#gets gas all over his partners sweatshirt the one time he tries

[br-uwu-cewayne]

Okay you know what no more holding back I'm gonna say it straight and I'm gonna mean it -

Bruce Wayne Can Not Pump His Own Gas.

And i don't just mean it in a "Brucie Wayne persona choice since Gotham's in Jersey so it's what everyone expects" kinda way I mean the man has literally never pumped his own gas into a car a day in his life.

It's just. Never been relevant. You don't pump your own gas in Jersey, so he doesn't do it in his day to day.

"Partying" or on business trips out of state/country is in his Brucie mask so of COURSE he's not gonna do it himself are you KIDDING he's from JERSEY we don't do that there and also RICH that's what the CHAFFEUR is for.

Training or superheroing in other countries was/is mostly survival based in wilderness/rural areas, trekking and climbing on foot through various biomes, while grappling/parkouring/taking more inconspicuous public transportation across cities.

The Batmobile gets refueled nightly, by Alfred, once parked back in the cave.

The man can refuel a jet screaming along at Fuckimg Hell miles an hour, but he can not

physically can not

pump his own gas.

[pucksnsticksnhockeyboys]

joking about you

summary: four times you thought Matthew was just teasing and the one time you realized he wasn’t.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, the works

word count: 3.9k

note from the writer: I’m not in love with how the first part or so turned out but it gets better at the end? at least I hope I wrote it at 2 in the morning

i

Crowds were definitely not your favorite thing. Especially when the crowd involved numerous hockey players that were celebrating a win over their division rivals. Normally, you didn’t mind as much, but you were too sober to deal with what the boys were putting you through. More specifically, you were a few drinks short of being able to deal with Matthew. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him, in fact, that was the whole problem. You had a massive crush on him, the kind where people who didn’t even know you wondered just how long you had been pining after one of your closest friends. Long story short, you were incredibly obvious in your affection. And it was fine, you were dealing with it, but it didn’t help that Matthew decided his favorite pastime was teasing you about your feelings. 

You had excused yourself from the booth you and a few of the guys and their significant others had claimed, making your way to the bar for a refill. It was only your second drink, having promised Matthew that you would make sure he got home safe. The two of you had a rule that whenever you guys went out together, you would take turns in who would watch over the other. It was a sweet gesture, and Matthew never failed to make sure you were in your own bed by the end of the night. 

“What’re you drinking? I’ll buy it.” A stranger said as he leaned against the bar counter next to you. You smiled at him, not at all interested but still grateful for the gesture. 

“Uh, no thank you. But thanks for offering.” You smiled politely, and just as he opened his mouth to argue your statement a heavy weight fell over your shoulders. You would’ve jumped, but you recognized the newcomer without even having to look.

“Not interested, already on someone else’s tab.” Matthew told the guy smugly, and you rolled your eyes at his cockiness. You weren’t really one his tab, but you would’ve said you were if it got the guy to leave. It did, and you turned to Matthew with a grateful smile. 

“I would’ve scared him off all by myself, you know.” You teased, smile growing wider as Matt laughed at your statement. You were anything but scary, but he didn’t comment on it. The bartender set your drink on the counter, and you took with a polite smile before turning back to Matthew. 

“It’s more fun if I get to chase the guys off. Let ‘em know you’re mine.” He grinned, and your own smile faltered for a moment. You felt your cheeks flush, though you could tell from the slight slur of Matt’s words that he was a few drinks in and wouldn’t notice. You hated how easily he could make your heart skip a beat with comments like the one that he made about you being his. 

“You wish.” You mumbled, brushing past Matthew and back to the table where the rest of the boys were. You slid back into your seat next to Johnny, having lost Matthew in the crowd once he spotted Noah. 

“Where’s your boy off to?” Johnny teased, tapping his glass to yours in an unspoken cheers before taking a sip. You copied his actions, taking the extra moment to compose yourself enough to be able to come up with a response other than ‘he’s not my boy’ that sounded just desperate enough that if he didn’t already know how you felt, he would after. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” You settled on saying, despite the fact that it sounded just as desperate and opened the door for Johnny to tease you some more. And as he opened his mouth to just that, you decided to save yourself and change the topic. “We’re still on for brunch tomorrow, right guys?” 

Your question was directed to not only Johnny, but Sean and his wife, and anyone else at the table who was listening. As long they didn’t give Johnny the time he needed to poke fun at your obvious feelings, they were invited. After a few confirmations, you were dragged into conversation with one of the other guys. Before you knew it, Matthew and Noah were stumbling over to the booth, clearly had their fair share of drinks. 

“Ready to go, big guy?” You teased, standing up out of the booth to prepare to leave. Matt nodded, one of his arms slung around your shoulders the moment you were out of the booth. You stumbled a bit under the weight of him, pressing your hand against his chest to try and steady him. 

“You must be so excited to get to take me home.” He shot back, grinning wide with just a hint of smugness that had you rolling your eyes despite the slight blush on your cheeks.

“You wish.” You mumbled, just loud enough that the boys heard, and as you led Matthew out of the bar to wait for the Uber you had ordered, you were followed out by the sound of their hoots and cheers.  

Sometimes, you really hated your friends.

ii

As much as you loved nights out, hanging in with the boys was just as fun. With Johnny and Matthew on either side of you on the couch, you knew that you were in trouble if the moment arised. And arise, it did.

“Why did we let Chucky pick the movie?” Johnny groaned, dropping his head against the back of the couch. His distress earned chuckles from the rest of the guys—them being Noah and Elias. Your snort must have caught his attention, because then he turned to you and the mischievous look in his eyes was easily recognizable. “We get you’re in love with him, but why couldn’t the rest of us tell him no?”

You wished a hole would open up underneath you and swallow you up. Your face burned bright red as you glared at Johnny, your hands fisting at your sweatshirt. The boys were all laughing, chuckling at you and you wondered just why you called them your best friends.

“What can I say, I’m irresistible.” Matt, who had been busying himself with scrolling through the movie selections, decided to pipe up. You shouldn’t have expected him to stay quiet on the subject, always looking for the chance to tease you about your feelings without doing any real harm. You knew the boys would never say anything to intentionally hurt you, but they were hockey players, and getting under someone’s skin was their specialty.

“You wish.” You muttered, though you wished that you could take it back because Matthew viewed that as a challenge and he was easily the most competitive person you knew. His grin turned wicked and he tossed the remote to Noah, deferring movie picking powers to him and his fingers easily dug into your sides. You squealed, trying to escape but he was clearly much stronger than you, and before you even knew it, he had you laying across his lap with your feet in Johnny’s as he continued to tickle you relentlessly.

“Get a room!” Elias jeered, and thankfully the comment made Matthew stop his assault. Though, if the look he was giving you was any indication of what was going to happen next, you were in trouble.

“Why don’t we?” He was wiggling his brows at you suggestively, and you gasped in shock. The boys were laughing as you shoved his shoulder, finally pulling yourself to a sitting position in your previous spot. And, okay, maybe, you would’ve loved to go get a room with Matt, but there was absolutely no way you were ever going to admit it to them—even if they already knew.

“You guys are the worst.”

iii

The house was already packed by the time you arrived, and you were too busy trying to weave your way through the crowd and look over people’s shoulders to find someone you knew that you didn’t notice Matthew approaching until you were wrapped in his arms.

“Hey, Matty.” You greeted, accepting the hug as soon as you realized who it was. You could tell he was already a few drinks in by the way he nuzzled his head deeper into the crook of your neck. You giggled at the feeling of his scruff on your skin, knowing your face was aflame at the small act of affection. You rested your hand on his chest, using it to push him away just enough that you could look up at him. “Who even are all these people?”

“I dunno. Hanny invited them.” You tried not to let it show just how much his touch was affecting you, he always got clingy like this when he drank—except, it was only with you and the guys. You had seen him on more than one occasion pestering Johnny for piggy-back rides that were never a good idea. “C’mon.”

You were going to protest, but then his hand slipped in yours, and suddenly you were being dragged halfway across the party to a pong table you hadn’t seen earlier. When you finally stopped at the edge of the table, you spotted Noah and Johnny were partners, and a pair of annoyed guys who had clearly just lost were vacating the opposite end. Matt slid into their spots, and you were given no choice but to follow after him.

Also, your mind was a bit too hazy to come up with any intelligible remark because he was still holding your hand.

“You guys actually won?” Matt chirped, earning eye rolls from his teammates standing across from him, setting the cups back up. He started to do the same, finally dropping your hand in order to move the cups back in place.

“Okay, Chucky. Wanna put some money where your mouth is?” Johnny teased, and you raised your brows. There was no way you were going to put any money down on a stupid game of beer pong, especially since you were playing with three professional athletes who all had considerable amounts of disposable income. Matthew, on the other hand, wore a grin that grew two sizes at the thought of a bet.

“Alright, what’s the wager?” He encouraged, and you pouted, partly wondering if you could get Matt to put up your side of the bet, and he did owe you gas money. Noah’s smile turned wicked and you knew you were screwed.

“If we win, you guys have to kiss.”

On second thought, you might have a twenty in your wallet you could spare for the game.

“And when we win?” Matt shot back easily, his arm slung over your shoulder to tug you into his side. Your jaw was slack, and your gaze was bouncing between Noah and Johnny and you tried to figure out just why they thought that bet would be a good idea.

“If you win, we’ll tie your skates for you for the next week.” Johnny decided, and you were going to speak and announce that you really weren’t getting anything out of this deal, but you decided that the best thing would be to probably not draw attention to yourself. Your cheeks were surely bright red, and you were rooted in your spot at the mere thought that you would kiss Matt.

“Deal.” Matt grinned, squeezing you into his side before releasing you, getting ready to play. He may have been one of the most clingy people you had ever met, but he also was the most competitive.

You really were not good at beer pong. On a good night, you could usually hold your own. But the whole bet really threw you off your game. Instead of trying to focus on sinking the ping pong ball in the red solo cup, you were too busy trying to figure out just why Matt hadn’t turned down the idea of kissing you. Besides his taunts, you figured he never saw you in any light other than the friendship role you had been stuck in.

“Are you trying to lose?” Matt teased after a particularly terrible shot by you. Johnny had to search through the crowd for the ball, and you narrowed your eyes at the curly haired boy next to you. He was grinning mischievously, and you briefly wondered if he knew just how attractive he looked—and if he was doing it just to see you squirm. “You know, if you wanted to kiss me so bad, you could just ask. You don’t have to throw the game.”

“Oh, fuck off.” You spluttered, unable to form a thought over the idea that maybe his words held a deeper meaning than just to get under your skin. Matt, sensing your annoyance, wrapped an arm around your neck and tugged you into his chest, lips coming down to press a kiss to your hairline as Johnny and Noah laughed obnoxiously at you from across the table.

You and Matt ended up winning, by way of a miracle, and for the next week Johnny and Noah were tying your shoes.

iv

When the boys went on road trips, you got a bit of a reprieve from their teasing. These were the times when you remembered just why they were your closest friends, snapchats of them being idiots in each other’s hotel rooms or wherever they were never failing to make you laugh.

But it was also during these trips that Matthew showed his softer side, especially if they were away for longer periods of time. Currently, they were finishing their east coast trip, a week and a half of being away from home. You had received dozens of snapchats from the boys of Matthew moping around, even a video of him complaining that he missed you. He didn’t know he was being recorded, and you tried to pretend that it didn’t tug at your heartstrings.

Those updates from his teammates were why you weren’t surprised that Matt ended up calling you. It was late in Calgary, so you knew it was really late in New York where he was.

“Hey.” You mumbled into the phone. You were laying in bed, covers pulled up to your chin and already feeling the effects of sleep taking over. But if there ever was a time that you didn’t answer Matt’s calls, something surely must be wrong.

“Hey, you better not be falling asleep on me.” Matt teased, and you hated how you could practically see the grin he was no doubt sporting. Despite your racing heart—and the fact that he couldn’t see you—you rolled your eyes.

“It’s past my bedtime. Might have to call you back tomorrow.” You joked back, though you were rolling over to a more comfortable position to continue the conversation. Matt chuckled, and even though the sound was slightly distorted over the phone, was still the best thing you had ever heard.

“You love me too much, you’d stay awake for hours just to listen to me snore if I asked.” His comment was said offhandedly, and it was obviously a joke, but it struck a chord with you. You sat up in bed, comforter coming to rest around your waist as you pressed your lips into a thin line to try and compose yourself.

“Don’t… just don’t say that.” You settled, though it didn’t make much sense to you, so Matt was understandably confused. You just couldn’t handle it at the moment, the fact that your feelings were so unrequited. You knew it, but he didn’t have to throw it in your face.

“What? That you love me? ‘Cause I know you do.” His tone was somewhere between puzzled and teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, drawing your knees to your chest as you felt a lump form in your throat.

“Can you stop fucking joking about my feelings? I get that you don’t feel the same, but lay off for a minute, please.” The last thing you wanted was to cry on the phone with him, but about halfway through your first sentence your voice tightened and when you hit the plea, it cracked. You heard Matthew suck in a breath at the sound, and you wondered if you took it a step too far.

But you also knew this was a conversation you needed to have. You were done just sitting by and letting him tease and poke fun at how flustered you’d get around just because you were harboring feelings for him. He hadn’t done anything inherently wrong, but you just needed him to know how it was affecting you.

You were brought back to the moment by Matthew mumbling your name softly, and you bit your lip at how easily it slipped past his lips. How right it felt for him to be saying your name in the gentle way he did. You knew he was thinking of what to say next, probably some elaborate way to let you down easily while still preserving your friendship. And nothing seemed worse than hearing him feed you some lines about how you could still be friends and that it wouldn’t be awkward next time you hung out—it would, and you knew that. And once more, despite knowing he couldn’t see you, you shook your head, pinching the bridge of your nose in a desperate bid to keep the tears at bay.

“Goodnight, Matthew. I’ll see you when you guys get back, I guess.”

v

You hated to admit it, but you were ignoring not only Matt’s texts, but also the messages from his teammates. It was only the day after you blew up, hanging up on him before he got a chance to explain himself, but you were already feeling the effects of losing one of your closest friends.

A knock on your front door startled you, you weren’t expecting anyone and when you looked through the peephole, you felt a heavy weight settle in your stomach. You knew you couldn’t avoid him forever, but his plane had landed only half an hour ago—you had assumed you’d at least get a few days respite before one of the boys showed up and made you face the consequences of your actions.

Swinging your door open, the curly haired boy wasted no time in slipping past you and into your apartment, shedding his coat and dropping his keys beside yours on the small table you had by the door. Your stomach twisted at how domestic it felt, him coming home to you after his latest roadie.

“Why the fuck don’t I have a key to your apartment?” Matt asked, finally speaking. He had made it a few steps inside before turning to face you with a genuinely confused expression. You were so caught off guard, because that was certainly not what you thought he’d ask you first, that you answered genuinely with the first thing that came to mind.

“Why the fuck would you?” At your response, Matt’s puzzled pout turned to a grin. You wondered if he just wasn’t going to bring up what had transpired over the phone the previous night. You were already falling back into your typical back and forth, but like usual, you weren’t so lucky.

“Because people who are in love have keys to the other’s apartments.” Matt explained easily, like he always did, and you brushed past him. You weren’t sure where you were headed exactly, but you really didn’t need to be around him when he refused to acknowledge the fact that you were upset by his teasing. “Or not. Maybe we could move in with each other.” He had followed you, the kitchen is where you ended up and you braced yourself against the counter, back to him.

“Can you please stop joking? Just leave, if you can’t help yourself.” You snapped, knuckles turning white from how hard you were gripping the edge of the countertop.

“I’m not leaving, and I don’t know why you keep thinking I’m joking.” Matt’s tone was devoid of any of his usual teasing, only seriousness evident in his tone. Your shoulders slouched at his comment, and you slowly turned to find him standing just a few inches away from you. One of his hands fell to the counter beside you, the other reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers ghosting down the side of your jaw until he was tilting your chin up towards him with his index and thumb. “You’ve never been a joke to me.”

And then his lips were on yours, and you felt every longing look shared, unnecessary touch, and forehead kisses that were simply his way of convery how he felt. You would get flustered, he would want to pull you into his lap and make jokes about how you belonged there—because to him, you did. Every comment you thought was a jab at how you felt was just Matt trying to get you to realize how he felt.

It was so goddamn annoying, and so Matthew, that you couldn’t help but laugh into the kiss.

“What? I’m not that bad at kissing, am I?” Matt grinned as he pulled away just enough to look at you. You rolled your eyes, Matt was a fantastic kisser and he knew it, he just wanted to hear you say it.

“You couldn’t have just told me that you like me, you just had to go and tease me every chance you got, huh?” Your hands, at some point that you don’t really remember, had found their way around his neck and were threaded in the curls on the back of his head. The grin he wore was devastatingly handsome, and you easily gave him the kiss he ducked down towards you in search of.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.” He muttered against your lips, kissing you after the end of his sentence. “I wanted to see how long it took before you admitted that you like me.” Another kiss. You tilted your head back and laughed at the absurdity of it all, how not even two minutes earlier you were ready to kick him out of your apartment and now you were certain you were going to die if he even thought about leaving.

“Bet that didn’t go as planned. You know, me hanging up on you, one comment away from crying.” You teased, and a look of regret flashed in his eyes that had his smile melting off of his face. His hands moved to your waist, as if keeping you in place so you couldn’t run, not that you would.

“I made you cry?” He sounded so devastated by your confession, fingers flexing against you as he squeezed your hips. You reached up, cupping his face and absolutely melting at the way he leaned into your touch. Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone, and he softened a bit.

“Don’t worry, Matty. It’s fine.” He didn’t seem convinced, and you leaned up onto your tip-toes to peck his lips once more. “I know a few ways you could make it up to me.” You pressed a kiss to his jaw, giggling when he nodded his head emphatically like a little kid. His mischievous grin was back, and you decided then and there you would spend the rest of your life trying to get him to smile.

“Lead the way.”

[mldrgrl]

Times mulder complimented something scully was wearing

6 Times Mulder Complimented Scully on What She Was Wearing and 1 Time He Complimented What She Wasn't

Year 1

He’d finished his slideshow only moments before and had already shrugged into his overcoat, ready to head out the door.  He waited for her by the lightswitch, waiting as she gathered her bag and her coat.  She stopped though, when he didn’t move out of the doorway, blocking the exit with his arm across the door, trigger-finger on the switch.

“Mulder?”  She lifted her brow in question.

“What color would you call that?” he asked, reaching out to tug on the pocket of her blazer.

“Oh, um?”

“Lavender?  Or periwinkle?”

“I think periwinkle is a little more blue.  Lavender, probably.  Why?”

“Just wondering.  It brings out your eyes.”

“Oh.”

“I like it.”  He flicked the switch and moved out of the doorway so she could pass by.

She hesitated for a few moments, embarrassed without knowing quite why.  “Thanks,” she murmured.

*****

Year 2

He haunted the doorway of her hospital room, pacing the hall and checking every ten minutes or so to see if she’d awoke yet.  Finally, when he’d peaked through the narrow glass window, her eyes were open and he pushed the door open with a smile.

“Hey,” he said.

“Mulder?”  She sat up a little straighter and nervously adjusted the sheets over her hips.

“Don’t get up on my account,” he teased.  “Just came to see how you were feeling today.”

“Good.  Fine.  I think.  I still don’t…”

“It doesn’t matter.”  

The gold cross he’d held onto and returned to her twinkled when she nodded slightly, catching the sunlight streaming through the window, and his eye.  She looked down and plucked at the loose, drab yellow hospital gown for a moment.

“I must look awful,” she said.

He shook his head.  She was radiant, compared to two days ago, with tubes and wires going in and out of her every which way.  He couldn’t tell her that, though.  Not about how frightened he was, seeing her like that.

“I hear hospital gown is the new black,” he said.

She smiled just a little.

*****

Year 3

“I need a new tailor,” he said, apropos of nothing, as they exited the airport terminal and headed to long-term parking.

“Oh?” she said, scanning the lot up ahead for section B.

“My guy is retiring, end of the month.”

“Oh.”

“Who do you use?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, obviously yours is great.”

“Obviously?”

“Well yeah.  Six months or so you switched to pantsuits and you know, you being so sho...small in stature, I imagine you’d need to get those taken up.  And let me tell you, the length is damn near perfect and the stitching is top quality.  I want someone to make me look that good too.”

She choked a little on disbelief and stopped short.  “Mulder…”

“What?  I’m a trained investigator Scully, I notice these things.”

“I’ll...uh, I’ll get a business card for you.  The shop is on M Street.”

“Great!  Maybe we can start wearing matching suits to work.”

“In your dreams, Mulder.”

*****

Year 4

She’d signed for the delivery with some hesitation, insisting she hadn’t ordered anything from Bloomingdale’s, but the delivery man was equally as insistent that he had a package for Dana Scully and needed her signature.  She brought the shopping bag in and pulled a long, white box out of it, setting it in the middle of her table.

Tentatively, as though she might be handling a bomb, she lifted the lid off the box.  Whatever was inside was wrapped in tissue paper that crinkled as she unwrapped the gift.  She gasped when she pulled out a plush, white robe.  A plain notecard fell to the floor and she picked it up.  It was blank on one side and the other simply said: SCULLY.

“Mulder,” she whispered.  “What did you do?”

It took her ten minutes of pacing her kitchen to finally call him.  He answered on the second ring.  “Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me,” she said.

“Oh, hey Scully.”

“What did you do?”

“No telling.  How much trouble am I in and I’ll try to guess.”

“I just got a delivery.  From Bloomingdale’s.”

“Oh, good.”

“What did you...I mean, why…”

“It’s soft, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Not that you didn’t look all cute and cozy in that other robe you have, but this one is softer.”

“You didn’t...you shouldn’t have done this.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just think of it as a belated birthday present.”

“You already got me a keychain.”

“I could take it back.”

“Is it returnable?”

“I don’t know, I picked it up at a gas station off I-81.”

“The robe?”

“No, the keychain.”  He chuckled.  “Just enjoy it, Scully, you deserve it.”  He hung up then and she was left with silence.  She hung up the dead phone and then stroked the collar of her new robe.  It was one of the softest things she’d ever felt.

*****

Year 5

“It says here we’re going to have to do a little hiking,” he said.

She closed the pamphlet for the conference and sighed.  “Fantastic.”

“Pack light, pack that blue jacket you have.”

“What blue jacket?”

“That windbreaker, the pullover.  With the pocket in the front.”

“You know, Mulder, sometimes it’s a little disconcerting how familiar you are with my wardrobe.”

“Nah, I only remember the really important pieces.”

“Important, meaning?”

“You know, those little pieces that go together really well or are particularly flattering.”

“And the blue windbreaker is...flattering?”

He shrugged.  “It’s blue.  You look good in blue.”

*****

Year 6

They were two beers in on Mulder’s couch, a Yankees v. Blue Jays game on mute on the television.  Mulder got up to toss his bottle and then stopped on his way back, running his finger along the collar of her jacket, draped over the back of the chair next to the TV.

“I think this is the least practical you’ve ever been,” he said.

“Hm?” she answered, lifting her beer bottle up to inspect it.

“Suede.  Very impractical.  Very hard to take care of.”

“I can say the same about you.”

“Hah.”  He snort-laughed and then plopped down beside her again on the couch.  “If I were an article of clothing I’m more likely to be a sweaty, ratty t-shirt.”

“No, more like a well-worn sweatshirt.”

He rolled his head towards her and smiled a little.  She gave him a glance, but then quickly looked away and took a sip of her beer.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“What would you be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you’d be...something woolen.”

“Woolen?”

“Yeah.  Scratchy, but warm.”

“Scratchy, but warm,” she repeated with a slight frown.

“Wool is strong, it’s versatile, and you know, wool from the vicuña is the most expensive fabric in the entire world, only collectible once every two to three years from the same animal.  It’s rare and precious.”

“How do you know so much about fabrics, Mulder?”

“I’m a connoisseur.  Come on, Clemens, you can throw better than that!”

Scully took another sip of her beer and tried to turn her focus to the game, but she was lost in thought.  Scratchy.  Warm.  Strong.  Versatile.  Rare.  Precious.  Scratchy?

“I’m glad you splurged on that jacket though,” Mulder suddenly said.

“You are?”

“It looks amazing on you.”

*****

Year 7

The faucet in his bathroom was still leaking, even though the super swore he’d fix it while Mulder was out of town for the weekend.  Still though, he could hear the drip, drip, drip from bed, even over the tree branches that tapped at the window from the light breeze.  He turned onto his side from his back and lay face to face with his partner.  She was asleep, or so he thought.  When he traced a heart on her bare shoulder, her eyes opened and she gave him a drowsy smile.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered.

“I was just thinking.”

“It’s late.”

“Or early, depending on your point of view.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I’ve never seen that green sweater you were wearing before.”

“It’s new.”  She yawned, closed her eyes, and snuggled a little deeper into his pillow.  “Why?  Don’t like it?”

“It looks better on my floor.”

She chuckled, but kept her eyes closed.  “With lines like that, I can’t imagine how it took seven years for you to get me into bed.”

“Reconsidering your choices?”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.”  She reached up blindly and took his hand off her shoulder, tucking it under her chin to press a kiss to his knuckles.  “Do you want me to wake you when I get up?”

“No, I’ll be too sad.”

“Why?  You’ll see me again in less than two hours, probably.”

“Yeah, but you won’t be as naked as you are right now.”

“True.  Not unless the bureau has changed their dress code without me knowing.”

“Will you wear the navy blazer?”

“Sure.”

“And the white top.  The cotton one, not the silk one.”

“Cotton, not silk.  Mmhm.”

“Wait.”

Scully yawned again.  “Hm?”

“Now I’m just thinking, maybe you should wear something less tempting.  You still have that giant, puffy, blue and pink and green jacket?”

“I’m afraid that was burned in quarantine, obviously for the better.”

“Darn.”

“Mulder?”

“Hm?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Okay.”  He turned over onto his back again and a few moments later, Scully inched her way closer and draped an arm over his chest.

“The dark Armani suit, with a white shirt, and the red tie,” she murmured.

“What about it?”

“It’s my favorite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  He gave her a squeeze and closed his eyes.

The End

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 5 now posted

AO3

Helen was waiting.

It was a matter of time now, for John to come.

She pulled the sweatshirt that Nick had given to her tighter around her shoulders. It must be getting late, she notes, because it’s getting colder again.

The guards had changed just two hours after she managed to send John the text. The new ones weren’t as talkative but she really didn’t need them to be. Not anymore.

She had gotten a message out.

Now she just had to wait.

She wonders if he’s narrowing her location or if he’s already on his way.

She wonders what the fuck she’ll do if she wakes up again in the morning and find she’s still here. That John hadn’t come for her.

Maybe he wasn’t able to?

No. She pushes that thought quickly from her mind.

This was John. Nothing would stop him.

She just needs to keep waiting.

The phone rings from one of the guards and she watches, with vague interest, as he picks up the call.

“’lo?”

She can’t hear what is happening on the other side of the line, but the guard looks to Helen, his eyes wide with fear.

She can’t help the smile that grows on her face with the unbidden knowledge: He’s coming.

“What? Why?” There’s a pause and his eyes widen, “Yes, sir.” He hangs up and jumps to his feet, turning to his partner, “Go get the car. We’re moving her.”

“Now?” The other guy rolls his eyes.

“Marco, John Wick is coming.”

Helen breathed a sigh of relief just at hearing his name. He was on his way. He was coming.

Marco’s eyes widen and he, too, scrambles to his feet.

“Baba Yaga? Why?”

“Oh, you poor bastards.” Marco and the other guard look at her fearfully, “You agreed to guarding me without ever asking who I was.”

Stall, she thinks. They’re trying to move her to a second location, one that John might not be able to find as easily… She can’t let them move her.

Not if he’s coming.

“Who are you?” Marco asks.

She borrows the language that Nick used. Therapist or not, in this world, it was probably the most accurate assessment of their relationship, “I’m John Wick’s girl.”

“Oh fuck.”

Helen makes a show of examining her nails, “Honestly, it took him long enough.”

“Get the car, now!” The taller guard states.

“I mean, you could get the car.” Helen says, “But trust me when I tell you, that’s just going to piss him off.”

They exchange a look.

“My suggestion is that both of you leave before he gets here. He won’t come after you right away that way. Or you could stay here and surrender. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.” She offers a smile, “Claim your ignorance. You didn’t know who I was.”

They’re both distraught and tense. Finally, one of them breaks.

“Marco, get the car.”

“Dude, I don’t know…”

“Do you want to be here when John Wick gets here? GO!”

Helen makes a face, doing her best to look both understanding of his decision but skeptical of his choice. “Not your best move, but I get it. It’s noble that you’re willing to die for your cause.”

Marco makes a noise of fear but he hurries to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The other guard grabs the keys that had been hanging from a nearby hook. He shoves it into the lock of her cell and Helen feels her heart start to race.

They can’t move her. Not yet.

Not after she finally got through to him.

He reaches for her and she quickly jumps across the floor to the edge of her cell. The sweatshirt falls from her shoulders as she does, and she wraps her arms around the bars as tightly as she can.

Fingers dig into her arm, but she holds tight. Every second counts.

“Fuck! Let go!” There’s panic in his voice and there should be. Every single thing these men have heard about John Wick, every rumor and urban legend, was about John at his baseline.

But right now, he was pissed.

She gave the guards the option to walk away. That they hadn’t is now beyond her control.

One arm is pried loose but the other stands firm. She manages to kick backward and he grunts, falling to one knee as his leg is knocked down.

She manages to free the arm and entangles herself back amongst the bars.

His arms wrap under hers this time and he tries to pull her off that way. The technique is a little better and she feels herself slipping.

She kicks out again, thrashing as hard as she can. She just needs to waste time, to stall. Just a little longer.

He’s coming.

There are footsteps on the stairs and Marco hurries back down.

Fuck.

She was barely holding out against one of DeLuca’s goons.

“Get the sedative!” The guard growls out and Helen resists the urge to swear.

She slams her foot back again, managing a kick to the balls and watches, in relief, as the guard doubles over in pain. She lets go of the bars and bolts to her feet. She feels her head rush after being on the ground for so long but she runs as fast as she can towards the stairs.

She makes it up the first few and then her ankle is grabbed and she falls forward. Her head bounces off a step and the world goes fuzzy.

Helen tries to blink, to keep herself conscious but it’s pointless. The needle is jabbed into her flesh and she feels herself being picked up.

She had been so close…

But it wasn’t enough.

…

They had a name. And an organization.

But nothing else. The sender had immediately blocked their number, but it was a start.

“Dante DeLuca is dead.” Winston had said when John read the text aloud. “He passed on three months ago. I had flowers sent to his widow, in Rome.”

“Does he have children?”

“Several. Only one legitimate, I believe. Mateo.”

“Karl, run a search on Mateo DeLuca. Current position, known allies, and any properties listed under his or his father’s name.”

“Running now.”

Mateo DeLuca was largely unknown. He wasn’t particularly well-respected by anyone and was really known only as Dante DeLuca’s son and heir. Dante, himself, hadn’t seemed too fond of the boy but that was often the case.

You raise spoiled children; you get rotten adults.

Mateo had a degree from Columbia University in business. A few arrests during that time but no convictions.

As far as the Underworld went, Mateo had virtually no presence.

And while Mateo was Dante’s heir, there was some evidence that he had been grooming a few others to take over the business upon his passing. But then he had died, seemingly of natural causes.

John was doubting that.

Winston stated that, indeed, the Syndicate was an enemy of the Camorra. Still, they were far too small to overtake the larger empire of the D’Antonio’s.

John didn’t care about that. The politics were over now that he had a name. Winston could deal with the fallout. Report Mateo’s treason to the High Table. Or not.

There really wasn’t much of a point considering that John was more than willing to just kill the bastard and be done with it.

Karl ran every property associated with the Syndicate in New York while John began strapping weapons.

“I have a location on Mateo.” Karl says, “He’s at a party in Manhattan. He just posted on his Instagram.”

John wasn’t entirely sure what that sentence meant.

“She must be being kept somewhere else.”

“A small property.” John agrees, “Someplace private, out of the way.”

“He’s got a handful of houses. A brownstone in Brooklyn.”

John shakes his head, “Too many potential witnesses.”

“There’s a few places down in Staten Island and oh… He owns a condemned block in Long Beach. Series of houses bought out after Hurricane Irene.”

“Closest neighbor?”

“At least a block.”

John grabs his phone back and types the address into his GPS.

She’s there. She has to be.

Still, he gruffly adds, “Keep searching. Just in case.”

“Jonathan, perhaps you should come up with a plan—”

John shoots the Manager a look.

He isn’t waiting anymore.

“Call for my car. I’ll update you when I can.” John tells him as he leaves the room.

The drive from the Continental to Long Beach should have been an hour. Luckily, traffic was on his side. The gas pedal pressed to the floor didn’t hurt, either. He blows through every stop sign and red light he meets.

The ocean is visible and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s close, now.

His phone begins to ring and John spares the ID a glance. The Continental.

He answers it, “This is Wick?”

“Hi, Mister Wick, it’s, uh, Karl.” The Technician awkwardly greets, “You said to keep an eye out and I did and, um, DeLuca knows.”

“What?”

“He knows you’re coming, sir. He has sentries over in Long Beach and they reported seeing your car. He knows you’re coming and he made a call to someone at the house.”

“How many sentries?”

“I don’t know, sir. But DeLuca’s made two more calls since the house that have pinged in your general vicinity.”

Sure enough, John checks his rearview and a black car is following him. They’d have to be going at least fifty to keep on his tail.

“Thank you.” John turns off the phone. He’s less than five miles away.

Five miles away from Helen.

He’s sure they’re keeping her there now.

And they’ll be ready for him.

That’s fine. It won’t make a difference. He’ll kill them all.

As long as he got there in time.

They’d be moving her. DeLuca’s only leverage against John, and the only thing keeping John from outright murdering him was Helen.

He hears the sounds of loud motors and checks his rearview.

Sure enough, another car slides off of a side street and joins the pursuit.

In any other situation, he might have laughed. Now, it was just a nuisance. Another obstacle trying to prevent him from reaching what he needed most.

But he can’t worry about them now. He can’t stop to take care of the problem because he can’t fucking risk them moving her.

There’s an idling car out front of one of the houses.

He can see her. She’s clearly unconscious, being carried from the house to the car. Two men in front of him, he’s not even sure of how many are behind.

He had hoped for a bit of stealth, the element of surprise. But then, his car barreling down a side street at eighty miles an hour is hard to miss, especially when he slams the breaks and the tires loudly squeal along the pavement.

He’s usually better than this. A lot better than this. In fact, he’s not sure he can really remember a time since his teens when he went in guns’ blazing.

He was too calm, to focused, to tactical for that.

Yet here he is.

And the clock is ticking.

He can’t let them get away.

John opens the door and lunges from the car, ducking from the shots being fired from the cars behind them as they squeal to a stop. He aims low, not willing to waste ammo until he knew what he was dealing with and fired a shot. The back left tire starts to compress and he does the same for the right.

They’re not getting away.

The man, not carrying Helen, reaches to his belt and John fires again.

The bullet breaks into his hand and he can hear the cry of pain. Before the man can reach again, John aims higher and shoots him in the neck.

He can hear firing coming from behind him.

He has to take them out before she can be hit by a stray bullet.

All it takes is one.

Luckily, the man who has Helen has ducked down low.

He needs more eyes, more hands.

He turns, because he needs to and starts counting.

Three cars, two men each. Clearly, DeLuca had not paid enough attention when researching potential assassins to manipulate.

John ducks back behind the car, reloading his weapon. He wants to move towards them, to finish this quickly, but he needs to keep his head. He needs to deal with this like he’s not emotionally involved because, to do otherwise, would be suicide.

He stops and listens. The gunfire dies down and the men on the other side of the car are hollering directions to one another.

Amateur hour.

He can hear footsteps coming on either side of car, heavily pounding on the concrete.

John stays crouched but moves to the left side. He tucks his gun into its holster and, instead, grabs a knife from his boot.

Just as the first two men reach the front of the car, John grabs the one on the left but the shirt and stabs him in the gut. He stands, disarming the shocked man and drags the blade up. His hand snatches the gun with ease and he fires once over his shoulder to the man just behind him, then again at the man who was coming around the right side of the car.

He manages to dodge, jumping back behind the tallest part of the car.

John fires through the passenger side window. The bullet flies through the car and comes out on the other side, staggering the man back. He fires again and the man drops to the ground.

Four down, he thinks. Four to go.

A shot is fired at him from back where the other cars were. Two of the men still are hiding back at the cars they came in.

John spins back around to the front of the car.

The man from the opposite side of the car takes off running as John sneaks down low to the other side. He uses the new gun to fire low. The first shot goes through the calf, likely shredding the muscle.

Hurts like a bitch, John knows from experience. He hobbles and falls to the ground, screaming.

DeLuca’s men, it would seem, are well armed but not trained for shit. He’s momentarily baffled that these were the forces, the army that DeLuca thought he could use to overthrow the Camorra?

But arrogance was his pitfall.

John couldn’t fault him for that; it was his own, as well.

But everything else? The stalking, the kidnapping, the threats? John could fault him for that. That was the reason that DeLuca was going to die.

The last two standing from his pursuers seem unwilling to leave the safety of their cars. Which means, unfortunately, that John can either wait them out or be the one to move.

Waiting it out is smarter. He knows it’s what he should do but a look across to where Helen is and he can’t.

Anger flares within him as he realizes that the man holding her is using her as a kind of shield.

It won’t save him, John thinks, turning his attention back towards the cars. They’re waiting for movement, waiting to fire.

Outnumbered, outgunned, back against the wall.

Thank fuck for Kevlar.

He stands and immediately hears the shots being fired at him. He swerves, immediately, expecting to draw their fire. The bullets miss him and John sprints forward, firing as he does. A bullet hits the front side of the Kevlar and it nearly winds him, but he keeps moving.

John hits the opposite side of the first car and drops to his stomach. In the confusion, he fires and a bullet breaks the ankle of the closer man.

He drops to the ground and John flips around, jumping on top of the hood of the car to shoot the last man standing in the head before delivering a kill shot to wounded man on the ground.

There’s silence, except for the spluttering breaths of the man John had shot in the calf.

He hops off the hood of the car, heading towards Helen and the last of DeLuca’s men. He idly shoots the fallen soldier in the head and moves on.

DeLuca’s man scrambles backward, his arm wrapped around Helen’s torso, holding her up literally as a shield.

John shakes his head in disbelief, his gun lowered at his side but cocked just the same.

The man almost trips over the sidewalk in his state of panic.

John glances to Helen and tries not to tense or flinch at the blood spilling from her temple or the scratch marring her cheek. There are bruises on her arms that resemble fingers and he wishes he could kill them all again.

“Don’t, please…”

“Set her on the ground. Gently.”

“You’ll shoot me.”

“I’ll shoot you either way.” He snarls, “Set her down, and I’ll make it quick.”

“Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to tell you again.” John says, stepping closer.

“Okay, okay!” The man kneels and carefully sets Helen so that she’s on the grassy front lawn. Her body is laid out, her head lolling to the side. “Just, please don’t—”

John shoots him in the head.

The closest thing to mercy he was capable of while watching her bleed.

John reloads his weapon as he kneels, keeping it out of his holster. Just in case.

He checks her headwound first. It’s shallow but there’s a large bump that’s already forming. A fall, he thinks, rather than a hit.

The mark on her cheek similarly resembles an abrasion.

It’s simultaneously not bad and the worst thing he’s ever seen. He wraps an arm under her legs and another around her back and lifts her up. He pulls her close to his chest and breathes easy for the first time in two days.

He keeps his eyes peeled for enemies as he hurries back to his car.

He can’t stay here long. As much as he would love a confrontation with every single person under DeLuca’s employ, he has to get her out of here. To safety.

John hadn’t been thinking long-term beyond getting Helen to safety but now there were other things to consider.

He couldn’t take her back to her home. DeLuca would find it and attack, whether John was there or not. He couldn’t risk putting Helen back into the line of fire.

The Continental was off the table, too.

DeLuca already knew she existed, as did a select few of the Continental staff, but the last thing John wanted was for others to find out about her. She might never have another moment’s rest if the Underworld found out that John Wick had a weakness.

That left his house.

His heart stuttered at the thought.

He’d imagined it a thousand times.

Every morning when he had breakfast, he wondered what Helen would look like standing in his kitchen.

Every time he watched television or read on the couch, he would imagine her presence beside him.

Every night he went to sleep in his own bed, he would roll on his side and think about what it would be like to reach over and touch her.

His love. His life.

He maneuvers Helen to one arm as he opens the passenger-side door and slips her inside. He fastens the seatbelt and leans the seat back the best he can. Finally, he slips off his suit jacket and covers her with it. It’s huge over her small frame and he tries not to delight in the sight.

John cannot resist placing a kiss to her head.

She’s here.

She’s safe.

He closes the door and goes around to the passenger side. He turns the car around and hurries out of the neighborhood and back towards the city and the bridge that will take him back home.

John sets a hand on her leg, squeezing gently to make sure that she really was there.

The nightmare was over.

The rest could be handled with ease now that she was safe. He could track down DeLuca and make him fucking pay for taking Helen. Burn what was left of Syndicate to the ground.

The moment they had cleared Long Beach, he reaches for his phone, dialing the Manager.

Winston picks up after the first ring.

“Jonathan.”

“I have her.”

Winston hums in response.

“I’m going to need Doc.”

“At the Continental?”

“At my house.”

He can practically feel Winston rolls his eyes, “The Doctor doesn’t do house calls.”

“I’ll pay whatever he wants.”

“You are aware that I’m not your secretary, aren’t you, Jonathan?”

John resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Winston. Please.”

“I’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you.”

Winston huffs, then asks, “Is she alright?”

John glances over at the passenger seat. She still was unconscious, but she had stopped bleeding.

“She’s safe. A few injuries. I want to make sure that none are worse than they look.”

He’s met with silence at first. Winston clears his throat, “You do know this won’t be the end of it?”

John focuses his attention on the road ahead. “I’ll track down DeLuca.”

“Your secret is already out. Others will find out about your little therapist. You say she’s safe, but for how long?”

He swallows hard. He can’t begin to process those thoughts until Helen is safe, in bed, and being looked at by a doctor. Then, he’ll have the breakdown he’s been putting off for two days.

“I’ll speak with you soon. Can you make sure Karl gets paid and tipped well for his services?”

He can practically feel the Manager roll his eyes, “Yes, yes. I’ll send the Doctor out shortly. If you’re leaving Long Beach now, he may even make it there before you.”

John offers his thanks and drives the rest of the route in silence, safe the soft sounds of her breathing.

It puts him at ease, hearing her breathe.

He revels in every slight intake and gentle exhale.

It takes longer to get home than it did to find her. While he still speeds, he is no longer doubling the speed limit as he travels home.

As Winston had suggested, the Doctor was already there when John pulls up. He parks out front rather than pulling up to the garage.

“Mister Wick.” The Doctor greets as John climbs out of the car.

“Doc. Thank you for coming.”

John goes to the other side of the car. He undoes the seatbelt and slips her, carefully, back into his arms.

“Do you know what happened to her?” The Doctor asks, eyeing his new patient the best he can while she remains in John’s grasp.

John shakes his head, “She was unconscious when I found her. I don’t know if she was sedated or if she’s still out from the headwound she sustained.”

He opens the door to his home and leads Doc through the house, upstairs to John’s own bedroom.

With a sense of longing, he lays Helen in his bed.

He takes his jacket back and tosses it to the side, allowing Doc access to the rest of her body. The bruises on her arms look worse in the light of his room.

The man was lucky John was feeling merciful.

Doc opens his bag and starts by cleaning the wounds marring her face. He wipes away the blood and bandages the cut on her temple.

“It wasn’t the headwound that knocked her out.” Doc says after examining her. “It’s superficial, although I’m sure she’ll have headaches for the next few weeks. It looks like she’s been drugged a few times. I’d guess this is the work of a sedative.”

That was John’s guess as well.

“Give her twelve hours and try to wake her up. If she’s unresponsive, call me.”

The Doctor grabs a bottle of pills and hands them to John. “Aspirin will do just fine for the pain. Give her this for the headaches.”

John nods, tucking Helen into his bed as the Doctor packs up.

“I can’t thank you enough for coming out here.” John tells him. On his bureau, there’s several stacks of coins. He takes one and hands it off to the Doctor.

“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but I don’t recognize her. Is she based in another city?”

John fights back the urge to wince. While he doesn’t think Doc would say anything to anybody, he doesn’t want to let anyone else know about her identity. But then, Doc had come all this way to ease John’s fears.

He swallows, “She’s not of the Underworld. She’s… a friend of mine. Who got pulled in over her head.”

The Doc hums, “Be careful with otherworlders, John Wick. Persephone was only a guest of the Underworld and she never escaped it.” Before John can think of a response, Doc has his bag in hand, “I wish her a speedy recovery. Good night, Mister Wick.”

The Doctor leaves them in peace and John brings a chair around to her side of the bed. He sits down, nearly collapsing. She is safe.

His vigil begins anew.

[ceruleanchillin]

Sandalwood (Bakugou x Reader)

A/N: I haven’t gotten super far into MHA, so I’m still learning the characters. I’m also reading the manga. I haven’t officially seen Dabi or Toga’s characters yet, so I’m going off what I’ve read in other fics and a little careful wiki browsing.

I also posted a chapter breaking down the AU on AO3, I’ll probably post it here later.

AO3

The water ran so hot, it began to fog up the small room and disperse the smell of sandalwood throughout it. You eagerly grabbed your loofah, and began scrubbing yourself sudsy. Every pass at your skin, and you felt your humanity being restored. Over your neck, down your arms, across your ribs, everywhere you touched turned to a patch of saccharine velvet.

You hummed, something more akin to a moan actually, and did another full pass just to feel the scalding warmth again. Eyes closed, and toes curled in your shower slippers, your relaxed mind pondered if you had enough time to really style your hair. Afterall, what girl didn’t enjoy a comforting bath ritual?

“Now serving number 1!”

Of course, other’s pampered bathing rituals probably didn’t take place in a supermarket bathroom near dawn.

The bakery section’s automated ticket taker had cut through your hazy thoughts like a knife, and you nearly dropped your loofah. If they were already beginning to receive more customers you didn’t have the bathroom to yourself much longer.

You scrambled to cleanse yourself of all suds, and drained the sink, hoping that would begin to reverse the fogginess.

Shoving all your toiletries into your oversized hobo bag, you ducked into a stall, and began to shove yourself into freshly washed

clothing.

God bless 24/7 laundry mats. Great for junk food dinners, plastic chair naps, and soft, detergent scented kisses with Bakugou at 4 am.

You were pretty sure your sweatshirt was on backwards, and your hair was still sloppily piled on top of your head, waiting to be deconstructed, but you didn’t care to fix either. You’d wasted your safe time, and didn’t want to risk being walked in on. One report by a disgusted customer, and you could kiss your current safe spot goodbye.

You ducked out into the tiny hallway of the restroom area, and smoothed your sweatshirt over your leggings, trying to appear less frantic and out of place.

‘Another successful bath day.’ you smiled, slipping your bag over your head. ‘I’m getting the hang of this.’

You checked the minimal amount of cash you had left, and figured it’d be enough for two muffins and maybe a shared coffee. You had earned it, and you knew your boyfriend would be happy to hear about your appetite balancing out.

Following the warm scents to the bakery section, you remained conscious of the fact that Bakugou would want what was left for gas, and picked with that in mind first.

The feeling of doing something so wholesome, so domestic, as picking up breakfast for your partner hit your person the same way indulging yourself in the bathroom had.

“Eww.” a cruel whisper-laugh made you instinctively turn to look behind you, and regret washed over you almost instantaneously.

Two girls your age stood behind you, eyes trained on your feet. You knew why immediately, but looked down anyways for confirmation you’d forgotten to trade your shower shoes for your slip ons.

‘They can’t know that I..’ you didn’t even finish your thought. Dirty from use as protection from unknown floors, they served their purpose, but betrayed you all the same.

‘Should I change them?’ you wondered, but could only imagine what looks that’d garner, no matter how discreet you could be.

You met their cold eyes, and couldn’t help but think they looked like porcelain dolls.

Three dolls stood at an impasse. Two, very expensive and impossibly perfect, that’d you display for envy. One, lovingly stitched, but you’d forget her in your toy chest.

You quickly turned to face front as your ticket was called and got your purchases. Hurt coursed through you, its white heat branding your insides, and undoing every good thought and feeling it touched.

Retrieving your purchases, and stuffing them into your bag, you headed for the entrance. It wouldn’t be long before Bakugou came to pick you up.

‘He wouldn’t have put up with that’ you thought sourly, frustrated with yourself once again for not possessing the bottomless well of anger your boyfriend pulled his strength from.

You may scold him about it, but you couldn’t deny that at times, it was an asset. However, that just wasn’t your person. You didn’t want to hurt, or be hurt for that matter.

You fought off your tears successfully, but at the cost of stinging sinuses and a minor headache. Wincing as natural light conquered artificial, you stepped out onto the pavement. The parking lot was coming to life compared to when Bakugou dropped you off, and you plopped on the curb to quickly swap out your shoes.

“Cute bag!” a cheery voice chirped, and you noticed a girl next to you.

Had she been there the whole time? You didn’t see how you could’ve missed her, but you had been upset. Blonde spacebuns, dark purple fishnets, and...jesus was she that cold? A heavy red that stretched from cheek to cheek.

You looked at her, thought her eyes looked a little crazed, and then instantly felt bad. Had you not just been shamed based on appearances?

“Thanks.” you responded shyly, trying to straighten your hair. “Thrifted it.”

“Nice!” she screeched, uncaring of the hour. “My stupid friends never wanna go to thriftstores.”

You winced at the volume, but still found her amusing. “You’ve gotta go to  Moon Over Mona’s , she’s got the best stuff.”

The girl mouthed the store’s title and rolled her eyes up as if burning it into her brain, before she widened her grin and turned her glazed over eyes back to you. “Noted! I’m Himiko.”

“(Y/N).” you smiled gently

“Oh wow, me too.” she patted your bag softly, as if it were a child, or perhaps a cat.

You tilted your head in question at her odd statement.

“Homeless silly, there’s no hiding things from me.” she rolled her eyes to emphasise the ‘duh’ in her tone. “I mean, I couch hop sometimes, but yeah…..”

You cringed and looked out over the parking lot. You didn’t like to use that word, it made your circumstances seem so ugly, and sounded like something your parents would say to shame you back into their home. But wasn’t that what you, and mostly all of your friends, were?

“It’s not a sweeeear word.” Himiko nudged your knee with her own. “It’s whatever to be free right?”

“That is a...perk I guess.” you chuckled, your inclination towards happier thoughts easily being indulged by talking with the girl.

“Exactly!” she slapped your arm, neon green nails standing out in stark contrast to her threadbare black hoodie.

“Sooooooo listen,” she pressed her pointer fingers together, blush intensifying. “Can I hold a dollar or two? My friend is picking me up here soon, and he’s a super stingy bitch. I want to eat something today.”

She dramatically flopped on the concrete behind her, hands rubbing her thin stomach.

You chewed your lip. Bakugou hated when you were ( a free handed sucker ) too generous. You really should save that remaining 10 dollars to give him for gas.

Himiko popped up onto her knees and gave you puppy eyes. Before long, she began imitating a dog altogether. She panted and lolled her tongue until you were laughing at the display and the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Ok, ok. “ you laughed, reaching into your bag for your wallet. Neon green nails appeared in your view before they seized the entirety of the wad of bills from your wallet.

The girl bolted the moment her fist clenched around the cash.

“Hey!” you screamed, chest exploding with anxiety, as you took off after her.

One of your slip ons came off, and your bag’s contents took turns beating into your sides every time it came back against your side.

The girl had bolted across the parking lot, and she was faster than you by far. A pickup truck on the far end of the parking lot roared to life, and she’d hopped in by the time you caught up.

“I really do love your bag!” Himiko screamed out of the window as it peeled out of the parking lot.

You dropped to your knees, frantically trying to figure out what just happened.

‘You got robbed you idiot.’ anxiety had wrapped its vice grip around you, and now your thoughts sounded like a drill sergeant with a hard on for you. Had she been planning that all along, or had she’d seen something in you once you started talking? Had she been watching you since you’d gotten dropped off? Your mind raced with the hows and whys, until you thought of your boyfriend.

Once you realized how angry and disappointed Bakugou was going to be, the tears you’d tried to ward off came spilling forth. He was always breaking his back and risking his freedom for what little money you two held between you, and you’d stupidly gone and gotten it stolen. How many times had he’d told you that this wasn’t the first day of kindergarten? How many times had he warned you about befriending strangers?

He was going to finally realize you were more of a burden than a compliment and drop your sorry ass. Your most feared thought only made the tears come harder, and you clutched your bag to yourself pathetically to ground yourself in the swirl of panic.

People warily watched you, taking in your sad appearance. The feeling of their eyes giving you the same looks as those girls was almost too much to bear. Worry, but more so disgust, for the teary eyed girl with one shoe and messy hair. The girl with her life in her bag, crying over money they’d likely spend in their first few minutes of shopping.

“What’s wrong with you goddamned animals!? You see a girl crying in the street and you stare? Braindead, mouth breathing-” the rest of the swear laden rant was lost to you as you leaned into the familiar strength that yanked you from the ground.

“Katsuki.” you murmured appreciatively as he slipped your missing shoe on your barefoot.

“Come on baby.” you knew he was burning with questions, and they would go stalled, not forgotten, as he wanted you away from the now sufficiently shamed onlookers.

The smell of caramel surrounded you, and the morning’s chill began to dissipate in light of the car’s heat. Home.

By the time you were settled in the mustang’s passenger seat, your tears had slowed, but you were still in the trenches of dread.

“Who the hell hurt you?” Bakugou slammed his door, but made no moves to leave the area. You knew he wouldn’t until he got answers.

“What did they do baby? Give me a description of em’. Did you catch a name?”

Your cheeks glistened in the rising sunlight, and for a moment he was struck by how beautiful you were, but that only served to make him madder. He gripped the battered steering wheel, open..close..open...close, so he could try and ease the tremors in his hands. All he could picture was punching some faceless guy’s face into paste on a pavement, and...why the hell weren’t you talking?!

“(Y/N)!”

“It was me!” you cried. “I-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” his scowl scrunched into confusion, before it returned to its previous state. “Don’t you dare start that blaming yourself shit. If somebody hurt you-”

“I tried to give this g-girl two dollars, and she snatched all I had and ran. I think she planned it, there was a p-p-pickup truck. ” you hiccuped, hating every second you had to spend retelling the encounter.

Bakugou stared at you, eyes wide and unbelieving for a moment, and you wished your seat would swallow you whole. It could spit you out anywhere so long as it wasn’t there.

“You what?” he growled lowly.

“Katsuki I-I swear I’m sorry.” the hiccups continued. “I’ll make it back-”

“Dammit (Y/N)!” he slammed his hands on the steering wheel, and another scuff joined the rest. “How many times have I told you?!”

“I know.” you sobbed. “I just...she was so nice-”

“Manners of the fucking year robbing you and all!”

Unable to meet his heated crimson gaze and you leaned against the window. The chill outside pressed against the glass, begging to compete with the heat being generated inside of the car. You pressed your warm face further into its chill, trying to ignore the charged energy emanating from the seat next to you. He must’ve really been pissed not to scold you about doing that to his car baby.

“I’m sorry Katsuki..I just felt like shit and wanted to help somebody.” your words were muffled due to half your mouth being mashed into the glass, but he didn’t ask you to repeat yourself.

He didn’t say anything until a few minutes had passed, and it was you who had to ask him to repeat himself.

“I said...I said I’m getting you a bus ticket home.”

He’d done it. He’d voiced the thing you’d wanted to hear least. You’d rather him yell for hours than talk like this.

“Katsuki...” you peeled yourself from the window and turned to face him. “No!”

“ Yes .” he turned his gaze to you, the red roiling with anger still, but sharing its space with sadness now. “It’s selfish of me to keep you out here, you don’t belong on the streets.”

“I belong wherever you are.” you implored, turning your whole body towards him.

You didn’t like the way he was talking at all. He would sometimes say something about sending you back to your parents, until you’d remind him you were grown and shut him up with a kiss. This felt more final however, and you couldn’t stand it.

“You were crying in the street over 10 damn dollars (Y/N). I’m supposed to take care of you!” Bakugou’s entire being was threaded together by his pride and his word. The whole situation was killing him from one end to the other. His mind was relieved you hadn’t been attacked, screaming at him to find the girl and whoever else was involved, and demanding he scrounge together bus fair and get you the fuck away from him.

“You do!” tears bloomed in your eyes again, this time for entirely different reasons. “ Baby , you do.”

You scrambled into his lap, ignoring your inner thighs getting battered by the console in your haste to surround your man. Bakugou didn’t fight your intrusion, but he wouldn’t meet your gaze again either.

Slim fingers threaded through his wild, ash blond spikes, tugging until he was forced to look you in the eye.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can’t make me leave, I won’ t .” you thumbed his cheekbones. “Tell me you want me gone.”

He didn’t and you both knew he wouldn’t say that, not like that. A frustrated sigh fled his lips as he flexed his fingers. Of course he didn’t want you gone, he barely wanted to leave you alone to take a piss most days.

The fingers of one hand danced across your back gently, before firmly bringing you closer to him. His other hand grasped your chin and so he could press his lips to yours in a kiss. It was angry, but you wanted it all the same, understanding the anger wasn’t for you. You got what you wanted, which was physical comfort and putting to bed any silly ideas of separation.

“I don’t want to see you like that again.” he murmured against your lips. “You deserve better than that. I need to give you better than that.”

“ I need to be with you, that’s what I deserve.” You cupped his cheeks initiating another kiss.

“Yeah, yeah.” he kissed a path over your face, stopping when he reached your temple. “You’re a dumbass for staying, and I’m a dumbass for letting you.”

End Note: This once happened for real, sort of. A girl was having a full on cry fit on the floor of Walmart’s entrance and nobody helped until my mom stepped in and asked what she could do for her. So yeah..if you were wondering why no one helped the reader, I guess sometimes people don’t.

[parkerparts]

Christmas Chaos & Confessions

Parkner Week 2019 Day One: “Road Work Ahead” / Parades / Identity Porn

Read it on AO3 here.

Peter loved Christmas. It was probably his favorite holiday, although Valentine’s Day was a close second. However, this Christmas parade shebang was sucking away a good bit of his Christmas spirit. 

“You know, I always thought Mr. Harrington was a bit odd, but I didn’t think he was cruel,” Ned said as he walked with Peter. 

Midtown had a float for the Christmas parade but a shortage of students who wanted to ride it. Mr. Harrington, in a charitable act, had signed the entire decathlon team up. 

Peter sighed. “Yeah, well, at least we get service hours for this. I still need, like, forty.”

Ned started at him. “Dude. You’re literally a superhero. You patrol almost every night. Don’t you think you’ve done more than enough community service?”

“I can’t exactly tell that to the school though!” 

“Keeping secrets, are we Petey? Come on, fess up. Is it you who’s been leaving lipstick marks all over the bathroom mirrors?” Harley interjected. Peter felt his face heat as Harley smirked at him. He hadn’t realized they had already reached the Midtown float. 

“Don’t call me Petey. And you wish.”

“I do, actually. Light pink lip gloss would really suit you.”

Peter, whose face was surely bright red by now, was saved from having to respond by MJ. “Your gay really popped out, Harley. Calm down. What’s up, losers?”

“We’re good!” Ned replied brightly. “Well, I mean, personally I’d be much better if I was asleep and warm than out here for this stupid parade, but that might just be me?”

A chorus of negatives responded, not just from Peter and his friends, but the rest of the decathlon team and an assortment of other students on the float as they climbed on. Peter shivered as the float started moving. He was wearing no less than three layers underneath the Midtown sweatshirt he had to wear for the parade, but the New York winter wind was biting. His inability to thermoregulate, a definite downside of his spider genes, meant he was still freezing. 

Suddenly, he felt a warm, heavy weight on his shoulders, and he looked up. Harley raised an eyebrow when Peter caught his eye. “I know you’re always cold, so I brought an extra blanket. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Harley,” Peter murmured, pulling the thick, flannel blanket around himself. It smelled like the lab and DUM-E’s favorite air freshener. The familiar mix of scents warmed him just as much as the physical blanket did. 

He felt like he could overheat when Harley smiled gently back at him. For a moment too long to be normal and too short to be satisfactory, they just stared at each other, smiles frozen on their faces, eyes locked on the other’s. 

When Harley Keener moved to New York, he found himself a place in Peter’s life so easily that one might think there had been a Harley-shaped hole in his life all along. 

Their little moment was broken by a sudden screaming in Peter’s mind to get down, and he screamed the words in panic just before the world burst into flames. He heard the explosion before he felt it, a sharp, metallic bang followed by a gust of heat and smoke that knocked him to the ground. Peter couldn’t see through the smoke, couldn’t breathe, and for a terrifying moment, he was fifteen years old again, trapped under a burning building. 

Help, please!

The sound of screaming, Betty and Ned’s screaming, dear God, startled Peter back into his body. He gasped. Smoke filled his lungs, but he coughed it out as he stumbled off of the float and into a hazy alleyway. 

Come on, Spider-Man.

Peter pressed a button on his watch. He and Mr. Stark had built it together over Thanksgiving break for emergencies. It housed a compact version of the Iron Spider suit that assembled around Peter in seconds. 

“Hello, Peter,” Karen’s calm voice greeted. Peter would have quipped back a response if he hadn’t been too busy gulping in fresh air through the suit’s filtration system. “There seems to be a problem at the intersection of Main Street and Kissena Boulevard.”

“Yeah, I know that. Thanks, K. What am I looking at?” Peter scrambled up the wall of the nearest building and perched on the side of it, looking out at the street. The float in front of Midtown’s was on fire, and it was quickly catching, so Peter swung down as he listened to Karen’s report. 

“Osborn Corporation’s float exploded. My scans show that it resulted from a gas leak. There are no deaths or critical injuries. I suggest we contain and put out the fires and move any civilians out of the surrounding area.”

“Any backup?” he asked, landing on Midtown’s float. He knew he should contain the fire first because it was quickly spreading onto Midtown’s float, but those were his friends, and he needed to make sure he got them to safety. He helped a squealing but otherwise uninjured Flash off the float as he scanned the area. Ned and Betty were already running off with a group of other students, MJ was helping Brad off of the float, but Harley was nowhere to be seen.

“Iron Lad is in the area. ETA two minutes.” Peter smiled beneath his mask as he shot a blanket of inflammable webbing over Osborn Corp.’s float. Iron Lad was a relatively new superhero. He had shown up in New York around three months ago in his shiny red and silver suit to help Peter out during a particularly difficult confrontation. Peter had called him his knight in shining iron armor. 

Iron Lad was another teenage vigilante. He had described himself as a friendly neighborhood Iron Man when Peter ran into him on patrol the next day. Tony had laughed at that for hours when Peter told him. The other boy also apparently was in contact with Tony, who was frustratingly tight-lipped about the subject whenever Peter brought it up. Peter was grateful for the help. He swallowed his pride and developed a patrol schedule in coordination with Iron Lad, which allowed him a little more time for other stuff. Junior year was rough, and although he felt some niggling guilt about slacking off on his superhero duties, he trusted the city was in good hands with Iron Lad. Peter’s favorite nights, however, were when he would patrol with Iron Lad every Sunday night. They’d usually end by sitting together on a rooftop somewhere and watching the sunrise, despite knowing that they had school the next morning. They spent those nights stopping crime together, sure, but they also ate pancakes from iHop on their rooftop picnics and talked into the early morning. 

One night, Peter had confessed his crush on Harley Keener. He decidedly didn’t mention his other crush on Iron Lad. In return, the boy had confessed his own crush, a boy at his school who was apparently a super genius. He hadn’t mentioned a name, though, and Peter hadn’t wanted to ask. It made Peter’s heart sink, but he ignored it and decided it was probably best if the two of them remained friends, anyway. 

It didn’t stop him flirting with the other superhero to the best of his ability, but that was nobody’s business but his own. 

“Great,” Peter said as he landed on the road next to Osborn Corp.’s float. “Can you find Harley for me?”

There was a heart-stopping pause before Karen shiftily replied, “I cannot—“

The rest of her answer was cut off by the panicked buzzing in Peter’s brain and the following explosion. 

“Not again,” he groaned. The impact had thrown him against a building, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He leaned his head back for a moment as he tried to catch his breath and recenter himself. “What was that?”

“The float in front of Osborn Corporation’s was carrying pyrotechnics, which caught fire and went off. Iron Lad is on the scene.”

“Hey, Spider-Boy. How’s it going?” Peter grinned weakly as a familiar figure landed in front of him. 

“Better now that you’re here, Iron Knight,” he teased. 

“Just a little road work ahead, huh?”

Peter took the outstretched hand and got to his feet. “Uh, yeah. Sure hope it does!” He delighted in the sound of Iron Lad’s laughter as he swung away, the other hero flying right behind him. 

Alongside the fire team that eventually showed up, Spider-Man and Iron Lad got the situation under control. While Iron Lad helped contain and put out the fires, Peter cleared the area of civilians and treated the minor injuries he saw. Some people with more severe burns and broken bones, he helped into the ambulances that arrived. 

Finally, the two superheroes left the scene behind for the policemen, who would handle the legal side of things. They hovered in the air for a moment, Peter on a web and Iron Lad with his repulsors. “Good work, Spidey.”

Peter grinned. “Thanks, man. Don’t know what I would have done without my favorite crime-fighting partner.”

“I’m your favorite? Wow, I’m flattered. Don’t let the big man hear you say that. He’d get jealous.”

“I’ll face Iron Man’s wrath for you any day.” Peter said. “See you around, Iron Lad!”

As Peter swung away, he saw the other boy salute, causing him to laugh. He spotted his friends and the other Midtown students gathered on the football field, so he quickly dropped into a nearby abandoned building to get out of his suit before running over. 

A cheer went up as they saw Peter jogging across the football friend. He suspected it had more to do with the fact that, with the roll call finally complete, they could all go home and be done with the whole mess, but it made him smile, anyway. 

“There you are, Peter!” Harley cried, running to him and meeting him halfway. “Jesus, I was so worried about you. Where were you? What took you so long to get here?”

“I got lost?” Peter started before nodding to himself. “Yeah, I got loss. The first explosion really shook me up, and the smoke made me disoriented. I was probably halfway to Brooklyn before realizing I was going in the wrong direction.”

Without warning, Harley pulled him into a hug. Peter really hoped that he couldn’t feel his heartbeat racing. “I’m just real glad you’re okay, Petey.”

“Don’t call me Petey,” he grumbled into Harley’s shoulder. “Sorry, I lost your blanket. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Harley laughed, a rumble that Peter felt more than heard, and it warmed him to the core. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m not!” Peter cried indignantly, pulling away. 

“You are,” MJ butt in as Ned swept Peter into a hug of his own. Ned and MJ both knew about his whole Spider-Man gig and were therefore much more chill about his late appearance than Peter. Well, Ned always worried whenever Peter became Spider-Man, but they had both seen him unharmed in the midst of the chaos. 

It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t told Harley on purpose. He trusted Harley with his heart, but he just never got around to saying anything about it. However, as Harley swung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into his side, Peter resolved to tell Harley later that day. He hated seeing the other boy worried, and he didn’t want to keep secrets from him anymore. 

“Do you guys want to go get hot chocolate or something? It’s on me, since I made you worry so much,” Peter offered. 

“As lovely as that sounds, we’ll have to take a rain check, Peter. It’s about time we started heading back for lunch. I’m sure everyone saw the news, and I let them know we’re both fine, but you know how they are. Unless you want Iron Man showing up in the middle of Starbucks to drag us both home, we should probably save it for another day,” Harley reminded him.

Peter pouted. “Fine. We’ll see you guys later!”

Ned and MJ waved them off as Harley and Peter started walking. Leah and Abbie had arrived the night before from Tennessee as soon as Abbie’s Christmas break started, so Tony was hosting a get-together lunch at the penthouse he, Pepper, Morgan, and Harley lived in. May, Happy, and Rhodey would all be joining them. It was a little family reunion for the holidays. 

Peter and Harley walked in a comfortable silence. The bustle of the city, the wind whistling in his ears, and the steady drum of Harley’s heartbeat calmed Peter down. The last sound especially washed away the lingering panic he had felt when Harley was nowhere to be seen after the first explosion. 

“I have something to tell you,” Peter said, suddenly, at the same time as Harley. They both stopped a block away from their building and turned to face each other. 

“You first,” Harley said with a laugh. 

Peter shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. You go first.”

“This is my first white Christmas,” Harley said, the sudden softness of his tone startling Peter. “Abbie’s too. I’m just really glad to be spending it with y’all. All of y’all. Tony, Pep, Morgan, Abbie, Mama, and you. You’re my family, and I just, I guess I’m just trying to say thank you.”

“Oh, Harley,” Peter murmured, grabbing the other boy’s hand. “You’re so welcome. We’re so lucky to have you here.”

Harley smiled and squeezed his hand. “Thanks,” he repeated. “Now your turn.”

Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. “I’m Spider-Man.”

He opened his eyes to watch Harley’s reaction. It surprised him how passive it was. His face didn’t change, and he didn’t make any noise. If it wasn’t for the twitch of his lips and the knowing glimmer in his eyes, Peter would have thought Harley didn’t hear him. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured.”

Peter stared at Harley for a moment. “I’m sorry, what? How?”

“Working alongside you to do vigilante work feels a lot like how we work in the lab and do school work together, and you have that moral goodness and self-sacrificing tendency of a superhero.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. Wait, hold up. Rewind. What did you say? We do vigilante work together? Who-” It took an embarrassingly long few seconds to put together all the pieces in his scrambled brain, but he realized “You’re Iron Lad. Oh, crap. That’s embarrassing.”

Harley laughed and bumped Peter’s shoulder with his own. “Hole in one, Parker. I always knew you were a child genius. And how is that embarrassing?”

“Because,” Peter sighed, resigning himself to another confession. “I distinctly remember telling Iron Lad that I have a crush on one Harley Keener.”

At that, Harley had a more pronounced reaction. His eyes widened, and his grip on Peter’s hand tightened. “Oh. That’s right. Forgot about that.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay though. I told Spider-Man that I have a crush on Peter Parker.”

Peter let go of Harley’s hand in surprise. “I’m sorry, you what now? I definitely would have remembered that.”

“Didn’t I?” Harley asked, tilting his head to the side. “I remember telling you as Spidey about the time that you as Peter Parker bitch slapped Brady for leaking a freshman girl’s nudes and how that was the moment I realized I kind of really liked you.”

Peter laughed at the memory. “I do remember that actually, but you never mentioned any names, and I didn’t know what school you went to, so how was I supposed to know?”

“You’re a genius, aren’t you?” Harley laughed. Peter couldn’t help but smile. 

“Not when it comes to you, I’m not. I never know what to do with myself around you, yet somehow I’m like most comfortable around you,” Peter admitted. 

Harley smiled softly. “Back at you, Petey.”

“Don’t call me Petey,” Peter reminded him as he hugged the other boy. “In case it wasn’t clear, Harley Keener, I really, really like you.”

“And I really, really like you too, Peter Parker,” Harley whispered in his ear. They stayed like that, hugging each other in the middle of a winter flurry, for a moment that Peter wanted to last forever. 

Then a snowball crashed into the side of his face, and Peter remembered that good things never last forever. 

“Abbie!” Harley cried indignantly, tearing himself from Peter’s arms to chase after his giggling little sister. “You little gremlin, come back here!”

Peter laughed as he chased after the both of them. “Good to see you too, cowgirl!” he cried, stopping to pick up a handful of snow in his mittened hands. 

Later, as everyone gathered in the penthouse’s living room to watch a Christmas movie, Peter placed himself in Harley’s arms as they sat surrounded by blankets on the floor. This, he thought, placing a tender kiss on Harley’s cheek, is my happy place. 

[holy-fate-worse-than-death]

We’ll See About That - Ch 1

Warnings: major character death, smoking, swearing

Summary:

Conner Kent is dying. Clark is hell-bent on using Kryptonian technology to find a cure, not yet at the point of desperation that would drive the Big Blue Boy Scout to ask him for help.

But, after watching his own son’s heart break at the prospect of losing his best friend, Bruce realises Conner’s other father figure is the boy’s only hope.

More than that, Bruce thinks, Lex deserves to know.

In which Bruce Wayne fights for Lex Luthor because he knows all too well what it’s like to lose a son. Angst ahoy!

*

‘The last time we were this quiet was at Jason’s funeral,’ Lex says.

And, for the second time in Bruce’s life, Lex Luthor breaks his heart.

Pairings: Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne, TimKon

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Word Count: 2034

Chapter 1 under the cut >>>

‘What could I have done better?’ Bruce asks quietly.

'This is about Superboy, isn’t it?’ Jason replies sharply, 'You want to tell Luthor.’

His second son has always had a knack for cutting through the bullshit, a trait that Alfred would say is a reflection of Bruce. Were it any other day, it might have made him feel proud. Today, it humbles him.

The sun is rising over Gotham’s bleak skyline as father and son share cigarettes and pointed gazes atop a secluded rooftop ledge, the only terms of the uneasy alliance between them being that neither will tell Nightwing about the cigarettes.

’Lex,’ Bruce replies equally as sharply, 'was the only man brave enough to stand beside me at your funeral.’

If that touches a nerve, Jason doesn’t show it.

His helmet is off, much like Bruce’s cowl is drawn back. Black hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders mirror each other; a subtle challenge evident in the tension in their backs. Who takes the last cigarette? Who gets up to leave first? Do they part ways, or head in the same direction?

The cogs turn in both of their heads, synchronising like clocks without a word being uttered. A plan unfolds in tandem. One ashes their cigarette, then the other.

When Jason finally speaks, Bruce senses the apprehension in his tone, though it’s a near-perfect imitation of apathetic even to his mentor’s ears.

'I’ll keep Tim distracted,’ Jason says.

What goes unsaid is far more powerful, communicated in the briefest of glances Bruce’s way before Jason stands and returns his helmet to his head.

The shiny red thing is a relic of days past. Days when Batman was still the feverish daydream of an angry young boy. Days when the taste of Lex Luthor was still fresh on his lips.

He deserves to know, Jason’s eyes say.

Perhaps Bruce is imagining it, but he thinks they might also say, I wish someone had been there to put us back together.

*

'You’re here to tell me not to break your son’s heart,’ Conner says.

Bruce is seated next to him on a patch of yellowing grass, somewhere amongst the vast nothingness that spans the width and breadth of rural Kansas.

The cheap two-door he’d rented from a town a few hours north of here is parked behind them on a shoulder lane, shielding them from the prying eyes of truckers on the dusty road.

Bruce had thought better of the expensive suits he normally wore, and now finds himself in ill-fitting jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt over it all that makes him feel a few decades younger than he is.

It’s cold and foggy; early evening.

'I’m here to tell you to ask your father for help,’ Bruce counters.

The ensuing silence speaks volumes. Bruce notes clinically that at no point does Conner think he might have been talking about Clark, nor does he deny that Lex is his father.

'Your son didn’t really die,’ Conner says eventually, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.

It’s a deflection tactic, Bruce knows, or perhaps just a low-blow designed to knock Bruce off his game. And it might have worked, had The Joker himself not been employing the same tactic against him for nearly half a decade.

Bruce briefly contemplates telling Conner everything he’s wanted to say since he found out Jason was alive. Perhaps, That’s not my boy, or, The little bird I knew and cherished never came back to the nest.

Instead, he finds himself thinking about the man he’d sat atop a grimy Gotham rooftop with that morning. His son, certainly, but not the one he lost.

So he says what he thinks that man on the rooftop would want him to say:

'I think Jason would be insulted to know he’s still thought of as the boy who died that night.’

Conner doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s with another protestation, just as half-hearted as the first.

'Lex Luthor is an evil man.’

'Evil,’ Bruce says slowly, chewing on the word, 'is a hyperbole Superman is quite fond of.’

'And you’re the right man to judge that?’ Conner quips back, voice pitching upwards, 'One exploitative billionaire to another?’

Bruce lets out a wry laugh. It comes out sounding more like the type of short bark a dog would make if it felt threatened.

'Certainly not,’ Bruce concedes.

He finally turns towards Conner, his demeanour something approaching friendly.

'I hardly think Lex Luthor’s ex-fiance is the right man to judge the virtue of his past deeds,’ Bruce says boldly, surprising himself not for the first time since this exchange began.

There’s a pause, during which the sun descends fully below the horizon and they are engulfed in near-complete dark.

Bruce waits for Conner to speak, but instead he finds himself speaking. Perhaps it’s the bat in him; emboldened by the dark.

'But perhaps I’m the right man to offer you some insight into your father’s humanity.’

Another long pause. The wind stills as though Mother Nature herself is holding her breath alongside Bruce.

Just as Bruce is starting to frantically cobble together another moving speech, Conner exhales. A long, deep sigh.

'I’m dying,’ he says.

There’s no sadness in it, just a bone-deep resignation that damn near rips Bruce’s heart out.

'You know what your father will say, don’t you?’

Conner responds with a tight nod.

'We’ll see about that,’ they say in unison.

On the way back to the car, Bruce finds himself saying something else that is far too honest for such a young man to bear:

'As for Timothy.’

He hears Conner suck in a pained breath, wonders if it’s the illness plaguing him or the pain of thinking about the boy he loves.

'You Luthors have a certain knack for breaking the hearts of Wayne men,’ Bruce says plainly, 'I doubt I could stop you if I tried.’

*

In the car, Conner asks the practical questions; the ones that come to mind only after the gravity of the situation has settled on your shoulders:

'How did you find me?’

'Kryptonian scanners are quite good at picking your genetic signatures from amongst the other lifeforms on this planet.’

Bruce’s hands tense on the steering wheel as he braces for the next question, and for the answer he knows he won’t be ashamed of even though he ought to be.

'So Clark sent you?’

The bleak greys of mid-evening Kansas speed by out the window. The moon and the stars are still obscured by cloud cover, though they’re yet to see a drop of rain.

It had felt somehow wrong to do anything but drive from here to Metropolis. A waste of time that Lex would chastise them both for, Bruce was sure. But there was something Bruce couldn’t shake about the notion that every boy ought to experience a cross-country road-trip at least once in his life. Maybe they’d have a greasy breakfast at some non-descript gas station and forget their capes for a few short moments.

Superheroism seemed like a burden too great for a dying boy to bear. Though perhaps not as burdensome as dying itself.

'The Watchtower is equipped with Kryptonian sensors,’ Bruce finally says.

'Partners in crime, then.’

Another dozen miles of road pass.

'Is Dick with Tim?’

'Jason is looking after him.’

'Is that wise?’

'No less wise than letting him date the half-Kryptonian son of Lex Luthor.’

*

They arrive at LexCorp’s head office a day or so later. The gas station food has been mediocre, and the car rental company has been ringing him off the hook.

Neither of them have slept, and it shows in their eyes.

A nameless Wayne Enterprises employee brings them fresh clothing – a suit for Bruce, something relaxed but fashionable for Conner.

They change in a parking lot that’s entirely too close to the Daily Planet for Bruce’s liking.

It feels a little too much like they’re changing into their costumes for a mission, and Conner looks a little too much like Clark in this light.

He thinks of a hundred missions in Metropolis that started just like this one, long before the Justice League was formed – before they’d even taken on protégés like Conner and Tim.

They waltz into LexCorp fifteen minutes later like they own the place, exiting a top-of-the-line sports car (Bruce would be lying if he said he paid any attention to car manufacturers) that the Wayne Enterprises employee had exchanged for their rental.

Bruce is unsure if the receptionist at the front desk recognises himself or Conner, but by the time they reach the sleek elevator at the opposite end of LexCorp’s glossy atrium, she is chittering into a telephone receiver.

Bruce hears something like, Yes, Mr Luthor, as he guides Conner into elevator first, a tentative hand clasped on the boy’s shoulder.

Lex knows by now, Bruce thinks as he watches the floor numbers tick up one by one. He’ll have these precious seconds to prepare.

What else could it mean, when Batman arrives on your doorstep with your son in tow?

'He knows who I am,’ Bruce thinks to say a few floors before the hundredth.

Conner doesn’t speak, but nods almost imperceptibly. Equally as imperceptibly, he leans closer to Bruce, toward the hand on his shoulder.

The hundred-and-first floor is Lex’s. The gentle ping of the elevator is like shrapnel tearing through their heads. Conner flinches, Bruce squeezes his shoulder.

The doors slide open, and Lex’s face is so pale Bruce is sure his heart stops when he sees it.

Mercifully, however, Lex has eyes only for his son.

They teeter there, the three of them, for a few heartbeats too long. Bruce wonders if this is how people who aren’t bats feel when they stand on the edge of a cliff.

Then, Conner does something that surprises all three men. He leaps into his father’s arms, nearly knocking him off-balance.

Bruce is there to catch Lex’s elbow and keep him right way up. It’s a scorching hot moment of contact; skin-on-skin because Lex’s dress shirt has been hastily rolled up around the elbows.

Bruce swallows it down and turns his back to the father and son, allows them their privacy.

Conner is whispering something like, I’m dying, over and over. In stark contrast to the resignation of yesterday, now Conner sounds terrified. Beneath the anxious fog that has settled over Bruce’s mind, he is faintly aware that Conner’s newfound terror comes from the realisation that this is it. Turning to Lex is the Hail Mary they had all prayed they would never have to make.

Bruce is reminded of Clark in the past, the way he would so callously say things like, Lex Luthor? I wouldn’t go to him if I was dying. Bruce files that away for later; to ruminate on the impression that has left on Conner, to chastise Clark and remind him of his responsibilities as a mentor. If, after this, he still has someone to mentor.

'We’ll see about that, son,’ Lex says.

There is comfort in it – perhaps more than there ought to be. Lex’s confidence is unwavering, even in the face of crisis. Difficult? A few seconds. Impossible? A few minutes. But Bruce is sure he is scared; that any moment the cracks will begin to show.

Bruce glides across the room unnoticed, and finds himself idling awkwardly in the middle of it. Perhaps it is the sleek, futuristic furniture that Lex has decorated his office with. Is that a couch, or a table? Either way, it puts Bruce directly in Lex’s line of fire the moment he spins around, and Bruce supposes the room is designed with these exact moments in mind.

'How did this happen?’ Lex demands, voice booming throughout the sparse, cavernous space.

Bruce takes a moment – selfishly – to breathe deeply. Lex watches him with keen eyes, every muscle in his body going rigid at the thought of Batman needing to steady himself before this conversation.

'Truthfully,’ Bruce says.

He grimaces, because he knows not even the ever-fatalistic Lex Luthor will have prepared for an answer this grim.

'We have no idea.’

[discocritic]

mad as rabbits by panic! at the disco?

(quick warning for attempted suicide (if this counts): a character is seen standing on the edge of a building, considering jumping, but is stopped before they attempt anything.)

~

The first time they see the boy, he’s shoplifting at Tommy Chow Mein’s.

The figure in the second aisle, frame hidden by an oversized purple hoodie, is inspecting the merchandise just a little too closely. As Pony watches, he makes a move to slip something up his shirt.

The store owner, arms full carrying a box of plastic toothbrushes, suddenly drops the package and rushes over to him. The two other customers pretend they’re not paying attention and continue browsing the overpriced-by-ten-carbons goods.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” he barks. The boy jumps and a can of beans falls out from under his ratty jacket.

“N-nothing,” he stammers. “I was, uh…”

The boy’s got to be eighteen or nineteen, somewhere around Show Pony’s own age. (At least, they assume that’s their own age; you can’t be too sure out here. Time passes strangely. Maybe they’re actually thirty and just lost track of time.)

Chow Mein snatches back the can and gives the boy the evil eye. “Out of my store now.”

Show Pony watches him walk out with his hands jammed in his pockets. He’s lucky he didn’t get more than a cold warning. Tommy has a gun specifically to scare off the older teenage thugs.

They figure this kid doesn’t fit the criteria. He’s scrawny and not really threatening enough. He gives off more of the “homeless wanderer” than “juvenile delinquent” vibes.

The next time they see the boy, it’s from the back of Dr. D’s old pickup two days later. They and two other Zone rats lounge in the truck bed, feeling the sun beat down on their uncovered faces and the wind thread through their hair. Hot Chimp is driving because the Doc’s having a particularly bad day—the jarring, persistent pain that barely ever goes away has come back worse in both legs—and they’re going to Zone One to drop off the truck in exchange for a supply of stronger painkillers. He won’t be driving around anymore regardless, so there’s no need to keep the pickup any longer.

They roll to a stop in front of a half-collapsed warehouse. (It looks a little seedy, but Pony’s seen worse.)

Chimp presses the horn, and a heavyset man with two little dogs nipping at his heels comes out from the back exits. The DJ gets out to negotiate a deal.

Pony jumps down and ties his shoe, and then heads for a rock nearby. The warehouse is backed up next to a shallow cave, and little stalagmites (or are they stalactites?) jut up from the ground at the entrance.

They settle down on top of a nice-sized boulder and survey the landscape. The other two ‘runners that came with him stay behind, holding hands and cuddling and just generally doing stuff that girlfriends do.

They’re lonely by themself, having not been with a partner in a while, so they don’t really want to sit there and watch and be even lonelier. They decide to stay here and bask in the sunlight, doing their second favorite thing: channeling the spirit of a lizard.

Lizards are cool. They make nice earrings when they bite onto your earlobes and dangle—if you can deal with the little sting of pain.

And if that gets annoying, well, at least they’re nutritious.

Win-win for Show Pony, eh?

They must fall asleep somehow, because the next thing they know, the sun is going down and they’ve fallen off their perch. Hot Chimp looks like she’s almost done negotiating the deal, and as they walk back, they hear the end of the terms of the deal. The guy’ll come to the station tomorrow to pick up the truck with one of his buddies, so right now they’ll have a way to get back home.

As they hop in the back, wedging themself snugly between two bales of hay, a glint of something catches their eye back at the cave.

They squint. It’s the boy. He’s scurrying around the entrance with a metal pot or something, and Show Pony realizes that’s what was making the sun glare off at them a second earlier.

Maybe they should get out and introduce themself?

But the truck roars to life and they’re pulling out before they have a chance to move. They wave as they pass the cave one last time anyway.

The boy looks up, watching them, but he doesn’t wave back.

The third time they sees the boy, it’s pouring down rain and he’s about to jump off the second floor of an abandoned parking complex.

Show Pony initially ventured up here to get out of the thunderstorm, but they got distracted after walking inside. A couple cars sit in their parking spots, left years ago at the start of the Analog Wars. They don’t bother to check any out; they were looted and siphoned of gas long ago.

Thunder crashes loud enough to make them jump and the hairs on their arms stand up on end. It sounded like that was right beside them.

Then there’s a muffled cry from the level above and they freeze.

Someone else’s in here! A friend!

Well, it could be a drac, which would definitely not be a friend, but it could be another ‘runner. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a little company during the rain.

So they head up to the next level, thinking how great it would be to get one of those shopping carts lying around the Zones and push someone down this ramp in it. They’ve seen a couple outside of the Paradise Motel, but that’s a long way away from here. Wherever here is. Zone One or somewhere cl—

All of a sudden, a shadow makes them look up. There’s someone standing on the edge of an opening made by a bomb blast. His knees are bent like he’s going to jump down.

Down to the ground, two, almost three stories below. In the rain. Landing onto concrete.

“Hey!” they call, suddenly afraid he’s going to leap right then and there. “Don’t do that!”

He turns around, almost losing his balance, and Show Pony sees who it is. They run forward just as he clutches a pipe sticking out from the opening, narrowly avoiding falling off.

“Get down,” they say, softer this time. “Don’t jump, please. Let me help.”

The boy shakes his head. Well, now that they’ve seen him up close, he doesn’t look much like a boy. More like a young man. A skinny, terrified, young man.

Lightning flashes, illuminating his face.

He has brown hair the same color of the dirt smudged across his face. His sweatshirt, the same one he was wearing at the store the first time Pony laid eyes on him, is pretty much rags instead of sweatshirt. There’s a large hole in the knee of his jeans, dried blood peeking out from between the last threads struggling to hold the fabric together.

“Nobody can help,” he says, despair saturating the words. “I can’t even help.” He looks back at the hole in the wall, but Show Pony grabs his wrist before he can edge back over there. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

He crumples to the ground, pulling them down too. Tears pool in his eyes and he buries his head in his arms.

“You gotta name?” they ask, sitting cross-legged beside him. They’ve carefully positioned themself between the wall and the guy in case he tries to jump again.

“It’s Max,” he mumbles after a long moment. Show thinks they’ve misheard him. His words are muffled since his face is still hidden. But they don’t make a move to get him to look up.

Max? That’s not a great alias. Easy for Better Living to track you down with.

“I mean, like, a 'joy name. No birth name-givin’ here,” they chuckle awkwardly. “I’m Show Pony. Didn’t get named that when I popped out. But 'ey, I think it’s a little more interesting than any normal name, y'know?”

Dammit, they’re rambling again. It’s not really the time for jokes.

Thankfully, the boy doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. People about to jump out of buildings don’t usually care about dumb jokes.

“No, no Killjoy name,” he whispers. “It’s just Max Armstrong. I just got out of the city a few days ago.” He wipes at his face, then raises his gaze. “Me and my brother. But he's… he’s not doing well.”

“What d'you mean?”

“They were gonna—well, y'know the pills?”

Show Pony nods. Of course they know the pills. Everyone knows the pills.

“Well, I stopped taking mine a couple months ago. But my brother didn’t, uh, he actually got into the stash I had building up and he overdosed two weeks ago. Um, Better Living Medical saved him, but as soon as he “got better” they said they were gonna take him to re-evaluation. Which, you know, no one ever comes back the same after that.“

Max shuts his eyes before continuing and takes a deep breath. "So I broke us both out as soon as he could walk. But he’s really sick now, with Zone flu or something and now—and I can’t find real medicine, and nobody has food and we don’t have any money. He—his name’s Gabe, um, Gabriel actually, and now he’s so sick he won’t even wake up. H-He hasn’t woken up in two days and… I was gonna jump 'cause—I’m so tired, I… I’m just—because I can’t do this anymore—”

He makes a little noise like he’s trying not to cry, and Pony reaches over to pat him on the arm. “Please don’t try to jump,” they say.

The pounding rain’s almost stopped; it’s quiet enough again to hear him without straining.

“Do anything but jump, okay? I’m sure there’s gotta be a way to help you.”

Max turns away and picks at a thread on his sweatshirt, presumably to hide his watery eyes.

Pony doesn’t care. They won’t judge.

“Show me where he is and we’ll help him. I know a guy… he’s good at stuff like this. Had a lotta practice. We can get your brother back. How old’s he?”

“Twenty-one. He’s my big brother and I just—I want him to get better and I’m scared that he’s never gonna…” He stops when his voice trembles. “I just wanna—I’m trying to be strong just in case.”

“Come on,” Show Pony says. “The storm’s almost passed. If you take me to him, I can radio my friend Dr. Death-Defying on the way over and he’ll meet us. I think he’ll know how to help him.”

“Okay.” And he stands up, and that’s it. Show Pony just successfully talked someone down from the ledge. They feel eternally relieved.

Max goes, and they follow him down the ramp and all the way back to the little cave they’d seen from the back of the truck, where Gabriel lays motionless inside underneath a stolen tablecloth/blanket. He’s using a backpack as a pillow. He has a fever just below one hundred and four degrees.

They get out their radio immediately.

Show Pony doesn’t really remember what happened after that, because everything is going so fast, but somehow it’s suddenly evening of the next day and the sky is clear. Max and Gabriel Armstrong are in the radio station, one room over, as Dr. D and Cola tend to the older brother.

It takes another two days, but he survives. He pulls through faster than either medic thought was possible.

When Pony asks how he recovered that quickly, Cola says he did it for his brother. That he knew he was there and woke up for him.

It’s probably true. They have one of the strongest sibling relationships they’ve ever seen.

And Pony becomes well acquainted with the two of them through the years. The brothers find two other 'joys in need of a larger crew and become one of the most famous desert gangs. Everyone knows who they are. Everybody knows their names. They’re legends.

But still, even though no one else has ever heard the story, even after the Fab Four are long gone, Show Pony never brings up the stormy night they helped save the lives of both Party Poison and the Kobra Kid.

[the-pontiac-bandit]

making my heart beat again

so, thanks to @startofamoment for the absolutely amazing prompt (this and all the others, which you should check out here!) and to @elsaclack for all her help - hope y’all like it!! (title from stuck like glue, by sugarland)

He’s still chuckling at her screaming sheep prank as he walks out of the break room. He’s ten paces away when he turns back, ready to stick his tongue out at her and yell one last comeback. Except that’s when he sees it: the Double Tuck.

His first thought is of Rosa and her scarily accurate Amy impression and then all of a sudden that won’t leave his head. Amy’s put her phone away, is pouring a packet of sugar into her coffee, and he’s standing completely still with the image of Rosa smiling and tucking her hair behind both ears overlaid on images of Amy doing the same thing. It replays for maybe a second or maybe an hour or maybe a month – he can’t really be sure because his stomach is bottoming out and his foot is tapping uncontrollably and every rational thought in his mind is on hiatus. Then, finally, the buzzing in his brain stops and he hears Rosa talking about how, “When Amy really likes someone…”

And his feet are moving.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets to the break room. He has no plan, no inkling of what he wants to say to her. But she likes him and he keeps repeating it to himself in his head so that the words take on rhythm as he walks – shelikesmeshelikesmeshelikesme – and then he’s at the door of the break room, putting his hand on the handle.

She looks so beautiful that it takes whatever breath he still had away for a moment – her forehead is a bit scrunched in the way it is when she’s focused on a difficult problem as she pours milk into her mug with the precision of a scientist. Her hair is falling like curtains around her face, largely obstructing his view, and he takes a moment, as he always does, to wonder what it would be like to touch it.

And then he remembers: she maybe likes him so he’ll maybe get to find out.

That sobering thought brings him crashing back to reality. His stomach, which had been swooshing back and forth, settles. His mouth closes, his teeth clacking together with the speed of the movement. His hand falls limply off the doorknob. Because he has no idea what comes next.

He can see it all clearly in his head: a thousand different scenarios play out in front of him. He tells her how he feels, possibly with a fantastic accent he’ll totally nail because everyone knows British dudes are, like, a billion times hotter (then he remembers she knows his normal voice and she knows everything about him and that plan goes out the window and also there’s no way Amy Santiago likes non-British Human Disaster Jake Peralta. But she did the Double Tuck).

Next on the list is just walking in and kissing her. But boundaries, and respect, and standing with Wendy, and she Double Tucked for Dave Majors and he definitely didn’t get to kiss her and it’s not fair to her. (Plus it’s a workplace and Amy Santiago does not kiss in the workplace. She definitely doesn’t kiss her partner of eight years in the workplace. No way. Never. But maybe she kisses him somewhere else?)

And then he’s imagining kissing her, and her kissing him back, and every sane idea in his head is suddenly with Doug Judy on a beach in the Caribbean or maybe taking a nap in one of his massage chairs at home but they definitely aren’t here to tell him what to do when the girl with the shiny hair and sparkling eyes and perfect laugh and adorably awkward antics that keep him up at night maybe possibly likes him back.

He’s not sure how no one noticed him standing there, in hindsight, but no one stopped him or called his name or moved him aside so they could get to the vending machines. In fairness, he has no idea how long he stands there thinking about what Amy Santiago’s lips might feel like against his – somehow both an eternity and a millisecond.

And then Amy is walking towards the door and he manages to stop looking like a fish gasping for water but he can’t seem to remember how to move quickly enough to get out of her way, to get back to his desk before she starts asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. So instead, she opens the door into his face and he stumbles back, forcing her to catch him by one arm that he’s flung into the air in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet.

He keeps going down (his knees wouldn’t be so shaky if her pantsuit wasn’t so damn sexy), now dragging her with him. They land in a heap on the tile, their legs tangling as one of her hands holds his wrist in a death grip, her other elbow holding her weight just over him. Her to-go mug full of fresh coffee clatters away, the top staying shut and protecting her morning dose of caffeine because of course she spent weeks researching to find the most insulated, spill-proof mug in the entire city.

For a beat, they’re staring at each other. And his heart rate is increasing like he slammed his foot on the gas in his car (he amends that thought because his car would have started smoking and possibly exploded long before it hit this speed. Then he has to amend his amendment because he isn’t entirely sure that his heart isn’t emitting white clouds of smoke inside his chest. Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s full to bursting).

And then Amy is disentangling herself, standing up, brushing off her pants and straightening her jacket, laughing uproariously.

“Are you still that freaked out by the screaming sheep, Pineapples? See – it’s not fun when the tables are turned!”

She pulls him up, and as she turns to pick up her mug, he sees her elbows move, and then both her hands are behind her ears, moving her hair out of her eyes, and he can’t be imagining it this time, right?

And then he knows he isn’t because over her shoulder as she walks back to their shared desk island, he sees Rosa cock one eyebrow at him – See? I told you so. – it seems to say. And he’s nodding back at her – he saw it and it was real and Amy Santiago definitely just did a Double Tuck about plaid-wearing, orange-soda-drinking Jake Peralta.  

Jake spends the rest of the day glued to his desk like Scully and Hitchcock, praying nobody notices how little work he gets done. For the next 117 minutes (according to the clock in the corner of his computer), his mind drifts aimlessly through the single repeating thought that Amy Santiago Double Tucked for Jake Peralta. With a short break for lunch, of course.

Amy Santiago, meanwhile, is sitting across from him, seemingly entirely unaware of the nebulous plans slowly converging in the back of his brain.

Minutes 118 to 356 are spent turning those nebulous plans into something more concrete, while taking breaks to alter the code he’s running to catch instances of insurance fraud. She said she didn’t want to date cops, and he wants to respect that. But Rosa’s words keep ringing around in his head - “She has to know you’re an option” - and all he’s wanted for this entire week (and maybe for a hundred weeks like this one) is to be able to ask her out for realz. Courage builds up like pressure in Charles’ rice cooker (Charles tried to teach him to use it last month, but all Jake really learned is that there’s a lot of very hot steam that releases onto your hand very painfully if you open the valve wrong).

Minutes 357 to 369 are spent finding the perfect video of a dog howling along to the recorder cover of “My Heart Will Go On” to send to Amy, because honestly, if he doesn’t bother her at least twice a day, she might send him to the doctor (or worse, the dentist. He’s not sure entirely how a weird mood would be connected to poor oral hygiene, but he’s sure it is somehow, and the dentist cried last time she saw his mouth.)

Finally, at minute 375 post-Double Tuck, he’s made a plan. It’s not really a plan in the way Amy makes plans - there’s no speech in a Word document on his computer, no carefully color-coded binder of every possible scenario, no strategic approach. It’s a Jake Peralta plan - go with his gut, lay it all on the line, and trust that his brilliant partner will have his back.

Jake’s fingers drum on the steering wheel as he drives - his Taylor Swift pump-up playlist is on shuffle, and the universe (or whatever little robot chip controls his cracked iPhone) must be rooting for him because he’s only had to skip one sad ballad and he’s had four celebratory love songs in a row.

He doesn’t even have to think about the route to Amy’s apartment - it’s burned into his memory from late night hangouts and cab rides home from Shaw’s and a million other small moments that built up to this, even if he isn’t sure what this is, yet.

When he pulls up, he sits in the car for a few more seconds, building up his confidence by scream-singing the bridge to “Ours” - it feels good and hopeful and for a few seconds, he gets lost in it until he remembers the enormity of what comes next and then his breath is quickening and his heart is racing but then he takes a deep breath and pictures the Double Tuck, just one more time. And Amy’s smiling at him in his memory and at the backs of his eyelids and maybe in a few minutes in real life, too.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate on her doorstep. He knows if he stops to think about what comes next, he’ll lose his nerve, and next thing he knows, he’ll be at home on his favorite massage chair replaying a dumb video of sheep screaming and thinking about maybe someday. 

Well, eyes closed, head first, can’t lose.

So he knocks.

Amy answers almost immediately, wearing her favorite sweat pants and - improbably - the NYPD sweatshirt he’s been looking for for two years.

“Jake?” She looks a little confused, but not too surprised. It’s not unheard of for him to come over for a movie marathon or a shared dinner - although never unannounced. 

“My sweatshirt!” The sight of his sweatshirt, which he had left on the back of his chair in mid-January of 2014 and never saw again, has driven everything else from his brain. For a few amazing seconds, the elephants in his stomach have stopped stampeding and his toes have unclenched in his sneakers. “Thief!” 

She laughs and pulls her hands up into the sleeves. “Yeah? So what? I was cold!”

“So you took my sweatshirt? Amy Santiago, a dirty cop! I never would have guessed! Of course, I could be persuaded to not turn you in if you...returned it?”

She punches him in the arm. “Never - finders’ keepers! Anyway, come in, nerd, and you can have a blanket, if you’re really so desperately cold.”

He follows her through her doorway, protesting that it’s early May and it’s more than 60 degrees outside and no one needs a wool blanket at this time of year, Amy, and then they’re in her kitchen, where the greasy smell of pierogies and potato pancakes wafts out of a white styrofoam box on the kitchen table.

She turns and leans on the counter, arms crossed. “So, what’s up?”

And then he remembers.

His mind turns into a blank slate, everything he’s ever learned (including the dialogue to Die Hard) somehow having run for the hills. His jaw drops open as he tries to find the words, and whatever elephants had mercifully abandoned their tap dancing routine in his stomach have returned with friends. 

Amy ‘s face is growing increasingly concerned by the second. Finally, after a silence so long that even he knows it’s weird, “Jake?” 

And she’s looking at him and her hair is in a ponytail but he sees the same look in her eyes that he caught that morning when everything changed, so he takes one more deep breath and dives in.

“Hey, so I know we said that from now on we were both only dating criminals,” he manages to spit out. (A smoother version of himself - a Dave Majors, a Blotter Dynamite - would add, “And you’ve stolen my heart - and my sweatshirt - so you definitely count.” But he’s just Jake Peralta, and he’s far too earnest and far, far too nervous for that.)

“But I like you. Like, romantic-stylez. With a z. But you knew that.” His words are growing faster and he’s rubbing his hands together, to keep them occupied and fend off the restlessness that’s telling him to either reach out and kiss her or to run in the opposite direction. “Point is, I think you might maybe, possibly, like me back? You did the Double Tuck and I saw it and I just wanted to say that--”

“I did the what?” Amy cuts him off. Her face is entirely inscrutable - he would give anything for her normally expressive face to crack and give him an inkling of what she was thinking, but it’s like a closed book for maybe the first time in the almost ten years he’s known her (if he were judging books by their covers, he’d really like this one, but in all honesty, he’d much rather be able to read what’s going on inside).

“You know...the Double Tuck?”

She stares at him blankly, waiting for further explanation. 

He sighs, realizing she maybe actually doesn’t know what he’s talking about, then takes a deep breath. He lets his face break into a wide grin and forces an Amy-esque giggle, soft and understated, reaching all the way to his eyes. Then, he brings up his hands and dramatically pushes non-existent locks of hair behind his ears.

Amy can’t help it - she bursts out laughing at the sight. It’s a little confusing and very terrifying, and the way his shoulders move as he does it is vaguely reminiscent of Rosa teasing her on a stakeout once a million years ago when there was a cute barista at the coffee shop they stopped in and suddenly she knows exactly what the Double Tuck is - if only she could stop laughing long enough to tell him.

He’s joined her now, the tension easing out of his body as laughs rise deep from his belly to mingle with hers against the background noise of cars driving by on the street outside. It’s a relief to see him so relaxed again, more like the Jake she knows than the nervous ball of energy that had arrived on her doorstep.

More like the Jake who makes her Double Tuck.

So she takes a step closer, and all of a sudden, the breath leaves his body and he remembers what he was saying but she’s looking at him and he doesn’t know what comes next and for the first time ever he’s maybe wishing he made Santiago-style plans because she definitely would have a contingency on page 57 of the binder and--

“So, you saw me Double Tuck.”

It’s a statement, but it seems to invite something more. So he takes a step closer.

 “Which means romantic-stylez is maybe on the table?”

 He sounds painfully hopeful, and he has that soft smile he saves just for her. So she bites her lip for a second, debating, and then nods to herself, as though she’s made her decision.

A hand on his hip.

“Which means romantic-stylez is definitely on the table.”

 Her eyes are dark, looking up at him, and he doesn’t know when they got this close to each other or whether it’s her proximity or her words that’s making his brain short circuit but he’s in more than a bit of shock and thisisrealthisisrealthisisreal and then his hand is on her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as his fingertips brush the hair pulled back behind her ear.

“Amy? Can I--”

And then she’s on her tiptoes and her lips meet his and her fingers are running through his hair as she pulls him closer and one of his hands finds the small of her back as his other reaches for the back of her head, where he runs into a scrunchie.

He’s fumbling to untie it when she laughs, briefly letting go to pull it out herself, and then his hands are running through her hair (and it’s just as soft as he imagined) and she can’t stop smiling against his lips and he’s sure he’s grinning just as broadly. The counter is digging into his back and he’s not sure when he got turned around but it doesn’t matter because Amy Santiago is kissing him.

Finally, after what feels like eternity but is probably much shorter, she pulls back, turning to lean against the counter with him and bumping his shoulder as she grabs his hand in hers.

“So, that happened.”

He turns to laugh at her, and he catches her, for the third time that day, with both hands behind her ears, trying to fix the hair he’d managed to displace.

Amy Santiago is Double Tuck-ing Jake Peralta and then he leans back in to kiss her again, thinking that Amy Santiago doing the Double Tuck might be his new favorite cop movie.

[allthatwehear]

i want to tell him how much i love him

why do you love someone who hurts you? we all make mistakes. we all make an abundance of mistakes. we all say things we don’t mean--but truly, is that ever science? i think most outbursts have some meaning to them; i learned this when i screamed at luke in the car. i meant when i said then; he meant what he said, too. 

he told me i was still his bestfriend. he said he didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to leave for study abroad, for him. yeah, it was harder than he thought to be away from me. then why would he say all those outbursts? what am i supposed to do? i told him, “i don’t know what to believe, the first or second phone call,” and i was telling the truth. 

i called tim lipps. he told me he thought luke’s second call was stalling. he thought it was weird that luke would tell your partner all these things. he said he sided with me. and it felt good to hear luke’s friend say how weird that was. and i’ve been wondering what it means to listen to the whisper. I’ve tried to find many opportunities to be alone so that if God speaks to me, he would. but almost every morning--screw that, it could be any time of the day--i bunch over and cry. i feel frail and weak; i actually have never felt so physically ill before, i’m serious. i weigh like, 120-125 pounds and i think i’m nearly 5″8--that probably bad, right? my spine is like, protruding from my back and i can feel my shoulders ache almost every day. i wake up and my head is heavy and i’m tired all the time, i could legitimately lay in bed for hours. i feel asleep yesterday and it’s hard for me to stay up. it’s hard for me to be out of the house. but i like to be alone. i like to either be with daniel and mom, or i like to be alone. 

i sat outside with juge to eat breakfast and that was really nice. we talked about her coding class and trying to find a loan and i was really proud of her. i also felt really connected to her. i’m proud of who she is, regardless of if she is changing herself. i think in a way, we are all just wondering who we are. maddie, jay, me--we are all just grappling at strings, trying to tug until we find that buried self--buried with caroline. she took us with her in the grave and it was the death of us. i don’t blame juge for wanting to change. i don’t blame anyone who thinks they might need to run away because the pain is too strong. i know what it looks like to not be emotionally strong enough to leave someone who probably deserves for you to leave--i side with them now, i get it now--i get why maddie doesn’t feel strong enough to be without someone. because once you get a taste for someone who can hold you close, who can touch you and bring physical warmth and strong arms to your aching bones, i get why you wouldn’t want to let that go. i get why you couldnt--because the alternative is too dang hard. because we are too weak and we have been made to ache, endlessly, because our caroline left us. and maybe we would be stronger people but right now all i can say is--i understand. 

i understand thinking you can work with what you have; actually, choking down pills, maybe changing yourself a little bit, to make it work; because you just can’t see it any other way. i’m getting stronger, though. and i realize that luke is young, very very young. and i am precious. and really, really bad ass and cool. i’ve been through a lot of shit. and i think it’s my turn to turn around and shape myself. i think it’s okay to change when you need to. i think it’s okay to drop a few friends, hideout at home just so you can breathe, stare outside because no thoughts will reach your mind. i think it’s okay to listen to stranger things music because that show makes you inspired/feel something like no other--i think it’s okay to wear his sweatshirt when you wake up. i think it’s okay not to speak to him, and to belt out the music you wish he could hear you saying--i think i’m finally clean, rain came down and washed it away--i’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard. i’ve got an elastic heart. 

until you pull too hard. and maybe he pulled too hard. and maybe now i can’t trust him, maybe i can’t see him the same--from this sweet, little boy who adored me--happened to be the one that hurt me the most? it’s delirious. it’s deceptive. it’s, mind-boggling, really. i remember the way he looked at me, sitting under the table in that hand-made fort thing we made, naiively thinking we would sleep there cause we just wanted to be together. i was leaving and susy was beside me and he was staring at me. i mean, staring. and then when we biked he started rubbing my hand to warm it up, and he wouldn’t stop rubbing it and i felt so peaceful and so hopeful and stared out at the water from gas works. i don’t think i even remember that bike ride back to the school. i remember rushing back into luke’s car to go find his phone, cause he left it, and the whole time i wished amy wasn’t in the back so we could talk about how much we liked each other. and i remember the red lights on his face, when we stood on the fremont bridge on our first date to fremont. he admitted later when i asked him if he was contemplating kissing me then; he was but he thought it was too early, too. i remember going to the art museum, i remember holding his hand in rimsky’s. i remember the way he looked at me at the rocky mountain church; someone mentioned how there are weddings held in there, and he looked right at me. actually, was staring right at me. and i felt like he was imagining us in that church, getting married: actually i’m pretty sure that’s what he was thinking, there was an undeniable look in his eye. and now that church holds a special place in my heart. but hah, would he ever sit down and write these things about me? 

i kinda want to be free again. i kinda want to be independent again. i kinda want to shed a layer and be really adventurous and indulge myself in really risky, ridiculous things that mean i stay up all night and im going crazy doing stuff--because fuck i’m young? why do i have to settle into being so old already? fuck i want to try new things! i want to jump off the fremont bridge, i want to stay up all night driving to somewhere and wake up, bleary eyes staring out at the sunrise, listening to billy joel or some shit, some old tunes. i want to find like-minded people like that. i want to live so crazy that i’m exhausted from doing so many things. i want to be the cool girl, with the beanies and the camera. maybe film; yeah, i like film. i want to be the one always hungering to go out and try something new--adventure off a ways and explore. listen to some old stuff. idk, i just wanna live. i want to stop crying all the time. i want to stop banking on him messaging me, or saying goodnight, or saying goodmorning. i don’t care anymore. i dont want to care anymore. i want to unplug, destress. hands off, let’s go. i’m off social media for awhile. maybe stop watching tv until i get home. i kinda want to dance in the mountains to some hipster music, i want to make someone laugh and date a mountain man. i want him to scoop me off my feet and carry me around, romantic-style. i want him to be so infatuated by me that he just wants to hear everything about me. he can’t get enough of me. he has light eyes and he stares into mine, concentration unbroken. i want him to watch stranger things with me and be super fashionable and cute. i want him to love jesus and to pray with me when im crying. he’s older than me, and he’s been through a few things. but he’s infatuated with me, and i have no doubts about how he feels. maybe he’s a little taller. 

why is heartbreak so hard? you can’t change a person. they are just who they are. maybe we can see when luke gets back--but if i have any strong inclination towards letting go, then i will. i’ve been in so much pain. so much more pain than reassurance. i can’t wait to start school. i can’t wait to start learning things again; to start feeling inspired and happy again. to put my mind towards studying and just distracting myself from the pain. i think luke held me back in some ways. maybe i head myself back in some ways. maybe marta was right--it was just bad timing. what is that gentle, yet fierce, whisper. 

is it, be fierce? love yourself fiercely--be fierce? what’s that--i deserve happiness? and fun? and to feel like a child? what’s the rush to grow up about, the focus so much on the future? why not think about the PRESENT

i want him to love all the quirks about me, man. so head over heels in love with me

ya lost me, and unless there’s some sort of miracle, and you decide that you are head over heels for me? idk man, i.d.k.

[itsiotrecords-blog]

http://ift.tt/2qZMlzm

What exactly constitutes as “oversharing” on social media? We can all pretty much agree that things like posting nudes, and sharing each other’s dirty laundry counts as part of the “oversharing” category. However, even though we all may agree, we need to consider the whole group of people that confessed to crimes they committed on their social media accounts. You may not think too much about logging out of your personal profiles and online accounts, but if you are one of the following criminals, you’ve just left the door wide open and full of evidence. The people featured in this story not only prove to us that not all criminals are the smartest crayons in the box, but also that social media, while fun to be on, gives you no sort of privacy whatsoever. Even though the majority of us are well aware that anything we post on the Internet is now part of the immense web, free for all to see, some of the people in this world just haven’t got a clue. Whether you think it’s cool to siphon gas from a police car, or you’re trying to brag about how many identities you’ve stolen, you might want to think about keeping that news under wraps if you even want a shred of hope of getting away with it. One more rule, if you think you are “getting away” with whatever crime you committed, keep those thoughts to yourself until you are dead and gone. Only after you’re dead can you really say that you truly got away with it.

#1 Troy Maye & Tiwanna Thomason – Caught Over A Steak You may not think much about it as you upload a delicious snapshot of tonight’s dinner to your Instagram account along with the hashtag “food porn,” but for some, like Troy, that post was the thing that got him arrested. Back in 2013, Troy Maye and his then-girlfriend, Tiwanna Thomason were in a restaurant called YOLO in Harlem, New York. What they didn’t know as they bragged about the 700,000 stolen identities they had for sale was that they were giving information to a person who was working undercover with the IRS. Just two days later, the pair agreed to meet with the agent at Morton’s Steakhouse for the sale of 50,000 stolen identities. Although Troy had promised 50,000 stolen names, birth dates, and socials he came up short; really short. When authorities investigated the drive, they found out it only contained the identities of 46 people, along with a name, “Troy Maye.” After calling Troy out, Troy responded that he wanted insurance that he would see the money from the fraudulently filed income tax returns before handing over the rest of the identities. Together with the drive, law enforcement used the picture of steak and mac and cheese that Nathaniel “Troy” Maye had uploaded to his Instagram account to pin him to the deal at Morton’s and both him and Tiwanna were arrested.

#2 Whitney Beall – Periscoping Her DUI Driving while drunk is a horrible idea, we all know the reasons why. Driving drunk and recording yourself driving drunk is an even worse idea, and we didn’t think that could be possible but then Whitney Beall proved us wrong with her Periscope video. In the video she, obviously drunk, is appearing to handle a moving vehicle, in slurred words she says that she’s, “Driving home drunk. Entertainment please.” After a viewer tipped of Florida authorities, they were on their way to catch her. Not only did she smell of alcohol but she failed several sobriety field tests before she was taken into police custody. To top it off, she threw up in the back of the cop car on the way to the police station.

#3 Rodney Knight Jr. – Always Time For A Selfie Back in 2011, Rodney Knight Jr. broke into the house of Washington Post journalist Marc Fisher and made off with more than some money and electronics; he got a prison sentence as well. When Rodney broke in through the basement, he stole a winter coat, $400, and two laptops among a few other things. After Rodney tried on the winter jacket and found the money, he decided to take and upload a picture to Facebook from one of the stolen laptops, the one that belonged to Marc Fisher’s son. Unknowingly or not, the picture of the robber was uploaded to young Fisher’s Facebook account which was then used by authorities to hunt down and catch Knight.

#4 Markesha Wilkerson – Livestreaming At Chuck E. Cheese Markesha was just out enjoying herself one afternoon at a local Chuck E. Cheese restaurant and decided to share the moment, as many of us do, using Facebook’s “Live” feature. Unfortunately, Miss Wilkerson along with appearing to have a good time, also had more than a couple of warrants out for her arrest. Because she had to let the world know that she was at Chuck E. Cheese, she ended up having her day cut short when the local authorities showed up to arrest her.

#5 Rashia Wilson – Queen Of Tax Fraud The self-named “Queen of IRS Tax Fraud” landed herself in hot water after taking to Facebook to brag about how much of a boss she is, well, was. In her post, she goes on to say that she is a “millionaire for the record,” and that indicting her won’t be easy. She also claims that she had the Tampa Police Department under her control. They proved her wrong when they found her insane spending habits and crazed remarks enough to investigate. She, along with others performing income tax fraud, were arrested at the conclusion of the investigation dubbed “Operation Rain Maker” which was given its name because of how suspects were “making it rain” before they were caught.

#6 Charles Rodriguez – An Ill-Planned Vacation Photo Charles Rodriguez stole two cases of jewels from a man outside of Manchester, England in 2011. After he stole the $130,000 worth of gems, he fled the United Kingdom for Colombia. The British authorities may have known where he went, but since the two countries didn’t have an extraction agreement, they had to sit tight for a few years. They didn’t have to wait forever before Charles decided to take a vacation in Britain where he took photos of himself and uploaded them to his Facebook. Those photos alerted the police force that he was back in town and after he tried giving border control a false name, his fingerprints were tested and revealed his true identity and he was taken into custody.

#7 The Reddit Confessor – Just A Nerd A guy who was known to the Reddit world as “Naratto” has since been deemed a jokester even though he once took the Internet’s front page and the rest of the world by storm. One day he made a meme with the “confession bear” that read: “My sister had an abusive meth-addicted boyfriend. I killed him with his own drugs while he was unconscious and they ruled it as an overdose.” Big words, even for a confession bear. Not only did the feed get tons of comments, but one Reddit reader tipped off the authorities to the murder confession. Later, Naratto’s sister commented online that she nor her brother knows of anyone who has overdosed, that her brother was just a gamer nerd and that the whole thing was a stupid prank to get more attention online. Naratto later came forward and admitted the same.

#8 Jonathan G. Parker – Don’t Check Facebook At A Crime Scene Just like the criminal in #14, this guy also has a problem with breaking into someone’s house and posting to the social media site, Facebook. Jonathan G. Parker broke into a house and stole two diamond rings but not before he chose to take a seat and log into his personal profile. After the owner of the house noticed that someone other than herself was logged into Facebook on her laptop, she immediately took it to police. Since Jonathan didn’t have a good reason as to why he was logged into this woman’s computer, he was taken to jail. It never pays to stop mid-crime to update your social media accounts.

#9 Jesse Hippolite – Looking For Partner In Crime… On Facebook When looking for a literal partner in crime, we would think one would lean towards Craigslist for their more shady endeavors, not a place like Facebook. However, contrary to what we thought, Jesse Hippolite must have deemed it a great idea to take to the social media website and just 45 minutes before he held up a Chase Bank, he posted “I Gotta Get That $$$$$ Man!” before he apparently asked who would like to join. He also made the mistake of wearing the same logo sweatshirt he is seen wearing in other Facebook photos in other past heists he had done. All of which became more evidence against him.

#10 Hannah Sabata – Confessed In Viral Video Hannah is the teen that named herself the “Chick Bank Robber.” She’s also the girl who, after both stealing a car and robbing a bank, made a video about her best day ever and uploaded it to her YouTube account. She got away with $6,000 dollars before she made the video which featured her confession on subtitled boards while the band Green Day played in the background. They won’t be able to wake this girl up when September ends because she’s looking at serving 10 to 20 years for the best turned worst day of her life. Hannah literally handed over her confession when she uploaded that viral video.

#11 Michael Baker – Robbing A Cop Car? Time For A Pic! Michael Baker made a monumental mistake when he siphoned fuel from a police car. The supposed “joke” got even worse when he flipped the camera “the bird” when his girlfriend snapped the picture. If you are trying to be cool, defy the police, and actually get away with it, you should be more careful to not include your face along with a big goofy grin. Michael and his girlfriend later said that it was just a joke, but the Jenkins police officials failed to find the humor in it and they arrested him on charges of theft. It turns out that stealing from the police DOES get you in trouble, who would have thought.

#12 Michael Ruse – Talked About Case On Facebook When Michael Ruse beat up a friend’s dad, he thought he had gotten away with it. Unfortunately for him, he posted that exact thought on his Facebook profile while the court proceedings regarding the case were still in process. The post he made on Facebook was printed out and anonymously turned into the court prosecutors. With the new evidence in hand, Michael had no choice but to confess to his crimes. Even if you think that you got away with it, you should never, ever be dumb enough to post that thought where millions of people have access to it. Once it’s out in the internet world, there’s no getting it back.

#13 Corey Christian Adams – Looked For A Hitman This guy really takes the cake when it comes to dumb criminals. After a woman came forward with the accusations that Corey had raped her while she was intoxicated, he sought out a person that could handle the problem. And by that, we mean a hitman. Corey, angered at the accusations, went to Facebook to offer a deal of $500 for the “girls head.” Since murder is a pretty serious crime and all, we hope that he was just kidding about the $500, that’s not even enough to throw a shoe at someone let alone bury them six feet under. Prices on the Black Market may fluctuate through the years, but we’re sure that the pricing for killing is slightly steeper than that.

#14 Steve Stephens – Murder Video Uploaded To Facebook You may have heard of the name Steve Stephens from the news reports around the country that showed his face along with the crime he committed. An unlucky grandfather named Robert Godwin Sr. crossed his path and Stephens recorded himself walking up to Godwin before the two exchange a few words and Stephens puts a bullet in the poor man’s head. He then went on to post the video to Facebook. After leading police on a three-day chase, Steve committed suicide and the story ends there. Steve’s ex says that she has no idea what caused the rampage and that she would like to think of him as a “good person who did a bad thing.”

#15 Misty VanHorn – Sellings Kids For Bail Money This Oklahoma mother of two was trying to turn back time and send her babies back. Not really, but she was trying to sell them on Facebook for a measly $4,000. They say that you can’t put a price on a mother’s love, but it appears like Misty has found a number she was willing to settle on. It’s absolutely sick to think that someone would be willing to just hand over their children forever for just a few thousand dollars. After Misty had made her offer online, the person she made the offer to went to the authorities. The authorities, of course, arrested her and put her children in protective custody. It is said that she was trying to get the money so that she could bail out her boyfriend who was in jail during that time. Mother of the year right here.

#16 Brendon Miller – Dropped Your Baby? Time For A Status Update! If you are a parent that drops their infant on its head, the first thought any normal person would have would be to go to the emergency room at a hospital, where there are professionals. Brendon Miller made a different decision when he accidentally dropped an infant and then wrote about it on Facebook. Although the child did get taken to the hospital later, Brendon didn’t feel the need to share certain pieces of vital information with authorities. Because of the previous Facebook post where he confessed to dropping the kid on its head, police charged him with aggravated assault as well as endangering the welfare of a child. Anytime something serious happens to a child, or anyone for that matter, make sure that they get the proper treatment, no matter who’s fault it is.

Source: TheRichest