. Talia dropped him off with Bruce and he trained under both his father and Dick Grayson as Robin. He was killed by Talia’s clone but brought back to life by Bruce on Apokolips. Damian also secured a spot as a Teen Titans leader and is most well-known for being one of the two Super Sons alongside Jon Kent

Barbara Gordon, AKA Batgirl and Oracle, is the daughter of GCPD police chief Jim Gordon. She went behind his back and trained herself to be a vigilante, donning the Bat symbol as Batgirl and fighting crime alongside the Bats. She’s paralyzed waist-down after getting shot by the Joker and is now wheelchair bound (we ignore the ableist canon that undoes that). She’s now a computer whiz who provides intel to her teammates under the codename Oracle

Katherine “Kate” Kane is another wealthy Gothamite who was inspired by Batman to join the fight against crime. Her mother and sister were killed by terrorists so she was raised by her single father. She was a cadet at West Point and was an ace student until her final year, where she had to come out as a lesbian and expelled under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. She went through a period of  self-medication and even ended up on a desert island before returning to Gotham and channeling her energy into the Batwoman we know today

Alfred Pennyworth (formerly Alfred Beagle) is the badass surrogate father/grandfather to this entire crew. A retired British intelligence agent, he followed his father’s footsteps of serving the Wayne family. Alfred raised Bruce following Thomas and Martha Wayne’s deaths and plays a major role in assisting the Batfamily in her hero business from within the Batcave. He also has a long lost daughter, another secret agent named Julia Pennyworth.

[thenightling]

In defense of Tom Sturridge (Already!?)

Apparently Tom Sturridge needs defending from our own meager fandom... already...

Disclaimer:  Though it is looking more and more likely that Tom Sturridge has the role of Morpheus in Netflix’s Adaptation of The Sandman this has still NOT been confirmed.   We are still riding on pure speculation.  However, I will defend the man.

Though it is not officially confirmed that Tom Sturridge will be playing Morpheus in The Sandman there are already people in the fandom complaining about the casting. (See the Neil Gaiman’s Sandman Facebook group.  The one with over three-thousand-members that I left.)  

In this post I will be addressing each and every complaint that I have seen thus far.   

And you wonder why they’re keeping the cast a secret from us for so long?  This.  This behavior would actually be worse if you knew for certain who was in the cast.  

When these negative reactions are in regard to who “might” be playing Morpheus, without any actual footage, or even images of him in character, they were wise to keep it a secret from us.

Now, let us begin.

1.   “He looks too much like Robert Pattinson.”  The hatred of Robert Pattinson is bizarre and irrational.  It is as if a great deal of the population cannot separate him from a character they despise.  The irony is Robert Pattinson never liked playing Edward Cullen anyway.  He did it strictly for the money.  And as far as vampire fiction goes, there is far, far, worse out there than Twilight.  Twilight is not good but there is worse out there.  It seems the hatred of Twilight is almost a knee-jerk reaction- a compulsive raw contempt against anything that appeals to teenage girls.  I do not like Twilight but I do not irrationally hate an actor just because he was in the films.  So what if Tom Sturridge resembles Robert Pattinson a bit?  You’ll condemn an actor because of his bone structure?  Because he “Kind of” reminds you of a man who played a character you don’t like?  Really?  I thought most of this fandom were grown ups.

2. “He’s too young to play Morpheus.”    The casting call was for men between the ages of twenty six and thirty six.  Tom Sturridge turns thirty-six this year.   It’s true that a man in his forties or even a youthful fifties could probably play Morpheus perfectly well and Morpheus did have crows-feet wrinkles in the first issue but to condemn an actor based on his age is merely ageism.  In this day and age a man can look any age with the right makeup.  Look at the lead in the silent film of Faust, directed by F. W. Murnau (Director of Nosferatu).   It’s impressive to know a thirty-six-year-old played elderly and youthful Faust in that film, and that was back in 1926.

3.   “He’s too old to play Morpheus.”  ...Seriously?   What did you want?  A CW teenager or early twenty-something college kid as the ten-billion-year-old dream lord?  Yet again, I know a man can pretty much play any age with the right makeup.  All else is ageism, even my cynical statement about the CW, that’s ageism.  

When Lestat the musical was on Broadway the actor who played Lestat was forty, the woman playing his mother was only about two years older than him.  

The actor playing Barnabas in the original Dark Shadows was in his forties.  The character was (According to Dan Curtis) only twenty-five when he became a vampire.  The woman playing his mother was only five-years-older than him.  

Tom Welling was still in Smallville as pre-Superman Clark Kent and he was older than the actor who played Superman in Superman Returns.  With good acting and makeup age doesn’t really matter.        

4.   “He’s a terrible actor.”    The man has about ten acting credits in total according to IMDB.  Most are bit parts and two are from when he was ten and eleven-years-old respectively.  

Are you judging him on roles he had before he hit puberty!? 

I have my doubts you ever saw him act in anything yet.  You’re probably leaping to conclusions because the pictures you found of him are a stoic pretty boy with beard stubble.

5.  “If he’s playing Morpheus that’s automatically a deal breaker.  I’m not watching.”   Okay.  Okay, fine. Don’t watch it.   You don’t have to.  No one is making you watch it.  However, you should be aware that Neil Gaiman watched the auditions.  He had a say in the casting.  If Tom Sturridge is playing him than this is the man HE chose. If Neil Gaiman doesn’t know who should play Morpheus, than no one does.  I thought James McAvoy did an excellent job in The Sandman audio drama and I will not automatically assume Tom Sturridge is a bad actor just because there are people pre-determined to hate this.

6.  “He shouldn’t be played by a white man.  It indicates that The Endless are all white and white people rule the universe.”   Morpheus likely will still have his bone-white (not human-white) skin from the comics (and I hope, the black void eyes with star pupils).  This was pulled off successfully with the Frankenstein monster in Penny Dreadful, with his own inhuman skin and yellow eyes.   

Morpheus’ bone-white skin, improbably thin build, and black void eyes are supposed to be without distinct race.  He’s not a human being. He’s not Caucasian.   He might be played by a white man, yes, but the actor was chosen based on talent, not racial background.  

I saw the casting description. Race was not a factor.  Since actual non-human / humanoid entities devoid of distinct racial background were unavailable, the show simply had to make do with a human being, instead.  The real Endless were unavailable or refuse to act.  You know how temperamental anthropomorphic personifications can be.    

7.   “He’s not thin enough.”   Okay, look. A lot can be done with CG.   I don’t want an actor killing himself for this role. 

Back in 1976 David Bowie was close to ninety-pounds when playing Thomas Jerome Newton in The Man who fell to Earth.  He was so under-weight that the wardrobe department had to buy his clothes in the children’s department of a store.  Yes, the character was really that thin in the Walter Tevis novel that the movie was based on.  But in the book Newton had hollow bones, like a bird, David Bowie, however, is a human being, not an alien.  And Tom Sturridge is a human being, not an anthropomorphic personification.  

When David Bowie played Newton he was on a diet mostly consisting of cocaine...  He could have easily died.  Thankfully Bowie cleaned up later, but he was not in a healthy state when he was in The man who fell to Earth.  We do not need a return of The Thin White Duke.  Not like that.

For a human to reach Morpheus’ comic book weight- that might require very unhealthy behavior, it would potentially be dangerous.  This is something they can adjust with camera tricks and computer effects.  He does not need to look like he’s dying. 

8.   “They should find an actor whose cheekbones stand out.”   See above...

9.    “He doesn’t look anything like Morpheus.”   I am certain you have not seen him in costume yet.  Neil Gaiman has (hypothetically speaking).   Let us trust the author and believe that his character looks the way he intended.    Remember how Henry Cavill went from Superman to The Witcher.

 10.   “I wanted Henry Cavill to play him.”   ... What?   

Have you... have you read Sandman?   Henry Cavill is under contract to do The Witcher.   He needs to stay buff for that role, and you want him to play “rake thin” Morpheus?  Yeah, a lot can be done with CG but Henry is an action hero actor.  He can act.  He’s a good actor.   But this is probably not the right role for Henry Cavill.

11.   “He looks like an American Youtuber.” He’s not either of those things.  Stop judging by appearances.   

12.  “He’s too pretty to play Morpheus.”   Stop judging by appearances.

13.  “He’s not attractive enough to play Morpheus.”  See above... 

14.  “He’s too short to play Morpheus.”  / “I heard he’s only five foot three.” / “I read that he’s just five foot eight.”    According to Google and IMDB he’s 5′10.  That’s the same height David Bowie was.  That’s average adult male height.  If they want him to look taller that’s easily done. Remember, Tom Cruise was The Vampire Lestat.  

It’s just lather, rinse, repeat, when it comes to fans.  Every adaptation the same thing.   “Tom Cruise can’t play Lestat.” (Anne Rice apologized for leading that charge, when she saw him in action).   Or “Michael Keaton is too wholesome to play Batman.”  or even “Ryan Reynolds should never play Deadpool after what he did in Wolverine.”  

People never learn.

Just give Tom Sturridge a chance. The casting isn’t even official yet.   And if he is Morpheus- try and wait to actually see how he plays the role before you decide he’s the worst thing to happen to The Sandman.  A few publicity photos don’t tell you what he is capable of as an actor.   You might be pleasantly surprised. 

[fruit-teeth]

Matters of Time and Fate (Chapter 21)

The clock up on the office wall ticked in a slow, repetitive rhythm as Joann’s heels tapped against the floor. As she stared at the door to the backroom, she could hear Phoenix Sage inside, no doubt making himself presentable.

Finally, the door opened, and he emerged: dressed in a clean suit, blonde hair combed back, and with the gold watch still hugging his slender wrist. Phoenix gave Joann a nod as he sat down at his desk, just a few feet across the room from where she stood.

Joann took a shaky breath, stepping closer. “Sir – can you tell me what’s going on? You said you were declaring war on Mann Co., but you’ve invited…” she shuddered. “You’ve invited those…bounty hunters here. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you had them here?”

Phoenix scoffed, laying out a few folders onto the desk. “Please. That situation was completely different. Now, they won’t kill our target, I only need her brought to me,”

“I’m not sure I trust them,” Joann advised. “Sir, you have to understand that—”

Before she could finish, the buzzer rang outside. Phoenix looked up, and he called out, “Come in!”

The door opened, and in they came, one by one: nine people, dressed in dark clothing, with symbols printed on their clothing. Their presence filled the office immediately, causing Joann to shrink back towards the wall.

Phoenix grinned at the sight of them, approaching with his hands clasped together. “My friends! How lovely it is to see you again!”

The leader of the group, a burly bearded man, crossed his arms and moved to meet Phoenix in the center of the room. “Sage: was there a reason you couldn’t just phone us this target? Explain to me how you had to call us out here at this time of night. With all due respect, we’re busy people.”

“Oh, Rust, Rust, my dear man,” Phoenix shook his head with a chuckle. “That’s because this is a different job. For this job, the target must be brought to me alive.”

Another man, this one skinny with bug-like eyes, piped up, “Alive!? Man, what do you think it is we do!?”

“Shut up, Grudge!” Rust snapped at the skinny man. He turned back to Phoenix and looked him up and down. “What’s the deal, then? You got a union organizer you want us to go after? Someone who needs to sign something?”

“Not quite,” Phoenix turned out, pulling out some photos from one of the folders. “Are you familiar with a man named ‘Gray Mann’?”

“Yeah,” a woman with shark-like teeth answered. “He died, right?”

“Yes,” Phoenix confirmed, and he held out the picture for them to see. “His daughter is still alive. I need you to find her and bring her to me – this is where she was last seen in public, at a shopping center. She was accompanied by men who are believed to be the mercenaries of Mann Co.”

As Rust took the picture to get a better look at it, Grudge asked, “A lil’ kid? Man, I don’t know about this…”

A short but muscular woman grunted, “Fuck them kids. How much are we getting paid?”

“How’s ninety grand sound to you?” Phoenix offered. “Reasonable?”

“Reasonable.” Rust agreed, glancing to each of his teammates’ faces for confirmation. “We will do our best to bring her back in one piece.”

“See to it that you do,” Phoenix nodded, passing the folders to Rust. “I never thought I would see myself turning to a ransom situation, but…when push comes to shove, you understand?”

As Phoenix briefed the bounty hunters with extra details, Joann stood towards the back, watching with discomfort in her eyes. Phoenix was in too deep, but she couldn’t stop him, now.

At the same time, in the attic bedroom of the townhouse, Olivia had gone to bed for the night. She laid there, curled up in the quilt with her stuffed cat cuddled beside her, yet it was in this state that she began to dream.

Olivia saw herself walking through the long, winding hallways of a strange building. Harsh lights flashed from above, but she tried not to look at them as she searched for some sort of way out.

Finally, she came upon a door. She tried the handle, finding that it was unlocked. Upon opening the door, however, the sight of something she hadn’t anticipated faced her.

In a slate-colored office room, seated at a dark wooden desk, was her father. When Olivia locked eyes with him, he stood up, holding his arms out to her.

“Olivia,” he sounded gentle in a way Olivia wasn’t used to. He moved from behind the desk, approaching her.

Olivia stood completely still for a moment, and something in her told her to run away. She pushed the feeling away, though, and went straight to her father’s arms.

The way he hugged her was very business-like, but she welcomed it all the same. She buried her face in his chest, holding him for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, and she felt him brush his hand through her hair.

A long moment of silence passed, but it dissipated when Gray began speaking. “You ran from me last time, Olivia.”

Olivia lifted her head to look at him, her eyes burning with tears. “What?”

He stepped back, breaking the embrace and putting her hands on his shoulders. “The last time I saw you, you ran away.”

“Oh,” Olivia remembered the dream she’d had about him before, and that she had, in fact, run away when she saw him. “I…I’m sorry, daddy, I won’t do it again…”

“No need to apologize,” he assured her, his hands retracting from her. “All I noticed is that you’re losing yourself.”

Olivia wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “What?”

Gray went on. “You’ve become so…passive. So afraid.”

The tears quickly turned to anger, though Olivia bit it back. “I’m not afraid! I’m not afraid of anything!”

“Oh, but you are,” Gray countered. “I can sense it in you, you know: you’re scared of the people who are coming to attack this place.”

“No…” Olivia knew he was right, but she still denied it. She didn’t want to feel small.

“Don’t lie to me,” he reprimanded, though his voice started to get quieter and further away. “Remember yourself.”

Olivia suddenly realized he was fading from her, and she desperately scrambled to try and cling to him. “Daddy!” she shrieked, though her hands only met air. “Daddy, I’m sorry! Come back!”

At that moment, the floor beneath her disappeared, and she tumbled downwards into nothingness. She felt unable to breathe, her gasps for air coming slower and slower, as if she were submerged in some sort of liquid.

The darkness split, revealing a pathway of light, and she struggled towards it, reaching both hands outwards.

Finally, she was out, and she coughed for air as she fell down upon something cold and hard. The darkness was gone, but now the bright light was oppressive, causing her to press her eyes shut.

A pair of big hands grasped her shoulders just as she got up, and she yelped in distress at the unexpected sensation.

“Olivia?”

Olivia could feel her hands shaking as her senses returned. She was in bed still, and the sun was just beginning to rise outside…had she really been dreaming?

She jolted again when someone touched her back, but when she looked up, she let her guard down. It was Medic, and he looked rather concerned.

“What happened?” he wanted to know. “You were shaking in your sleep, I walked by and you seemed so restless…”

“Oh,” Olivia sniffled, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She hugged her arms, before admitting, “I had a bad dream…”

Medic sighed. “Oh, dear. It must have been the fact you ate right before going to sleep, that tends to happen,” he cleared his throat and stood up off the bed. “It’s still early, would you like to go back to sleep?”

Olivia blinked, just as a yawn stopped her from answering for a moment. “Um…” she rubbed her eye again. “Yeah…I’m still tired.”

“All right,” Medic nodded, going to the door. “We will see you in a few hours, then.”

As Medic left, Olivia settled back into bed. Despite her best attempts to tune them out, her father's words echoed in her ears as she clutched her stuffed cat close to her. She was strong, she knew she was…she’d always known it.

She fell asleep again at some point and dreamed another dream, though she didn’t remember this one. When she woke up again, she could hear the sound of the phone ringing downstairs.

Olivia sat up, rubbing her eyes as someone answered the phone. She got up when she heard speaking, and padded down the hallway and into the stairwell. From where she stood, she could see Miss Pauling standing by the wall, the phone’s receiver tucked beneath her chin.

“Hey, Hale,” Pauling greeted. “Yep, it’s me…no, no one’s come around yet. That might just mean Phoenix is biding his time, or that he can’t find us.”

Pauling paused, listening, and Olivia wondered what Saxton could be saying.

“Okay,” Pauling replied after a moment. “Yeah, we’ll call you for back up if anything goes wrong. Okay? Okay. Talk to you later.”

She hung up, and it was then that she noticed Olivia watching. “Oh!” Pauling straightened up, clearing her throat. “Hey, good morning.”

“Good morning.” Olivia greeted back, walking down the stairs. “Are those guys coming to the house?”

“I don’t know,” Pauling confessed. “We haven’t heard any signs of danger or anything yet. Maybe they can’t find this place, but I have no idea.”  

Olivia began to feel uneasy again, her mind going back to the possible danger looming over them. She took a step forward and rooted herself to Miss Pauling's skirt, where she remained for a moment.

Miss Pauling paused, looking down at her in surprise. “Uh…hi? Are you okay?”

Olivia released her grip, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “Um…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Pauling knelt beside her, watching her with concern.

Olivia shifted anxiously from foot to foot, before admitting, “I had a dream about my daddy.”

Miss Pauling took a long breath. “I see…was it a bad dream?”

“Yeah,” Olivia confessed, staring at her feet. She then looked back up at Pauling. “Am I weak?”

“What? No, of course you aren’t weak.” Pauling placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her. “You’ve been really brave this whole time.”

“Have I?” Olivia smiled a little.

“Yeah – I mean, you’ve been through a lot for a kid your age,” Pauling went on. “I can’t even imagine how stressful it must be to just…” she trailed off, before clearing her throat again. “Anyway: come have breakfast, everyone else is in the dining room.”

As Olivia walked in, Scout was in the middle of telling everyone else in the dining room a very animated story.

“So, picture this, right?” Scout took a swig of orange juice before continuing. “My hand is totally stuck in there, my piano teacher is layin’ on the floor screaming, and my ma is knocking at the door like crazy!”

Olivia hoisted herself up on the chair, looking up at Scout, watching how amusing he was when he spoke.

“What then?” Soldier prompted from where he sat, intrigued.

Scout set his glass down. “Then, my teacher takes the vegan chili and wips it all around the kitchen! Floor, ceiling, everywhere – and then she points her bony finger at me and says I have no business playing the piano!”

Spy just rolled his eyes, while Demoman gasped in outrage. “Oh, lord!”

“I know, right!?” Scout shook his head, taking a big bite of eggs. “Anyway, never went back to her again! My brother Joey mailed dead slugs to her house like a week later. Funny stuff.”

Heavy grunted. “Americans. Hm.”

As Engineer noticed Olivia at the table, he passed her a plate of scrambled eggs. “Howdy, Olivia! We got eggs here, there’s potatoes too.”

“Okay,” Olivia accepted the plate, but then she spotted a television in the corner of the room that she hadn't seen before. “What’s that?”

“Oh – yeah, that’s a screen I’m gonna hook up to a new camera,” Engineer explained. “So, we don’t have to be on lookout constantly, we can see what’s going on outside from here.”

Olivia glanced back at the TV. The screen was black for now, but she imagined what it would be like when it was a working security camera. “Shouldn’t we have more cameras so we can see the whole yard?”

“One thing at a time, lass,” Demo assured her patiently. “Besides, Jane and I did a full lookout. No one’s been snooping around here!”

“For now, anyway.” Sniper commented from where he sat, before noticing the look on Olivia’s face. “I mean, uh – everything’s gonna be fine. Trust me, we know what we’re doing.”

Scout reached over, pushing a glass of orange juice in Olivia’s direction. “Yeah! We’ve been doing this for years, kid. Now drink some juice! Like my ma says, it keeps your bones strong, or whatever…” he paused, thinking. “Or was that milk?”

“Milk!” Soldier corrected him. “It’s why my bones are unbreakable!”

Olivia couldn’t help but giggle at the answer, while Medic huffed. “You have broken bones before! You – oh, never mind…”

At this point in the morning, everything seemed to be going all right.

After Olivia finished breakfast, she went upstairs to shower, only to find that someone else was in there. She lay against the shower door for a few moments, listening to the shower sounds and recalling the morning when she slept in the laundry basket while the shower ran. This time, though, something pulled her attention away from the door: down the hallway, she could see that Helen’s bedroom door was wide open.

Olivia pulled herself away from the bathroom door, realizing she hadn’t actually been in Helen’s room before. She checked to make sure no one was around, before slipping in the room quietly.

It was a very tidy room, with a neatly made bed, a well-organized makeup shelf, and old record player in the corner. However, there were a stack of boxes sitting in the corner, something that enticed Olivia’s curiosity right away.

She reached into the box on the top, rooting around until her hand hit something solid. When she pulled it out, she realized it was a very old, framed photograph of a horse. It was a huge, black horse with a white, diamond-shaped marking on the center of its head. A plaque with the name "BLACK IVORY" and other awards could be seen beside the horse. Olivia thought back to the bonfire the night before: Helen had mentioned this horse, how it had been shot for throwing her off. The thought made a nagging, dark pit form in Olivia’s stomach, and she had to put the picture back before the feeling grew worse.

She reached inside again, finding another framed picture. This time, it showed a young man with a beard and a scar on his forehead – something about him seemed very familiar to Olivia, but she couldn’t understand why. He had a very pleasant, gentle face, and she felt comforted just by looking at him. She felt something pinned to the back of the frame as she held it, so she flipped it over to investigate.

On the back sat a note. It was old, though it had been laminated to keep it safe. It read:

For Helen, my darling angelfish –

Always remember me and keep me in your heart. May the rivers of time never separate us, and just know that I will always love you.

With all of my heart,

Your father, Garrett.

Olivia read the note over again, blinking. Helen had a father? Well, she must have had one, obviously: everyone had a father. He called her ‘angelfish’…he really must have loved her, if she had a nickname as nice as that.

As Olivia stared at the portrait of Garrett, she tried to imagine Helen as a little girl. Did Garrett train her for work, too?

Olivia set the portrait back into the box, yet it was then she noticed the box sitting closest to the floor: her name was on it. She stared for a moment, confused – why would Helen have a box with her name?

Now intrigued, Olivia knelt down and reached for the box, beginning to move aside the other boxes so she could just –

“What are you doing!?”

Olivia jolted, head snapping up to see Helen looming above her. Helen had clearly just showered, as her hair was damp and she was in her bathrobe.

There was pause, before Helen repeated herself. “What are you doing? Is this what you do? You snoop around others’ belongings?”

“That box has my name!” Olivia pointed to it, indignant. “My name! See?”

Without warning, Helen scooped Olivia up, carrying her out of her room. “It’s not important! You are not allowed in this room!”

Olivia shrieked, squirming to get away from Helen’s grip. “Stop! Put me down!” When Helen did not comply right away, Olivia turned right around and hissed in her face like an animal.

Helen set her down on the floor, scolding her, “Do not hiss!”

“Do not hiss!” Olivia repeated back to her, mimicking Helen’s voice.

“Oh, you…!” Helen stopped herself, taking a long breath. “I’m going to get dressed, and you are going to calm down. Understood?”

Olivia crossed her arms, scowling. “You’re mean to me!”

Helen’s eye twitched, but she said nothing, rising and storming back into her bedroom. As the door slammed, Olivia stamped her foot in anger, her fists balled in rage. It wasn’t her fault Helen left the door open! If Helen didn’t want anyone in her room, she could have closed the door…Olivia then realized her own door was open, meaning that anyone could walk into her room as well. Maybe it was wrong to sneak in there, to some extent. In any case, she did not care for the way Helen spoke to her.

Right then, someone else walked up the stairs, and Olivia turned around to see Pyro approaching. They greeted her with a little wave, their energy as bouncy as always.

“Hi.” Olivia greeted back, still a little on edge from what had just occurred. She rocked back and forth, trying to soothe herself.

Pyro noticed right away, and they sat down on the floor beside her, tilting their head as if to ask what the matter was. Olivia stared up at their shiny, dark lenses, before clarifying, “I made Helen mad because I went into her room. She yelled at me, and now I’m mad too.”

Pyro took a moment to process this, then mumbled something sympathetically to her while ruffling her hair with affection. They then stood up, gesturing for her to follow them.

Perplexed but fascinated, Olivia followed them down the hallway and into what was obviously Pyro's bedroom. There were a few stuffed animals on the bed, as well as their weapons, such as the axe and a flamethrower. Olivia noticed that having stuffed animals and heavy-duty weapons on the same bed was quite a contrast, but she liked it for some reason.

Pyro opened a small box, retrieving a pad of paper and a handful of colored pencils, and they sat on the floor. Olivia sat beside them, and they gave her a sheet of paper as well as a few of the pencils.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” she wanted to know, looking to Pyro for answers.

Pyro picked up a pencil, getting a paper out and drawing a frowny face. They then scribbled a series of what seemed to be tiny hills next to it with a different colored pencil. Next to that, they drew a happy face.

Olivia thought for a moment, trying to decipher it. “Hills make people happy?”

Mumbling, Pyro shook their head and pointed to the frowny face. They then drew a picture of a little stick figure drawing, and then pointed to the happy face.

It then clicked for Olivia. “Oh! Drawing would help me feel happy?”

Pyro nodded, enthusiastic. They pointed to the colored pencils, and then at Olivia, as if prompting her to draw.

“Okay…I can try.” Olivia picked up a pink colored pencil, beginning to draw. She drew a little flower, and then next to it, her toy cat and rubber duck. Feeling bold, she then drew herself, not really caring what it looked like.

She found that it helped her feel better – something about it was relaxing to her. She added more flowers, feeling herself smile.

Olivia glanced over, seeing that Pyro was still drawing as well. They had drawn two little stick figures side by side, one with a mask on its head, similar to their own, and the other with a bow drawn on its head, much to her delight.

“Is that me?” Olivia asked, pointing to the drawing.

Pyro nodded, adding a skirt to the figure as well. Olivia couldn’t stop herself from grinning, and she looked back at her own drawing.

Beside herself, she drew Pyro, paying attention to their mask and making sure it was accurate. Once she’d drawn Pyro there, she got bold, beginning to sketch out a few of the others as well.

Pyro paused what they were doing, leaning over Olivia’s shoulder to watch her draw. Olivia noticed, but she didn’t stop. She sketched out the rest of Scout’s leg, before moving on to Demoman. She wondered if she could fit everyone onto the notepad, but the only way she’d know was to try it.

At the same time, Helen got dressed for the day, the interaction with Olivia still on her mind. She felt…regret, for yelling at her. She knew she had every right to be angry about the girl looking through her belongings, but as she reflected on the situation, she realized she should have handled it better.

Her mind wandering, she glanced back over at the box, reaching inside. She pulled out the framed portrait of her father, taking a moment to just observe. His calm gray eyes returned her stare, and a flame in her heart rekindled as she recalled all the days those gentle eyes had looked at her with patience and love.

Helen couldn’t help but ask softly, “What would you have done?”

Of course, he did not answer. She tucked the portrait back into the box, and she pushed the feeling of longing yet again. The present was what she needed to focus on, not the past.

Unbeknownst to her and the rest of the others, this quiet would not last long.

The bounty hunters from the group SHDW (what this acronym stands for is unclear) had narrowed down the location of the townhouse by gaining access to surveillance cameras from stores and traffic lights. Miles away and deep in the woods, they stood on a hill and looked out, seeing the shape of the house beyond the thicket.

“You’re sure this is the place?” the small and muscular woman questioned as she approached Rust.

Rust lowered his binoculars, staring out at the house. “This has gotta be it. Only big place for miles.” He gestured to the woman. “Go get the others, Shell. We’re gonna break in.”

[twokinkybeans]

Soulmates Aren’t Real - Soulmate!AU

Summary: Seven years ago, a “study” found that people who get incredibly close to death, meet their soulmate in their minds. People described them as an angel in the darkness, a light at the end of the tunnel. The idea alone made Tony want to hurl. It’s stupid. Bullshit. Soulmates aren't real.

Sure, Tony zapped himself every now and then. Occupational hazard. But as of yet, he hasn’t come close enough to death to object the study with facts. And though he is a curious man by nature, he’s not that curious. His "soulmate" will show up on their own time. And if they don’t? They don’t. Whatever. Tony can tinker all he likes. He’s content in his lab. Even if it’s a little quiet sometimes...

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Or: Every time Tony nearly dies in the MCU canon, he sees and talks with Peter (who ages appropriately - aka during Iron Man 1, Peter is 6 years old, etc etc etc). It’s a little Cinderella like, if you ask me, aha!

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Author’s note: Hi everyone! This started as a small idea that I just wanted to get out of my brain. Took me two Saturdays to write and it's barely edited, aha. I hope you enjoy it, though! <3 -Lien

Words: 3589

Warnings/tags: Fluff, Angst, Soulmate!AU, Mentions of death (a lot), Mentions of attempted near-suicide, read this however you like, I wrote this as Irondad.

Read Soulmates Aren’t Real on AO3!

   Occasionally, Tony wonders how much he resembles Sherlock Holmes. He drinks a lot more than what’s probably healthy and he thinks faster than other people around him. Though, he is of the opinion that everyone deserves a chance, not all deserve kindness. He likes being alone, tinkering, and losing track of the days. He actually enjoys fucking up his sleeping patterns, since it means he’s being productive. He’s in a flow. He’s busy.    Right now, he’s absolutely certain he’s Sherlock Holmes. The only reason being this one single thought that keeps bouncing through his head every time he scoffs and rereads the article in front of him. People are idiots. Tony would love to have a Watson by his side, but unfortunately for him, his soulmate has yet to show their face. Speaking of soulmates, the article is about just that.    Seven years ago, a “study” found that people who get incredibly close to death, meet their soulmate in their minds. People described them as an angel in the darkness, a light at the end of the tunnel. The idea alone made Tony want to hurl. It’s stupid. Bullshit. Soulmates aren't real. Those people who cheated death claim that some rando they meet is the one they saw when they nearly died. That they belong together. People cheated over this, saying that the person they saw when they died looked nothing like their current partner, or maybe like another friend. The study ripped apart tons of marriages and while that’s partially why Tony thinks people are idiots, there is another reason. The reason that is in the article he’s reading.    Death therapy. Jesus Christ, who even came up with that shit? More and more people want to know who their soulmate is. If who they are with now is the right person. If they will ever meet them. If they already lost them. And so, they try to almost die. Drug abuse, waterboarding, even playing with electrical equipment and guns. Idiots. People are idiots. And this whole article is about some kind of soulmate cult where groups of twenty all try to get as close to death as they can just so they can get a glimpse of what their soulmate looks like. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID.    The people who organize those things are predators, aiming to get as much money out of people as they possibly can. Let them sign wavers that if they do die, which happens ninety percent of the time, the cult can’t be held accountable. Death rates have risen significantly since the study came out and it’s insane. Soulmates don’t exist and nearly dying for the sake of having a looksie at the true love of your life is psychotic. A money-grab, to scam people who are extremely gullible. And oh, boy, are there many gullible people on this hell of an earth. If only they knew all this crap was fake. So many innocent lives would be spared.    Sure, Tony zapped himself every now and then. Occupational hazard. But as of yet, he hasn’t come close enough to death to object the study with facts. And though he is a curious man by nature, he’s not that curious. His Watson will show up on their own time. And if they don’t? They don’t. Whatever. Tony can tinker all he likes. He’s content in his lab. Even if it’s a little quiet sometimes... ...    Afghanistan. The deal was supposed to be the greatest Tony had ever shook hands on. And then everything went to shit. The missile. The explosion. Darkness. And then a fuck ton of pain, clawing at his chest. He could hear someone screaming but he wasn’t sure who. Was it… Was he screaming? God, it hurt. Ached. Burned. Scratched. He was gasping for air and he wasn’t sure if his body could hold out any longer- if he could hold out any longer.    “Hello, there? Sir?” A small voice asks. Tony gasps and writhes, turning on his stomach before crawling up to be met with a boy. Pale skin, brown hair and brown eyes. Cute. “Are you okay? Mister?” Tony brings his hand to his chest in an attempt to feel where the horrific pain is- was? It’s gone. He’s fine. When did that happen? Is he… Is he dying? Or is he already dead?   “Hey, there, kid,” he sighs, somehow grateful that the hell he was in has passed. He doesn’t exactly want the child to be part of his panic, so he takes a glance at his seemingly infinite surroundings and casually asks his question. “Where are your parents?” The boy looks around, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. He then turns to stare at Tony with his big eyes.   “I dunno.” Tony moves so that he’s at eye level with the boy and studies him.        It’s only then that it dawns on him that… Oh, God. Nope. No, this isn’t real. It’s stupid and fake and there’s no way this little kid could be his soulmate. It’s just his dying brain, giving him something to work with before he vanishes into nothingness. Normally, he wouldn’t get anywhere near children. They were quite the liability and honestly the epitome of contrast to his bombostuous life. His biggest fear has always been one of his bed partners showing up on his doorstep, carrying a baby. His baby. He has no time for that. Or well, had. Since it’s his last moments alive, he might as well indulge the imaginary kid.        “How old are you?” The boy thinks for a second and then looks at his hands. He raises one, fingers stretched out, and then the other; just a thumbs up.   “Six!”   “Six?” Tony smiles. “That’s a big number.”  “Mhm!” The boy nods aggressively. “Need two hands now.” He waves his little fist around and grins. He then looks down at his hands and looks back up. “How many hands do you need?”   “A couple more than you do, kid,” Tony scoffs.   “So, you’re like, really old?” Ugh. Kids.   “Old enough to be your dad.”   “You’re not, though!”   “Thank God, no.”        Tony sits down on his butt and pats the floor next to him.   “Mind doing me a favor, kid?” The boy sits down next to him and pulls in his legs, resting his head on top of them. “Depends, Mister. I’m not actually allowed to talk to strangers.” He thinks for a second and then continues. “And you’re about as strange as it gets.”   “Is that a compliment?” Tony chuckles.   “Depends on who you ask.” The reply has Tony scoff a laugh, louder, and he throws his head back This kid…         “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” The boy doesn’t reply. Instead, he hides his face to laugh himself. “So, the favor...” Tony starts, trying to get back the boy’s attention.  “Hm?”   “Just… Be kind, okay? If you really are out there… Life’s too short to-”        Tony opens his eyes, confused. He takes a second to assess his location. He’s lying on something hard and uncomfortable and there’s this dull, continuous ache in his chest. He groans when he realizes… Guess I’m not dying anytime soon.         ...    He was terrifically wrong about that. The organization that put him and Yinsen in that cave were absolute monsters. Tony knew better than to struggle a dozen men with big guns unarmed, but when they brought him to the trough with water, he fought nonetheless. His head was pushed in. His body convulsed and though his brain was telling him to stay calm and simply hold his breath, he kept fighting the aggression from his captors. It wasn’t long before he saw flashes again. Of the same boy.        “Mister?” The voice was muffled through the water in Tony’s ears. He wanted to yell at the boy, to look away from the trauma and ensure his safety, but whenever the kid became clear enough in his mind’s eye, he was pulled from the water for air, and then pushed back in, to start the process all over again…        Nobody was to know. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about this… Unnamed boy in his lucid dream. Nothing happened. He didn’t even say what his captors did to him, though with the arc reactor now glowing in his chest, people assumed the worst. If they asked him whether or not he saw someone, his answer was always the same.   “No.”        Tony regretted not asking the kid for his name, but then, everything would’ve become too personal anyways. And soulmates aren't real. Even though Tony had seen the boy on multiple occasions at this point. He should just stop almost dying, to be honest. Though, with his new job as Iron Man, he wasn’t sure if he could hold off on that. He ignored the boy’s worried touch on his thigh when he was paralyzed after his ex-business partner/mentor ripped out his new heart. He tried to tune out the encouraging words as he crawled down to his lab to push the old one back in. The boy was only a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t be real. He. Isn’t. Real.   ...      Palladium poisoning. Great stuff. You know what’s even greater? Being haunted by the ghost of an eleven-year-old. Tony never got close enough to death to even be able to say hi to the kid and he wasn’t sure if he was grateful or disappointed. The boy was still smaller than average. Clumsy, even. His glasses were cute, though. Red and gold. Iron Man themed. Adorable. He squeezed his eyes, trying to look through them. Maybe they were the wrong prescription?        The first time Tony saw him was when he was in the bathroom. In true horror-style fashion, the nerdy boy appeared in the mirror. When Tony yelped and turned, the kid was gone. He then appeared for a brief moment on the side of the road when Tony was racing the Formula One. The billionaire nearly crashed his car when he did his double take. From then on, everywhere Tony went, the oblivious boy would be by his side. Not being dead enough to talk to the kid, also meant he wasn’t dead enough for the kid to see him. It was torturous to see the boy play and learn and grow without being able to be a part of it. Funnily enough, Tony still didn’t like children. He just… He liked the boy. And no, it wasn’t because the kid was his soulmate. Soulmates aren't real.     ...    Tony was certain flying the nuke into the wormhole would be a one way trip. He’d see the boy one last time, maybe even be able to say goodbye and satiate his need to know the boy’s name, before he’d kick the bucket. At least he’d die peacefully, knowing he stopped an alien war on earth and therefore protected the boy. Twelve. He should be twelve now. Why Tony even bothered to remember the kid’s age, he didn’t know.        “Mr. Stark?” Tony’s vision blurs, the alien spaceship fading to black as his muscles lose tension and his suit gives up on him. He falls. But he doesn’t.   “Yeah, kid, I’m here. For the last time.” Tony frowns as he pulls in his legs, seated on the floor. He sniffs once and looks up to see the boy sitting across from him. “Hopefully.”   “Wait, you want to die?” The question was awfully direct, which makes Tony scoff.   “I’ve seen you so often now…” The barely dead billionaire glances to the side. “That can’t be healthy.” He purses his lips. “Also, the healing process of coming back from the dead is a pain in my butt. Pardon my French.”   “I like seeing you.” The boy fiddles with his fingers and looks down shyly.        “Do you really see me? Like, for real real?”   “I’m dreaming. It feels real, but I don’t talk about it with anyone.” The boy cocks his head and raises his shoulders casually. “I think we both think we’re each other’s imagination.”   “Well, we are, aren’t we?”  “Definitely.” The kid nods aggressively. He crosses his legs and looks at Tony through his long lashes. “Nobody believed me when I said I think you’re my soulmate because I dream about you. Then again, nobody nearly dies as often as you do.” They both chuckle, but the sound quickly fades. “They just think I idolize you a little too much.” The boy frowns and then straightens his back. “I mean, I do idolize you, I- I think you’re a genius! Your papers on Artificial Intelligence are groundbreaking-”   “Kid- you’re twelve, you shouldn’t even be able to read those.”

   “I…” The boy presses his lips on top of each other. “The books I have to read at school are boring.” He almost seems guilty about saying it. “Those papers are filled with big words, though. You understand all of it?” Tony stares at the boy in awe. “I Google things I don’t know, but context usually explains a lot.”     A short, stunned silence settles between the two of them. Tony can barely believe how smart this boy is. He calls Tony a genius, yet he is a genius himself. People who graduated university, specialized in Artificial Intelligence, ask Tony to clarify his papers. So either the boy is messing with him, trying to seem big, or he’s actually incredibly bright. The thought alone makes Tony reminisce about the first time he met the boy, when he still had to use two hands to show Tony how old he was. That was six years ago. Six. He’s fairly certain the boy is a terrible liar, though. And he’s not lying now.     Tony’s eyes open wide, every muscle in his body clenches at the sound of the Hulk’s roar right next to him. There was so much he still wanted to ask the boy. At least he was still alive. Maybe he’ll find him and if not, Tony hopes he’ll near-die again soon. ...     He didn’t expect his own Malibu house crashing down on him and forcing him into the sea to drown being the way he’d go. He’d never been in a worse situation than this. There was no one there to save him. He’d die, never having met his soulmate. Who knows, maybe they’ll meet again in the afterlife, one day. Tony closes his eyes and lets the quiet wash over him as his suit shuts down.     The silence is broken by a quiet sob. The sound brings Tony back to the half-afterlife present and he opens his eyes. The boy is sitting right in front of him again, crying visibly and audibly. “Hey, hey-” Tony moves forward to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” “I don’t want you to die, Mister Stark.” “What makes you think it’s for real this time?” “You just said it yourself,” he sobs. “There’s no one to save you now.” “You heard that?” The boy nods, face twisted. “Well, since I’m still here, I’m not gone yet,” Tony tries with a smile. The boy looks up, tears streaming down his face and shoulders slightly shaking. His red cheeks puff and he sniffs. “We haven’t even met-” The boy squeezes his eyes shut and pushes in, hugging Tony’s chest tightly. The man raises his arms in surprise, but hearing the kid sob, breaks his heart in ways he never thought possible. He embraces the boy and rests his head on top of his. “I can’t lose you too.”     “Too?” Tony’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, trying to remain composed. “M-my parents-” Oh, no. Tony immediately pushes the boy away from his chest and ducks his head, forcing the boy to look in his eyes. “Kid, I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. I’m going to meet you, ‘kay? Give me your name and I’ll find you.” “Promise?” “Promise.” The boy takes a second to collect himself and Tony wipes his tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “My name’s P-”     The second it dawned on Tony that he was still alive, but without the knowledge of the boy’s name, he wanted to cry. And so he did. He was in snowy Tennessee. Many, many miles from home. Who knows, maybe P is somewhere around here? This couldn’t be a coincidence anymore. The boy has to be real. And Tony left him alone. Truly and utterly alone. Just as he is right now. He sobbed quietly as Jarvis shut down. It wasn’t long before he stood up, hugging himself, making the resolute decision that wherever he was, whatever was going to happen, he was going to live. For P. ...     Harley filled up the hole P had left for the short while they spent together. Tony learned to care for him, but it wasn’t the same. All he could think about was the other brown-haired boy in the back of his mind. His soulmate. His P. After the whole Mandarin situation was dealt with, there was no way he could go looking for the now thirteen-year-old without seeming like a creep. P. That was all he knew about him. His name started with a P. First name? Last name? Nothing narrowed it down. He had to let it rest. He simply had to. But he couldn’t. For the first time in his life he felt like the people he once called idiots. But he couldn’t afford to die. Not with the boy out there waiting for him. And so, he shut the tab on his tablet, linked to the Death Therapy site. Maybe he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes after all. If only he could find his Watson. ...     Sokovia was hell. He got so close to seeing his boy again. So close. But not close enough. He tried to reach for P, but their encounter was cut short. “Mr. Stark! Mr-” P yelled. “I’m P-! Don’t go, please! Please! My name-” “Kid!” “P-t-” It was torturous. Tony wished he could go back to when he didn’t care. When he didn’t think the boy was actually real. But he couldn’t. P is out there. Somewhere. And by God, Tony would find him. Whatever it takes. ...     Spider-boy. Whoever it was, the web-slinger caught Tony’s attention. A young hero, wanting to help out the little guy. He was young, though. And so, Tony felt the need to be a mentor. To guide the young man into becoming the hero everyone would root for. That and whatever the boy was wearing was absolutely unsafe for the job. Tony wanted to give the kid something he could work with to make it all safer for everyone. Plus, he needs someone Steve would go easy on, should Berlin go South. Pepper did most of the research and the phone call went by quickly. Tony didn’t really feel like talking anyways. “Alright, so he lives on 15th street. I’ve texted you the building and the address.” “Thanks, Pep.” Little did she know Tony was already at the front door. “Oh, and his name is-” “Bye, Pep.” He hung up and knocked.     The door was opened by a lovely woman in her late forties. Of course, she immediately recognized him and let him in, offering him a seat on the couch. “My nephew is probably your biggest fan,” she yelps, clapping her hands with excitement. “You are here for him right? He applied to your scholarship a couple weeks ago.” “Yes!” Tony clears his throat. “That’s exactly what I’m here for.” He raises his eyebrows and continues his lie. “He got the scholarship, so I wanted to let him know personally. As I… eh, I do with all other people who got it.” Not every hero shares their identity with the ones they’re close with. It’d be better for Spider-guy if Tony played it safe. ...     Not much later, the door opened again. Tony looked up with a smile, knowing it’d be the friendly neighborhood hero he was going to recruit. His expression faltered when he saw the boy’s face. His boy’s face. P. That’s P. “Ah, perfect timing!” May exclaims cheerfully. “Look who’s here to see you!” Tony blinks and clutches his chest. He’s having a heart attack, isn’t he? He’s dying. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.     Peter seems just as taken aback, seeing the billionaire of his dreams - quite literally - on the couch with his aunt. After a short while of amazed silence, May breaks it. “What’s up with you two all of a sudden? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost!” They can’t help ignoring her. Tony slowly stands up and shuffles closer to the boy who drops his backpack to the floor. “Mr-” “Say your name-” Tony whispers, inching closer and closer until he invades Peter’s personal space. “Please, tell me your name.” Peter looks up at him, wide-eyed, flustered. His lips part, but he swallows before he speaks. “Peter. My name is Peter Parker.” P. Peter. Parker. Peter Parker. Holy- It fits. Everything fits. Sherlock has found his Watson. Everything feels so insanely right in this moment.     Tony slowly raises one hand, placing it on Peter’s fast beating heart. Peter curls both hands around Tony’s and opens their palms, sandwiching Tony’s hand between his. “Need three hands,” Peter mutters. “Four soon.” He moves his hands to Tony’s chest, feeling the scar of where his arc reactor used to be push through the fabric of his dress shirt. “You’re not dying again, are you?” Peter asks quietly, almost scared. “No, kid,” Tony sighs. Content. Finally. “I think this is real.”