#i am so bone deep goddamned tired. this year can go fuck itself.

[damnedifivoodoo]

.

[writingbakery]

“tapewebs”; a series 🕸

hanta sero is just your regular everyday japanese-american immigrant college student, living in the heart of brooklyn. when miles morales collapses on the windowsill of his shitty one bedroom apartment, life gets.... a hell of a lot more interesting 🕷

[a spiderman! sero au one shot series, featuring class 1-A, hanta sero, miles morales, an assortment of marvel villains, & you, dear reader - the object of one tapespider’s affections ✨]

[pairing; sero x gender neutral reader 🕸]

[warnings; fluff, violence, action, angst, romance, & a lot of tape/spider puns 🕸]

“Sticky Note Origins”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

the city is prettier up high, sero realizes. granted, he wishes he’d come to that conclusion on solid ground, without his feet nervously planted on a skyscraper ledge, but still.

every whip of wind threatens to topple him over, send him careening down into a frenzied spiral of buildings and colors until he meets concrete at the bottom - and he’s supposed to willingly jump.

he wonders if he’ll pass out before his bones meet solid mass, cracking in so many different ways the coroner’ll have to play connect the fragments until he’s a person again.

behind him, an impatient cough sounds, bringing him back to the task at hand. fuck.

you’re probably wondering how he got here. let’s rewind a week.

one week earlier

at ten pm on a friday, the city is in its prime, bustling crowds of people laughing and stumbling through the brightly colorful streets. hanta’s just trying to protect his pad thai & dumplings, hugging the greasy paper bag to his chest as he weaves in and out of the chaos.

a day full of long classes & a quiet shift at the cafe-slash-bookstore halfway between campus and his crap one bedroom apartment leaves him exhausted, shoulders hunched as he makes his way home. nobody ever sees him regardless - the city’s too big for one lanky, always tired beanpole to be much notice.

despite living in brooklyn since he was four, he’s never felt a hundred percent comfortable here - he had an accent right up until he was thirteen, still trips over certain words and customs that don’t exist back home in japan. he’s awkwardly tall, not enough to be a phenomenon but towering over all his family. he just doesn’t quite fit anywhere - too smart and plain to be popular, too boring to be with the jokesters, too awkward for the nerds. he’s been a loner all his life, and while he doesn’t mind too much, he just wishes it was a little easier to belong.

a text rolls across his phone screen as he’s shuffling songs, skipping some j-pop rock song to settle on kendrick lamar as he smiles. you. he couldn’t lie and say he was completely alone, not when he had you in his life.

you were a year younger than him but twice as smart, skipping a year ahead and landing yourself in hanta’s high school freshman english class. the pair of you had just... clicked, from the very first moment he pointed to shakespeare’s likeness on the cover and mocked “what, you egg?!”

your laughter had left him on cloud nine the entire day, and he made it his personal mission to hear that beautiful little giggle at least once a day for the rest of his life.

a lovely friendship had bloomed from there, the two of you joined at the hip - if you were somewhere, hanta was bound to follow & vice versa.

you’d even gotten into the same college, albeit for drastically different majors - he was a biochem/engineering double major, while you were an english/history double major. you were opposite but similar in so many ways, and the way you both completed each other didnt go unnoticed by sero.

you were his puzzle piece, the bits of him he’d never been able to fill easily made whole by your presence.

he could never tell you, however; your friendship was too precious to risk, especially over his dumb, emotional heart.

sending a string of laughing emojis towards the meme you sent, he jogs up the seven flights of dimly lit stairs to his tiny, one bedroom apartment - living in the city wasn’t cheap, & while the elevator was always busted at least he had a doorman, and heat that worked on occasion.

stepping into his apartment, however, he can immediately sense something is wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a heavy silence coating the darkness. the air feels wrong, tipsy turvy like the whole place is holding its breath - like something’s on the verge of exploding, catapulting him into chaos and danger.

quietly stepping through the living room, he peeks into the kitchen and bathroom, holding his backpack out like a makeshift weapon - his $200 biology textbook finally going to good use. finding nothing in either dark room, he slowly advances towards his bedroom, carefully measuring every step. at first, the room seems perfectly normal - nothing’s been moved, and it’s just as empty as the rest of his apartment.

and then he sees the blood.

dotting his windowsill in bright, red streaks, the window itself pushed halfway open - but that’s not what stops him in his tracks, eyes so wide it hurts.

spiderman is leaning against his windowsill, covered in blood and panting heavily, one hand held up in an effort to stop hanta in his tracks.

“i need...... help,” he whispers, voice rough and low; hanta’s amazed he can still speak.

he opens his mouth to react, somehow, even steps forward to catch him before screaming like a ten year old girl at a morgue, panic setting in like cold water.

never a dull night in brooklyn.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

once he’s made sure that spiderman - miles, as the young man bleeding all over his $12 walmart carpet supplies - isn’t going to die anytime soon, hanta’s quick to recover from his shock. bustling around his tiny kitchen to make cheap ramen and digging around in his closet to find his mini first aid kit, he’s in full fanboy mode - he’s got posters plastered wall to wall of miles morales on his bedroom walls, for gods sakes. not that he knew it was miles morales, but still.

miles morales is curled up in the fleece blanket hanta’s mom had sent him his second week at college, and he’s totally not freaking out.

he’d had to cancel his nightly facetime call with you, lying about a stomach bug - he hates keeping things from you, but this is just too big and messy and dangerous. he’ll tell you in due time, he promises himself, trying to ease the coil of guilt in his stomach.

“how did you end up on my windowsill, again?” hanta asks, gently pushing the bowl of noodles towards the injured man. he’s got his own pad thai long forgotten in the microwave, more focused on the superhero who’d gotten his ass whooped on his doorstep, so to speak.

“i told you. i’d been watching you for a while - you’re the most promising candidate i have.” miles’ voice is slick with humor, a sort of teasing confidence that’s clear even through the pain.

“which i’m still not understanding - candidate for what? blood services? biology questions? how to make $20 last two weeks??” he knows he’s being childish, too joking for the severity of the situation, but he can’t help it. the neighborhood’s - and his own - hero is sitting in front of him, eating shitty 33¢ ramen from the bodega around the corner, telling him he’s a prime candidate.

“to take the mantle.” all traces of laughter are gone now, miles leaning forward on the table to emphasize his words. “i’ve been doing this long enough to know when to quit. my body’s giving out on me - i got slammed into a wall last week and couldn’t shake the pain till yesterday. before, i’d be fine within an hour. the city needs someone new, young, willing to take the risks.”

hanta’s ears stopped listening the moment he heard quit. “me? are you fuckin’ joking?” he wheezes, coughing his way past the shock. “i get winded walking up to my apartment! an old lady beat me to the c train yesterday! a strong wind could kick my ass!”

miles is either willfully ignoring him or just can’t hear, plowing ahead with his explanation. “you’ve got the perfect build for webswinging, and you’ve got a good heart - you know when to do the right thing and when to step away. leave the rest up to me, and trust me - i know what i’m doing.”

hanta can’t believe his ears, pushing away from the table to pace around his kitchen in panic. “i don’t till you understand, you’ve got the wrong guy - there’s no way i could be spiderman!” his words are falling on deaf ears - miles is standing too, and he doesn’t seem to care about hanta’s impending panic.

“you’ve got to trust me on this, alright? meet me tomorrow, at this address - 12 pm sharp. the city needs you, hanta - hell, i need you. just have a little faith.”

hanta scoffs at that, throwing his hands in the air. “faith?! i met you an hour ago, bleeding all over my windowsill! that’s not exactly the most- hey! where the hell...” there’s nothing but a blanket, a hastily scrawled address, and an empty bowl where miles had sat, leaving hanta alone with his thoughts.

damnit.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

hanta pushes through the crowds of people at eleven am the next morning, half asleep but wired enough to power the whole city - hell, the whole goddamned country. he’s running on no sleep, adrenaline, two redbulls & the guilt of lying to you again, his “stomach bug” keeping him from class. he’d told you he was going to visit his parents for the weekend to recover; your sweet messages in response only made him feel worse.

he’s tossed and turned over this decision a million times & yet, he’s still not sure where he stands - it’s so little information, so much responsibility in so little time. he’s still half convinced he’s being punked, if he’s honest.

and yet, somethings drawing him to the address miles had left him, something deep in his gut that tells him he needs to be there. clearly, miles had seen something he himself is woefully oblivious to, and it couldn’t hurt to find out more.

apple maps leads him to a tiny shed somewhere behind a deli & a nail salon, not too far from his apartment, and he’s completely confused. “stupid gps, probably got me lost,” he whines, leaning against the door of the shed to zoom in on his location.

the pigeons in the alley are the only ones to hear his panicked yelling as he phases right through it, tumbling all the way down a metal chute into the dark unknown.

at least, for ten seconds. he lands on a remarkably soft pad of foam, a glass panel separating him from a brightly lit, fancy looking room lined wall to wall with computers, parts and half made suits, spiderman suits. he doesn’t know where to look first.

a robotic, feminine voice brings him out of his shock, the glass panel lighting up with code and writing.

“please enter your name.” hanta is floored.

“uh.. hanta sero?” the voice trills lightly, before a red grid-like laser scans him head to toe. he’s proud to admit he only squealed in terror once.

“identity confirmed. welcome, hanta.” the panel slides away to allow him access, his careful steps alerting the rest of the room’s computers to light up at his arrival.

“you came. i knew i chose wisely.” miles comes into view slowly, limping heavily as he smiles. it’s almost familiar, like he & hanta have been friends for years; he finds it comforting.

“well, not everyday you get to be spiderman,” hanta jokes, fidgeting a little where he stands. “you gonna fit me for a suit or something?” miles just laughs, shaking his head.

“that comes later. first, we’ve got to get you bitten.”

bitten?

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

for the third time in 24 hours, hanta’s screaming like a man who’s just been told he has two days to live.

“you want me to let that thing bite me?! have you lost your mind?!”

miles sighs patiently, holding up the little glass vial to the light; inside, the spider races up and down the glass, an odd orange color to its patterning.

“it’s the only way. no offense, but i saw that lady beat you to the c train. she was like, 85.” hanta’s pouting now, crossing his arms.

“she had a cane and she was agile- hey hey! you keep that thing away from me, so help me god-“

“you’re being dramatic, it’s the size of a pea-“

“that’s a fat ass fuckin’ pea-“

“stay still-“

“i will not- ow! jesus fuck, that thing has tarantula jaws!”

miles carefully shepherds the spider back into the glass, chuckling a little. “it’ll take a moment to cause effect. the original spider was cross-bred with a more agile, lanky species - perfect for your body type. i’m hoping it’ll be most effective in your transition.”

“hoping?” hanta squeaks, staring at the red welt forming on his hand - his visions already starting to blur out, a throbbing pain traveling up his arm.

“well, it’s the first time i’m experimenting with this-“

“you used me as a guinea pig?!”

“it’s perfectly safe! my mentor-“ but hanta’s not listening anymore, the world swimming in front of his eyes before the ground rushes up rapidly to kiss his face.

god. damnit.

when he comes to, he’s wrapped in about half the blankets in brooklyn, a cold compress against his sweaty forehead. he’s burning up, and his elbows hurt for some reason - his skins gone all itchy, and he’d probably kick a pigeon for a glass of water.

sitting up alerts miles to his newly conscious state, the man quickly scanning his vitals with a smaller version of the glass panel hanta’d been fascinated with earlier. “thought you were gonna croak on me. how do you feel?”

“itchy. and my arms hurt.” hanta’s pushing off the blankets as he speaks, attempting to get comfortable - his body feels weird, like he’ll burst out of his skin at any second.

“alright, don’t panic. i need to see how it’s mutated your body. stay still.” miles’ fingers delicately press against his neck, shoulders, before jabbing at his ribs without warning. hanta’s arms shoot up on impulse, a trail of sticky, precise webbing escaping him from his...... elbows?!

“what the fuck, dude what the fuck look at my elbows, they’re all puffy and red i’m gonna die, and the coroner is gonna leak my story to the press and my moms gonna see me in the paper with fucked up elbows-“ hanta may or may not be panicking, poking at the tender, slightly swollen skin around the bends of his arms. miles just rolls his eyes, clearly amused by his antics.

“you’re not going to die. japanese tape spiders shoot webbing from the bends of their eight arms; its a thicker & stronger strain of web. clearly, your elbows are how your body has adjusted.”

“that doesn’t make it better.” hanta’s too busy staring at himself to notice the other changes at first, but slowly, they’re trickling in. heightened eyesight and hearing, an odd balance to his feet he hadn’t had a day ago, even itchier fingertips - making it easier for him to grip flat surfaces, or at least as miles says.

“come on. let’s get you a suit.”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

a week’s worth of planning & adjusting has led him right here to this rooftop, suited feet firmly balanced on the ledge. he likes his suit, thinks it’s unique - he’d modeled it after the spider who’d blessed him with these powers, orange and black and white [miles sort of thinks it’s ugly, but who cares.] he’d been in & out of the fondly nicknamed “spider-lounge”, getting fitted for his suit & honing his new abilities; he’d also been avoiding you whenever possible.

he couldn’t suck you into this world, not when he was barely comfortable in it himself; he kept promising himself he’d come clean, but the guilt’s eating him alive with every sad look & evening alone you spend.

another impatient cough brings him back to the present, miles sitting in the middle of the roof & watching hanta’s nervous stalling. “you’re going to have to jump eventually, you know,” he calls, and it takes everything in him not to turn tail and run.

he has a duty, a responsibility now, and he doesn’t take that lightly. he thinks of you, sitting in your ratty little apartment off campus and remembers that your safety is all but in his hands now; he’s got to protect the city, for your sake at least.

“i absolutely will not hesitate to kick you off this rooftop,” miles threatens, but its empty - they both know hanta needs to do this himself.

one step back, then two, the nerves racing up his spine as he prepares himself to meet cold concrete [a dramatic thought, miles would catch him far before he reaches ground. a bad knee wouldn’t stop him from that.] he says a silent prayer to every god he’s ever heard of and closes his eyes, taking a step forward into the air-

and trips over the ledge, falling ass over heels into the air. nice.

the rushing wind only heightens his panic for a moment, before one arm snaps up to blindly shoot into the air; his spider sense kicks in from there, aiming without even realizing and latching onto a nearby ledge. he swings aimlessly for a moment before finding a new ledge, then a railing; slowly, he finds a rhythm.

he’s soaring through the city before he realizes, laughing at the sharp roar of the wind in his ears - he feels like he’s flying, weightless as a bird. the only thing he can think of is you, how much you’d love this.

one day, he’ll take you webswinging. one day.

for now, he relishes in the fact that he’s one step closer to being brooklyn’s - & new york’s - new spiderman, fresh faced & determined to bring peace to the city.

he’s going to do it for you, even if it kills him.

[hopeisour4letteredword]

innocent bones ch1

Summary: Apollo gets a wake-up call in a few ways. It’s okay, though--he’s got best-friend backup.

Link to AO3 in the notes.

Apollo’s first thought when his phone rings at some ungodly time in the middle of the night is fuck off. His second thought is oh my God oh no Clay, because he’s had a shit year and maybe it’s made him a bit paranoid and he’s Clay’s emergency medical contact. His third thought, as he toes the line of lucidity, is wait, that’s the ringtone I set for Klavier.

Fuck. If Klavier is calling him at this hour, it’s probably important.

He slaps haphazardly at his nightstand until he finds his phone and yanks it off the charger. He gives himself one last moment to squeeze his eyes shut against the ache of fatigue, then rallies enough to answer the call.

“Justice speaking.“

“...Hurts.”

Suddenly much more awake, Apollo sits bolt upright in bed. “What?”

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier says, in the most childish and petulant voice Apollo has ever heard out of him. To be fair, Apollo hasn’t heard him overtly childish all that many times, so that’s a low hurdle. It’s not much comfort. “Feel—feel sorry for me. I’m in pain.”

“You—what? Are you alright?”

“No.”

Apollo stares unseeingly into the darkness for a second until adrenaline overrides panic and he launches himself out of bed. He almost trips trying to keep his phone to his ear and disentangle the sheets around his legs at the same time. Light, where’s the light switch on his lamp? “Where are you? How bad is it?”

“It sucks,” Klavier whines. “An’ I’m all alone.”

“I’m coming to help. You’re gonna be fine. Are you—you sound really out of it. Did you hit your head? Are you drunk?”

Blood loss? he doesn’t ask. Don’t think about the worst-case scenario. Keep moving. He finds his keys and his wallet, tosses them over by his shoes near the door. No telling if he’ll need his bike or his bus card until he has more information.

“Drugs,” Klavier says, glumly. Apollo grits his teeth. Klavier is one of the most law-abiding people Apollo has ever met; there’s no way he took hardcore drugs of his own volition. Please don’t let it be roofies. Please don’t let him be stranded, injured and alone, in a place where somebody roofied him.

Clothes, clothes, Apollo needs to not get arrested for indecency the second he steps out the door. He yanks on the first pair of shorts he encounters. Shirt? He shoves a hand into his dresser blindly. It comes out clutching one of Clay’s old Sailor Moon shirts, faded and worn. Apollo wears it as a pajama shirt sometimes, but in public—fuck it. Klavier’s safety is worth the weird looks for being a grown man wearing a magical girl anime shirt in public. He’s not gonna dig around for an acceptable shirt at a time like this.

“Keep talking to me. What hurts?”

“My mouth.”

“Your mouth? What happened, do you remember?”

“They stole my teeth,” Klavier says, woefully, and that finally makes Apollo pause, balanced on one foot to pull a sock on the other.

“Your—your teeth?”

“Took ‘em—took ‘em right out. With knives. Now my mouth’s full of holes. It hurts, Herr Forehead.”

An image is cementing itself, slowly but surely, out of the fog of panic and lethargy in Apollo’s mind. He lowers his foot. “Who took your teeth?”

“Teeth doctor.”

“Did...did you get teeth taken out? By a dentist or—?”

“Yeah! Wis’om teeth. They stole them.”

Apollo slumps back against his door like a puppet with his strings cut, and sinks to the ground. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Oh my God, Klavier. Start with that next time.”

“Next time?” Klavier sounds genuinely befuddled. “But they’re already gone.”

“I thought you had been roofied or mugged or something,” Apollo says. He settles on laughter, and it comes out hysterical. “God. Don’t do that to me. I’m too young to have a heart attack.”

“Don’t do what? What’d I do?”

“You scared the shit out of me.” Apollo draws his knees up to his chest and leans on them, trying to take deep breaths. Klavier is okay. He’s not bleeding in an alleyway behind some bar. He’s not about to be assaulted. He’s only stoned on painkillers. “You owe me for this one. I was halfway out the door.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a rustling noise on the other end of the line. Klavier’s voice is soft and contrite. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s fine,” Apollo says. “We’re fine. I’m not mad. Well, maybe a little bit. Just—goddamn. Okay. Talking. I can talk. Wait. You’re home, aren’t you? You’re not wandering the city like this?”

He’s hyperaware of his own heartbeat, still too loud and too fast. That was a hell of a wake-up call. Apollo has more than enough trouble getting to sleep on a normal night. There’s no way he’s knocking out any time soon after this—might as well keep Klavier entertained if he’s going to be awake the rest of the night anyway.

“Yeah!” Klavier says, perking up again. “I’m home. Oh, but—Vongole is gone.”

“Gone?” Apollo frowns. “Where’d she go?”

“Sebastian took her.”

“What for?”

“He said I prob’ly shouldn’t walk her tonight,” Klavier says, despondently. “I miss her. She’s a good dog.”

“She is a good dog,” Apollo agrees. He scratches a hand through his bedhead and tries not to yawn. “But you’ll get to see her again soon. I’m sure Prosecutor Debeste will give her back tomorrow.”

“But I want her now.”

Apollo doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. God only knows how many times he sprawled next to Vongole on the floor while Mr. Gavin was out of the office, complaining about the trials of law school. She’s a good listener. Always knows when someone needs a hug. She’d make a good therapy dog if she didn’t have so much energy. It’s no wonder Klavier wants her back when he’s this miserable.

“Sorry, man.”

Klavier sighs melodramatically. “Can’t believe he left me and took my dog. I think he likes her better than me.”

“Can you blame him?” Apollo says, wryly. He realizes his mistake right as Klavier makes a quiet, wounded noise.

“...No.”

“Joke,” Apollo blurts out. Fuck. Of course Klavier is too out of it for their normal banter. “I’m joking. That was a joke. I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay, Herr F—“

“Of course he doesn’t like your dog better than you. Don’t be stupid. That was a really shitty joke for me to make, and I didn’t mean it at all.”

Klavier laughs, weakly. “Right, sure.”

“You’re—ridiculously likeable.” It spills out of Apollo’s mouth before he can stop himself. But why should he stop himself? It’s the middle of the night and Klavier’s fucked up on painkillers and Apollo was an asshole. He can part with some kind words to make up for it. It’s the right thing to do, probably. God, he’s tired. “And a good person. Everybody likes you just fine.”

After a few beats of silence save for the shudder of Klavier’s breath across the line, Klavier asks, half-joking, “Even you?”

Apollo rolls his eyes. “No, I’m talking to you at three AM while you’re high as a kite on anesthetics because I hate you.” Another beat. “That was another joke. Just to be extremely clear.”

“You like me?” Klavier asks, so damn hopefully that Apollo doesn’t have it in him to pretend otherwise.

“Yeah.”

“I like you, too,” Klavier says, happily. Apollo’s heart thumps traitorously hard against his ribcage. He’s too exhausted to deal with his own pining right now. It’s not fair that Klavier can do this to him out of nowhere. He’s not even trying to flirt right now. He’s just a naturally affectionate person and it’s destroying Apollo. “I wish you were here. I wish Vongole or Sebastian was here. I’m bored and lonely and my mouth hurts.”

“I know, bud.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Sleep?” Apollo suggests. Klavier makes a dismissive sound. “Uh. Watch something on Netflix? Or whatever rock stars watch their movies and shit on these days.”

“I start falling asleep when I try to watch anything and then I have nightmares ‘cause my mouth hurts.”

That sounds like it will be a problem no matter what Klavier does to occupy himself. “Do you have more painkillers?”

“I... forgot where I put them. And how many to take.”

“Find them and read the bottle, then.”

“Print’s too small.”

“...Are you so drugged up you can’t focus on text?”

“No, but they made me take my contacts out before they stole my teeth, and—“

Klavier wears contacts? Apollo opens his mouth to ask about it, but there’s an abrupt series of loud noises on the other end of the call. Loud, brief knocking, the thud of a door closing, the jingle of metal on metal.

“Sebastian!” Klavier cheers. Apollo hears a distant curse and thumping. “You came back!”

A voice, muffled and indistinct. The intonation lilts into a question.

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier answers, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, good grief. Give that here.”

“No, don’t—!“

“Hello?” Prosecutor Debeste says, his voice clear and focused now. It has the polite edge of professionality. “Mr. Justice, I presume?”

“That’s right,” Apollo says. He feels kind of weird about talking to somebody from the Prosecutor’s Office who isn’t Klavier while he’s on the floor, hair a bird’s nest, wearing a Sailor Moon shirt and one sock. Yeah, Prosecutor Debeste can’t see that or anything, but it’s the principle of the matter. “Hi. Um.”

“Sorry about the trouble. I hope he hasn’t kept you up too long.”

“Uh, no.”

“Sebastian,” Klavier wails, in the background. “Give it baaack!”

“Are you staying with him right now?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just. To be honest, he made it sound like you stole his dog and ditched him.”

“Of course he did,” Prosecutor Debeste says, exasperatedly. Klavier whines, barely audible to the receiver. Vongole barks happily in response. “I’ve been here all night. I only took Vongole out for a bit to do her business and run around—she hasn’t been able to sleep either, not with Klavier this wound up. Don’t worry, he has someone keeping an eye on him.”

“That’s, um. Good to hear.”

“I can take care of things from here, so I’ll let you get some rest. Klavier can get in touch with you again in the morning if you need anything from him.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Justice. Thanks for keeping him company for a while. Klavier, say good night—“

“But we were talking—!“

The line goes dead.

Apollo takes his phone away from his ear and just looks at it. He thinks maybe he should process the last thirty minutes. His mind chases itself in loops instead. After a minute, he presses the heel of his free hand against his eyes, trying to massage out the exhaustion headache that’s starting to set in. Fuck. He still doesn’t know if he can sleep. What’s Clay always trying to tell him, about resting and keeping your eyes closed for a while being better than not sleeping at all? Can’t be any worse, at least. He might as well give it a shot. He settles back into the sheets, long cold by now, and tries to relax.

A street—not dark, but dim, maybe, with the hazy glow of a setting sun in the evening. The shadows are long and the light is golden. It catches on the leaves of trees in the park, turns them ethereal with shining halos.

I’ve been here before, Apollo thinks, then, that’s absurd, it’s the park, of course I’ve been here before.

Another golden halo, beside him on the park bench. Klavier’s hair catching the sunlight it so often seems to be spun from. Klavier’s blinding smile as he laughs at something Apollo just said, something already forgotten. Déjà vu strikes Apollo again. He does remember being here, remembers the way Klavier turns to him with a conversational parry, smirking, words balancing perfectly on the bizarre line they walk between sharp and friendly.

That’s what he remembers. That’s not what happens this time. What happens this time is:

Klavier’s smile goes soft and warm, an affectionate curl of his lips, and he says, “I like you, too.”

[karenpage]

the way you said "i love you": prompt 22. muffled, from the other side of the door

Sorry I that I can’t believe that anybody ever really starts to fall in love with me.

It’s six months after she’d told him to make it mean something. Six months, since he’d fallen a mile short of delivering and Karen’s got her footing in a life built without him. Not that she’d ever seriously entertained the alternative.

That, maybe, just maybe, she’d done her waiting, paid her dues in heartbreak and loneliness. Maybe just this once she gets to win, and Frank would be there by her side. A couple times a week at best, she knows he’d never stay, knows he has to keep moving, like a shark in bloodied water - at rest, they can’t breathe. At rest, they died.

But it has been six fucking months and the only way she sees the passage of time is that her bi-annual hair appointment is coming up next Tuesday, just a trim, keep it healthy. Cut off the dead ends.

She’d laugh at the irony if she wasn’t so entrenched in her unwillingness to let him go.

Karen’s not the girl who waits around and pines. She’s been in love with a dead man for years and that’s not about to change. So she does as she always has in the past; throws herself headlong into work. Freelancing for the Bulletin, doing private investigation for the law offices of Nelson, Murdock & Page, there are no shortage of distractions. Because that’s what her adult life has amounted to. Not being happy, but being focused on something else so wholly she didn’t have time to look at the shape her world has taken for too long.

She’d said it. Said love out loud, to Frank Castle, and she immediately should have known better. Caught up with him facing down death for the thousandth time, seeing his motivations skewed and all the leg work she’d done to prove his innocence, again, amount to nothing -- she was at her wit’s end. Worn to the bone and so sick and tired of pretending that the things people say and do to her don’t have a lasting impact.

No more silence, she’d made herself heard. And he’d thrown it in her face. Karen should have been fuming, spitting angry at the person she had and would stick her neck out for time and time again. Wishing that her love didn’t then feel like a guillotine.

Karen had anger, yeah. She’d had plenty of that but it had slowly ebbed until it became a dull ache, a nagging want that sits cold and lonely behind her heart. Karen moved on, moved forward, a good luck Frank whispered into the nascent glow of hospital lights, a kaleidoscope of primary colors painted by her unshed tears.

This isn’t her first choice, cradling a bottle of merlot in between her thighs while trying to reach her laptop and open it, all without spilling wine on her couch. Again. Alone in her apartment with only the pinging of her radiator to keep the quiet from swallowing her whole.

Karen’s mastered the art of pretending her pain away; if she doesn’t look at it, doesn’t give it any of her energy, it can’t twist itself into a big ugly beast. It can’t hurt her if she stays an arm's length away.

Tonight, she’s just picked a bottle of two buck chuck to be the deterrent, armor by way of dissociation. Matt will give her shit in the morning when she comes in smelling like leftover Thai and a distillery but its water off of a WASP’s back; she can handle midtown passive aggressive and is a black belt in smiling her way through rage.

That’s tomorrow’s problem because tonight? Tonight she’s going to watch the bachelor, she’s going to drink this entire bottle, and nothing on heaven or earth will make her feel guilty for stealing back a bit of normalcy into her life. The line between self-care and self-destruction is getting more and more blurred as her thirties continue to throw curveballs her way, but Karen’s smart enough to see it for what it is, even if tired enough to stand back and watch it passively.

She’s forty-five minutes into crying over artificial romance when she hears a loud thudding outside, muffled, but close - it’s on her floor, whatever it is (or, whoever). With walls as thin as these, she’s used to tuning out the lives of her neighbors. But, again, and a couple more times before there’s a knocking on her door and it just about startles a yelp out of her.

Karen grabs the .380 out of her purse and adjusts the hem of her sleep shirt. A washed out Georgetown logo on the front, grey and drab and on the theme with the overall mood of her evening.

“Who is it?” The peephole hasn’t worked right since she’d slammed it coming home from the hospital. It’s askew in the track so all she can see peering through it is the inside of her door. Which isn’t helpful, at all, hence the gun with the safety ticked back, her thumb on the hammer but her palm sitting on the grip, nowhere near the trigger.

There’s no one she expects, too late to be any neighbors or cold calling salespeople.

“It’s me.” A gruff reply.

Frank.

She’s not proud of the fact that she latches the top chain lock loud enough for him to hear it.

He sighs, even with a door between them and her eyes closed tight, Karen can all but see the way his nose twitches when he does it.

“Kar--- please I..” His voice catches, starts on the backend of another grumbled noise and then stops again. This continues as he works through whatever it is he wants to get out, the frustration thick enough that she struggles to breathe through it. “I got some things I need… need to say.” Muttered, sticking to the roof of his mouth like he’s retelling a memory, something distant, broken, far away.

Karen’s heart clenches in her chest, her palms now braced against the door with her gun left forgotten on the floor.

“Then say it.” Failing to keep the hurt from her voice. It���s as sharp as glass, cutting up her mouth on the way out and Karen can’t really manage to be sorry for it. If it’s pain, at least it’s honest. At least it’s something more than another ‘almost’ suspended like a mobile, mocking, just out of reach.  

Frank adjusts his posture, pressing his weight onto his good leg with the old wood beneath his feet groans sympathetically, “you really gonna just.. Have me stand out here like a jackass?” Trying at levity, she can even hear the start of a laugh.

Karen shuts that shit down with a quickness, “you are a jackass.” A pause, a beat, like he’s waiting for her to take it back, “so whatever you’ve got to say to me, Frank. You can stand out there and say it.” She does not care that she’s being petulant, stubborn to the bone and maybe Frank has come to recognize that fact; she’s always been a storm.

“Right, okay.” The door shifts in its frame and she can tell that he’s leaning against it, so she does the same, her back to faded wood stain, sliding down until the floor is solid beneath her thighs. It’s strange, this foreign, diluted comfort. Frank’s broad and safe and even with something between them, she can feel the way it rushes up her limbs, a slowly spreading warmth, that, by the time it reaches her heart, is entirely flame.

“When I…” his voice tremors, “when I said I couldn’t tell you how much it meant to me… that you’d been there. That you stayed. I-- Karen you called my bluff in a big way and I gotta tell you, I was really fuckin’ scared.” There’s laughter there, but it’s dry, dusting off the parts of himself vulnerable enough to get through this, “ ‘cuz I know you know. You… you have’ta know. I got to thinkin’..right?  That you’re stubborn, but not without reason. Maybe.. Maybe I didn’t have to say it because you already knew…” He trails off, swallowing, and his head sags backward heavily, another ‘thud’, and Karen has to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

Karen hates how quickly he’s come in, her whirlwind of a man, swept up all her sadness like she’s never been anything but glad. All the time he’s been away, gone in an instant and she wants to hold onto it, sharpen that loneliness into a point, anything to remind her why she’s mad. Why he’s saying this from her hallway and not in her arms.

“Talked myself in circles, sittin there in a fuckin’ hospital dress, my ass out, feelin’ every bit the piece of shit that I am and Karen I just--- I guess I was scared of somethin’ else, too. That.. that if I said it, you’d stick around. Put yourself into some maggot scum’s crosshairs again, for me. And I cannot… I can’t…” This isn’t the same machismo shit, not the puffed up chest and sense of guardianship. He’s not her sentinel just then, it’s a part of the confessional she’d never gotten to see. Not before.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Karen. Never doubted that. Not for a single minute. But I can’t -- can’t give you a life like that. Can’t offer you up… whatever the hell’s left of me and say it’s good enough for someone like you. And don’t go givin’ me the bullshit that you can decide that for yourself. I know that. I know you’ll fuckin’ pick me because you have shit taste in men.” It’s meant to be a joke, but Karen knows that Frank thinks about the same of himself.

Karen holds back a whimper; it takes all her mental, physical, and emotional fortitude to slow herself from diving into the deep blue sea of wanting him anyway. Because he’s right. She does. No matter what the fuck happens; gunshots, blacksmiths, bombs and blackbirds, one fact remains true in absolution.

That Karen Page loves Frank Castle, and he loves her the same.

“I should’a made it mean somethin’, Karen. I shoulda and I didn’t and I -- I was a goddamn coward. Couldn’t even look you in the eyes when you left, shit.” He’s crying, too. She can’t see it, but she can feel it, a phantom mirror of the own tracking down her cheeks.

She’s quiet, and he’s quiet, but it isn’t the same silence that’s been eating away at her for weeks. It’s an understanding between what he’d said, and what she hadn’t.

“Karen?” Frank’s voice is hardly recognizable just then, rough and soft, somehow, less a whisper and more a plea.

She answers him with the sound of her three sets of locks clicking, and the groan of the door, and Frank scrambles up to his feet.

No words exchanged, he’s said enough, and when he steps through the threshold and into her home it feels a bit like he’d never left. Like her life had been holding its breath, waiting for him, and now it can let it out in a sound like relief.

“Hey,” she wipes at her face with the heel of her hands as he’s turning around, lowering the hood that had kept his face in shadow.

“Hey.” Frank offers her a weak smile in return.

And just like that, he’s home.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Only For A Moment Ch. 29

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Physical violence, dissociation, PTSD, feels so many feels

A/N: I’m gonna be real honest, I cried writing this bit. That being said I adore the reader character, she’s a bad bitch y’all and I just hope I can embody like a fraction of her strength in 2019 because goddamn. 

And I know this is heavy but... yeah it’s kind of the nature of the beast here. I love me some Bucky but there just really isn’t a way to skirt that being with him would be complicated imo (and the reader isn’t much better). @wonderlandmind4 asked me about my Bucky last week and this is just another layer of my Bucky. For better or worse. 

Like I said, trauma is a bitch. 

Tags are open!

@bluegirlusa1 @l0kisbitch @tazzi-baby @woodyandbuzz20-01 @mooniightbucky @saundrasays @breezy1415 @creepshowzombae @alyssaj23 @mywinterwolf @fairislesheets @anamcg317 @buckaroo-barness @jazztherebel @peachthatdrinkslemonade @regulusirius @auskitty  @babyimp1967 @katecolleen  @handplucked  @disagreetoagree  @wonderlandmind4  @piensa-bonito @buckysstar

He takes a half step back at this. “That’s what I thought.” You shake your head, “You should know, it will take a whole hell of a lot more than that to shake me.”

“Get out,” he says through clenched teeth.

Those two words hurt more than you want to admit but you won’t let it show. “No,” you stare him down. “If you still want me gone later I will go, but I won’t leave you like this.”

Quick as lightning, his hands are gripping your shoulders pushing you with the force of a freight train into the back door. You hit it, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to knock the wind from you. He’s holding back.

Making sure to keep each movement casual and unhurried you glance to your right at his grip on you, “Really?” You cock a half smile, “This isn’t enough to scare me either.”

His eyes shift quickly to the side, as though he’s hearing something behind him, his grip tightens. “Whatever you’re hearing isn’t there, Bucky. I promise. It’s just us. Just me.”

A shudder shakes through him, his grip loosens, and you think this is over… No such luck. As you go to move away from him he immediately locks on to you again, gaze cold, and pins you back against the door.

“Do not move,” he says, no emotion at all in his voice, the sound almost robotic.

“You are not going to hurt me, Bucky.”

“You think you know what I am,” he growls, looking down at your defiant stare, metal fingers digging into your flesh.

“I know exactly who you are, Bucky Barnes,” there’s a twitch in his face.

“No,” his voice is a rasp, just above a whisper, “I’m the monster-”

You won’t hear this. If he thought he was the only monster here… he was mistaken. Not wasting another second you cut him off, lifting your power between the two of you, a wall of invisible force, and slam it into him. As his grip is broken his left-hand tears your shirt sleeve, leaving bloody but shallow scratches. You keep pushing, taking a few steps away from the door.

But, he’s good. Very good. Ascertaining that you’re focusing on a specific point in space and pivots before you can reposition it. Closing the distance between you in a flash he wraps his right hand around your neck, left reaching for the door handle behind you. He’s not really squeezing, just exerting enough force to hold you. Refusing to react you don’t grab at him, just watch.

The door flings open and he pushes you through it back first. His expression isn’t sinister, it’s pained, his gaze like he’s not really seeing you. In a way he’s not, there’s a horror show he can’t look away from playing side by side with reality. He isn’t the monster like he thinks. He’s fighting the monster… monsters. The only thing was you couldn’t tell who was winning.

“Bucky?” Your calves bump into the balcony wall.

“No,” he growls.

“Yes. That is who you are,” you run your fingers over his left cheek. He grabs your wrist, twisting it, and forces it away. “You are not what they made you into. There’s just you,” you hiss over the pain in your wrist.

You have to believe this. Not only for him but also for yourself. Have to believe that you are both in control of who you are, who you can and will be. Not Hydra, never again Hydra.

Once again he shudders, you feel it shake through the hand gripping your neck. A scream, low and feral, bursts from him. He spins you, slamming your back into the wall by the door. This time… it’s enough to knock the breath from you, enough to cause pain to explode white and hot up your spine. This time… a fog descends over your rational mind. For a second he’s not Bucky, he’s a threat, and the monster Hydra put in you takes hold.  

Everything happens so fast…

You can’t breathe but that doesn’t mean anything. Your mind assesses the situation instantly. He had grabbed you with his right, that was just flesh and bone, all be it incredibly strong flesh and bone. You’re strong too, though, maybe not as strong as him, but it’s enough. After all, it wasn’t always the strongest who will win in a fight. It’s the fastest.

He seems distracted. Not wasting a second more you slam your left fist into the outside of his elbow. The force sends it bending violently in the wrong direction. There’s a loud pop, he cries out, his grip releasing instantly.

Staggering back he reflexively reaches for the injury with his left. If he’s standing though, he’s still a hostile. You wrap your power around his ankles and yank them hard, pulling them from under him. This brings him crashing to his knees. Threat neutralized for the moment flight overrides fight and you hurl yourself over the edge of the balcony.

It takes a moment for the fog to lift and for you to finally breathe. When it does you quietly take gulps of oxygen and try to get your bearings. You’re hovering close to the wall pressed against the balcony. When your eyes flutter down it hits you just how high up you are. It’s not possible for you to hover here forever. But you had a bit before you’d lose control and plummet to your death. Just don’t think about falling.

Guilt floods you. You would never have wanted to do that, never wanted to hurt him… But, hopefully, the pain of a dislocated elbow would be enough to snap him out. You remembered being caught in a flashback when you first stayed in your squat and the only thing that pulled you out was when you, not fully in reality, walked through the back of the house and fell through the floor, tearing a gash in your calf. Though, the pain could also make it worse… you knew that too. Hydra was all about pain after all.

Then you hear it. Something low and guttural, a sob maybe. Slowly you will your power to lift you up and perch on the edge of the balcony like a sentient gargoyle. If nothing else this would give you enough of a rest so you could make it to the neighboring rooftop if need be…

He’s on his knees bent over, supporting himself with his left arm. His right hangs limply at his side, bruising already starting to show. You flinch at the sight. He doesn’t look up, though you know he must be aware of your presence.

“You aren’t safe,” he says barely audible.

“I’m not the one with a dislocated joint.”

He makes a huffing sound and leans against the balcony wall, skull thudding on the concrete. His head rolls in your direction, though he doesn’t look at you, “I don’t need both arms to kill you.” Something in you snaps at this.

Hopping down you kneel in front of him. “Then do it,” your tone is exasperated.

Using your power you lift his compliant left arm bringing the hand against your throat. “Kill me. Right now, since you’re such a loose cannon since you have such little self-control, kill me.” He stares at you horrified. “Not like I haven’t thought about doing it multiple times,” you hold up your wrists, “obviously. So do it, Soldier. Save me the fucking trouble.” He looks away and pulls his arm back.

“Yeah, exactly what I thought.” Sighing heavily you sit cross-legged in front of him. When he finally meets your eyes fully he looks so tired. “You’re not going to-“

“Goddamnit, Y/N!” His fist pounds on the floor of the balcony causing an unsettling shake and you jump, on edge. “You have no clue what is in my head. None. What’s there could-“

“Yeah,” you concede, “you’re right. I don’t know. I won’t unless you tell me…”

He shakes his head, “No… look, I… just… You. Are. Not. Safe. Not with me, Y/N. No matter what you want to think that’s the truth. No one is.”

“What’s safe?” He rolls his eyes. “Seriously Bucky, I don’t know what safety is. I’ve never known.  Thirty fucking years on this planet and even during the best ones I wasn’t safe.”  He won’t look at you and you can’t stop looking at his elbow.

“Will you let me fix that?” You gesture toward his right arm. He grimaces and nods.

Honestly, you’re not sure how you know the proper way to set a dislocated elbow but there’s the knowledge in the forefront of your mind when you need it. Good to know you guessed. It didn’t take any first aid to know this was going to hurt. You pull his arm straight, a low groan comes from him but he doesn’t flinch away. Slow and steady you pull and realign. The pop is deeper, not as sharp as the sound of the injury itself.

It’s mostly drowned out by the, “Fuck,” he growls out and the sound of a metal fist meeting a concrete wall, the tops of his knuckles embedded in it. As he pulls away the imprint is clear as if it was cast there. If nothing else this confirms just how much control he had earlier. A hell of a lot more than you would have. Then you did…

The sound of his deep ragged breaths as he tries to recenter himself seem to fill the entire night sky. Ten minutes pass. Panic begins to burn in your chest and your heart ticks up.

He’s back, at least enough to be stable, that much is clear. And you had made a promise to him earlier, you intended to keep it, even if the thought of bringing it up made you want to vomit. Taking your own painful breath you brace yourself and dive in.

“Bucky?” He flexes his arm a few times, teeth grinding, before casting you a sidelong glance in acknowledgment. “Do you want me to leave?”

[neganandblake]

I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 101 - You really need to control your jealousy, Baby

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she's certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit….

MASTERLIST

Chapter 101 - You really need to control your jealousy, baby

[Negan and Blake enjoy a nice hot shower together. But Negan really needs to control his jealousy. Especially considering that HE’S the one inviting people into his room while Blake’s half naked!]

Almost all of the Saviours were still soaked through to the skin even an hour later, as their trucks skimmed easily down the road that lead directly back to the looming Sanctuary.

It was only early afternoon and yet the sky was now a deep grey colour, a storm imminent on the horizon.

But feeling cold and wet and admittedly kind of exhausted after the events this morning at the Hilltop, Blake was sat up front in the cab of the first truck, her head pressed into the crook of Negan's neck.

The dark-haired Saviour upon entering the vehicle had immediately thrown his arm across her shoulders, and like this they had stayed for the duration of the journey. Close together and warm.

There were so many strong feeling bubbling up inside Blake, feelings she had tried to suppress….feelings she had tried to convince herself were not there.

Who had she been kidding when she had told Negan they were to be 'just friends'?

For all this….they were way past that now….

So desperately caught up in one another….with so many unsaid things, still to spill from their lips….

Blake's fingers curled around the chest of Negan's t-shirt, damp and clinging to his skin, as they arrived through the gates, the truck slowing just enough for her to hear the rain hammering down upon the roof of the truck and the asphalt lot around them.

Here they were safe, back at the Sanctuary.

Blake's home.

For there was no denying that this place, as sterile and draughty and it sometimes could be….well, it was her life now, and here she was happier than she had been in a long, long time. And nothing, and no one, on this earth was going to take that away from her.

The truck pulled up just outside the doors to the factory building, with Blake easing herself gently out of Negan's arms.

The dark-haired man gave a stiff groan now, arching his back against the seat, before shoving open the door to his right and hopping out, pulling his barbed-wire covered baseball bat from the foothold with him as he went.

Blake quickly followed, her green eyes gazing up at the dark sky, pulling her sopping wet jacket tightly around her, wincing at the rain as it fell down on every inch of her that had dried, soaking her to the skin once again.

She hated the rain. Rain meant that work on her garden was out of the question…and that thought alone made her bored and cranky.

"Ugh, I'm going inside," she said grimacing and strutting off towards the small doorway that led inside the Sanctuary.

But Negan was hot on her heels, giving a chuckle, and dragging a hand down his bearded chin, before matching her pace on his long legs and throwing his arm, once again, haphazardly, around her shoulders.

"Whoa, my kitten does not like the fuckin' rain, huh?" he growled teasingly, bringing up Lucille onto his opposite shoulder cockily, as he peered down at Blake.

But the a caramel-blonde woman threw him a dark look, rolling her green eyes huffily.

"No I don't…" she said bluntly as they stepped inside. "I'm freezing."

And with the words, she gave a small involuntary shudder, which only caused Negan to grin wider, leaning in towards her.

"Well then, how 'bout I find a way of warming us both up..." he growled in a devilish voice, a hint of hunger lingering there in his twinkling eyes.

But Blake just sighed, tutting at him tiredly, before turning to face him in the small dark corridor.

"Negan," she said, peering up into his long face now. "I'm sorry…I'm just tired for some reason. Everything that happened back there at the Hilltop…."

She shook her head now, dropping her eyes and trailing off.

She did feel exhausted, cold and grumpy….and for the first time, not really in the mood for any of Negan's 'advances'.

But a mere moment later she felt Negan's gloved hand reach her chin, lifting her gaze once more to his.

His face now was sad and full of concern for her, as he parted his lips, staring meaningfully into her eyes.

"Darlin', fuck, you don' need to fuckin' apologise to me, we clear?" he murmured in response, barley taking any notice of the rest of the Saviours who were pouring through the door just over his shoulder. "Hell, I understand that this life ain't a bed of fuckin' roses….so if you have to take a time out….shit, I ain't gonna judge you for it. Like I told you, Peaches, we're a fuckin' team, an' I would give you the entire fuckin' world if I could."

And with that, with their eyes still locked together, Negan leaned forwards pressing a kiss to Blake's lips.

This was softer and far more evocative that their kisses earlier at the desk had been. This was special….their contact meaning more to her than anything, as she pressed herself into him…holding onto this moment for as long as she possibly could.

And it was just a few seconds later that the pair of them finally pulled away, Blake biting down onto her lip and peering up into Negan's grinning bearded face.

"Perhaps no sex…for right now at least…" she said in a gentle voice, running her fingers down his chest, them coming to rest neatly upon his belt buckle. "But you can join me for a nice hot shower if you like?"

She wrinkled her nose now, smirking up at him naughtily, as Negan gave a chuckle of enjoyment.

"Oh now that is an offer I can't fuckin refuse…" he hissed out now, grinning widely before suddenly and without warning grasping at Blake's damp thighs.

And the caramel-blonde woman couldn't help but give a small laughing squeal, as Negan suddenly lifted her into his arms, her legs wrapping themselves tightly around his waist and her fingers curling up into his dark hair, holding on tightly, as he carried her past the Saviours piling in from the outside. His chocolate eyes on her and only her now.

Half an hour later, and having used up most of Negan's hot water having the longest most enjoyable shower of her life, Blake was now stood in his bedroom in nothing but a towel, drying her damp hair in front of a mirror.

The shower itself had warmed her bones entirely, making her feel cosy and oh-so content, as Negan had pressed hot kisses to her neck, his calloused hands roaming across every inch of her body.

She could tell that Negan was totally and utterly enamoured with her, that was obvious, but if Blake was being honest, she felt exactly the same…

They fit together perfectly…

Like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Made for each other.

Blake barely able to believe that it wasn't that long ago that she had arrived here, locked downstairs in a cell, broken and abused by her former lover. A mere shell of the woman she was now.

But here she was, a queen of this castle.

She smiled at herself gently, as she stared at her own refection, ruffling her damp caramel-hair with a grey towel.

By the time Blake had left the shower, Negan was already nowhere to be found, and she noted Lucille was mysteriously absent with him.

But Blake had been just about to fling off her towel and pad back into the bathroom, when suddenly the doors to Negan's room were thrown open and in stepped, not only the dark-haired Saviour himself, but Danny directly behind him, following at close proximity.

"Oh an' make sure you tell Dwight that you both need to be back ready for that son of a bitch's offerin' tomorrow…" Negan uttered darkly, in a commanding voice Blake rarely heard when she was alone with only him. "I need all the good men I can get."

Blake made a small noise at the disturbance, pulling her towel around her tightly, and staring aghast at the pair.

"Ugh, do you mind?!" she uttered with contempt in her voice.

But Negan, glancing her way, as if noticing her now for the first time, gave a smug grin.

"Jeez, sweetheart," he said starkly. "I assumed you'd be out and fuckin' dressed by now!"

But Blake merely scowled in his direction, just as Danny, manoeuvring his gaze swiftly to the floor, pressed his lips together in gentleman-like manner.

"Sorry," he said in quiet voice, his gaze averted now. "I can wait outside-"

But Blake pursing her lips, merely shook her head at the black man's apologetic tone.

"No, don't worry, Danny," she replied soothingly. "It's not your fault."

But at Blake's words, Negan gave a scoffing frown, easing himself back onto his heels and pointing to her incredulously with the sharp end of Lucille.

"You seriously blamin' me for this, Darlin'?!" he said in a loud obnoxious voice. "I ain't the one waltzin' around the Sanctuary in nothin' but a goddamn towel. An' it ain't my fault that you like to spend forever in that shower of mine now is it?"

But Blake gave a roll of her eyes glaring at Negan angrily, as she aced suddenly over towards the awaiting Danny, who looked mighty keen to be anywhere but here right now, caught up in the couple's domestic.

"For the record," Blake snapped, pointing a finger back at the dark-haired Saviour. "First of all, I am not waltzing around the place. This is your room, jackass…I just thought I could get a bit of privacy for once. And second of all, some of us haven't been hogging all the hot water for the last couple of years and are appreciative when we actually get some…"

Negan's eyes followed her now, until she reached Danny, grasping hold of his arm gently and leading him back over towards the door.

"..and besides…" she purred continuing. "...my hair takes ages to wash."

But Negan gazed at her darkly now, his nose wrinkling, as he took in the contact between Blake and the youngish lieutenant.

"Well if its hair you're talkin' about," he growled in return, his chin dipped low now. "...then you know full fuckin' well I am very much a fuckin' man's-man, Peaches. An' I don't have a fuckin' problem. That shit don' need to be blow dried, y'know?"

But Blake once again rolled her eyes, ignoring his comment and instead leaning into Danny.

"Would you give us a minute, Danny?" she asked in a warm voice, as the man nodded and exited the room hastily, pulling the door shut behind him with a loud carrying snap.

It was then and only then, that Blake turned back to Negan, her arms folded across her chest in utter irritation.

"I hate you sometimes," she snarled, narrowing her green eyes in his direction.

But Negan remained with his own eyes fixed on hers….quickly closing the gap between them now, that same possessive look still fixed onto his long tanned and bearded face.

"You and Danny are kinda close, huh?" Negan uttered in a low voice.

But Blake almost immediately rolled her eyes knowing where this was going.

"I barely even know him, Negan," she tutted truthfully, as the dark-haired Saviour came to stop just a mere breath away from her now.

He clenched his jaw tightly, sucking on his straight white teeth a little.

"Well it seems as though you and him are kinda fuckin' friendly, Peaches," he said in a black voice. "There somethin' I should be worried about?"

But Blake merely sighed heavily, shaking her head now and shoving past him, bumping her shoulder hard with his as she did so.

"You need to learn to control your jealousy, baby," she uttered knowingly, padding over on bare feet to Negan's closet, opening the doors and peering inside.

But behind her, much to her utter delight, she heard Negan give a growl of annoyance at her airiness, turning on his heel and strolling on over to her. His boots chinking as he went.

"Well then maybe I'm gonna have to lock you back in that cell…keep you all to my fuckin' self, Darlin," the dark-haired man suddenly whispered in a husky voice into Blake 's ear, which sent shivers down her spine for more reason that one.

She swivelled around now, her eyes flashing darkly, as she jabbed him in the chest with her finger.

"You put me back in that cell, Negan, I swear-" she threatened warningly.

But a wide grin swam across the Saviours bearded face now, as he bounced on his heels excitedly , giving a whining chuckle of approval.

"My oh my, this pussy-cat's got fuckin' claws!" he said running his tongue over his lips as he eyed her, tossing down Lucille onto a chair, as his free hand slid it's way over the hem of her towel, finding bare skin beneath.

But Blake growled, knowing what he was trying to do.

And to his utter surprise, she merely pressed hand to his leather-clad chest, holding the dark-haired leader of the Saviours at arm's length.

"Ah ah ah," she said in a reprimanding tone, raising both her eyebrows in his direction. "Threatening me means that you're gonna have to keep your hands to yourself."

At this Negan pressed his tongue to his teeth, looking a little peeved.

"Oh yeah? For how fuckin' long we talking here?" he growled questioningly, as Blake gave an easy shrug of her shoulders, changing her mind about borrowing any of Negan's clothes to make the long walk back to her room on the second floor and instead heading over towards the door.

The caramel-blonde woman, now, tugged open the door, before glancing over her shoulder one last time and giving Negan a wicked smirk of her pink lips.

"Hmmm, I'm not quite sure yet," she said in a devilish voice. "But don't worry, I'll decide on the way back to my room…"

And offering the dark-haired Saviour one last lingering look, Blake headed out of the door, uttering seven simple words, that she knew full-well would make Negan chocolate eyes darken furiously.

"…but don't worry…..Danny can walk me."

And with that, naughty Blake, in just her towel and a dazzling smile was gone, in a blink…

…leaving only a seething Negan standing there alone in the room behind her….

….without either Blake OR his loyal lieutenant now…

…his eyes, as predicted, darkening furiously after his bad, bad girl.

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[hermitologist]

My 17 Favorite Records of 2017

Hello, Internet. Yet another year has passed, and because I’ve made a habit of making year-end lists, this old man has gone and done it again.

I listened to a veritable buttload of music this year on my morning runs, which I decided to post about on Instagram most days in a concerted effort to keep myself accountable bore every last one of my followers to death. I think it’s working.

What follows, is my list of favorites. Not “best”. “Favorite”. *My* favorite. So, spare me the “Your list sucks. WTF. I can’t believe “A Vest For Jerome” by Turd Circus isn’t on there!” comments. I’m sorry we don’t have the exact same taste in music. :)

As usual, I feel like the top 5 or 6 here are pretty carved in stone, but the last 12 and some of the honorable mentions could totally be flip-flopped depending on which side of the bed I woke up on. I actually fiddled with a few spots five minutes before posting this, which is either a testament to that or Exhibit 4,923 in my undiagnosed OCD case.

Anyways ... TL;DR. Here’s what I was into this year. I hope you find something you enjoy.

IMPORTANT: Please let me know what I might missed out on (as I’m sure there’s a ton of it), and share some of your favorites in the comments below. Thanks!

17) Japandroids - Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

This didn’t quite grab me the way Celebration Rock did, but it’s got a good number of super infectious earworms that got stuck in my brain at the top of the year. 

Listen here.

16) Sorority Noise - You’re Not As ____ You Think

Excellent “emo”with that feels like it could very easily fit into Brand New’s discography (and I mean that in a very complimentary way). Highly recommended if you’re looking for something to fill that void. 

Listen here. 

15) Queens of the Stone Age - Villains

This took a little while for this record to sink its teeth into me, but once it did, it didn’t let go. The arrangements are so nuanced that I’ve found little bits of ear candy each time I’ve listened to it, and while the mix is not my favorite, the songs are so brilliantly catchy and drumming so monstrous, I’m hooked. And Jon Theodore is the best drummer on Earth. That’s not debatable either. It’s fact.

Listen here.

14) David Bazan - Care

It’s no secret that I’m a sucker for anything and everything Bazan. His lyrics and the timbre of his voice cut to my core, and the songs on Care are no exception -- even when they’re delivered over minimalist electronica (which is not my favorite vehicle by any stretch). Another Bazan masterpiece.

Listen here.

13) Glassjaw - Material Control

This record is perfect in that it is exactly what it needs to be. It’s Glassjaw doing what they do best -- intense, vibey, groovy, heavy post-hardcore that is a logical follow-up to Worship & Tribute, while flexing and pushing enough to make it feel fresh. A tremendous return to form, and a record that was well worth the wait.

Listen here.

12) Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights 

Sprained Ankle blew me away and knocked me on my ass, and somehow, some way, Baker has leveled up and topped that. The stripped-down “artist + guitar” intimacy is still there, but the heavy moments hit even harder because of the additional orchestration on this record. Such a promising future for her.

Listen here.

11) The Life & Times - S/T

Another excellent record from some of one of Kansas City’s best bands. There are few who do airy, melancholic, spacey, dynamic rock better than these guys. And Chris Metcalf is one of the best drummers on the planet right now -- so pockety, tasteful, and effortless. Highly recommended if you dig Failure, Shiner, Hum, Antenna-era Cave In, et al. 

Listen here.

10) METZ - Strange Peace

This beast is 36 minutes of noisy, nasty, heavy post-punk with stellar guitar and bass tones, and badass drumming that sounds like the best parts of Nirvana and Young Widows had a perfect lovechild. I dare you to listen to this record and not have an overwhelming urge to play it as loud as you possibly can and headbang until your eyes fall out of your skull.

Listen here.

9) CHON - Homey

I really enjoyed this when it came out, but it wasn’t until we spent five weeks on tour with them and got to see them shred a handful of these songs on a nightly basis that it really grabbed ahold of me. This record is stellar. Sure there are a ton of notes, but they’re all tasteful, never bogged down in painfully long prog opuses, and there’s so much feel here ... which is so rare in the new world of insanely chopped, gridded and sampled prog. The splashes of hip-hop and glitchy Prefuse 73 style electronica are a killer addition to the mix as well. This is the feel good record of the year for me.

Listen here.

8) Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

There really isn’t another rapper who holds a candle to Kendrick at the moment, and this might be the best work of his career. I haven’t had a hip-hop record hit me like this in at least a decade. I was hooked from the second the beat dropped in DNA., got roped in even more by the slow jam LOVE., and HUMBLE. sealed the deal. What a beast.

Listen here.

7) Cloud Nothings - Life Without Sound

This record rules, but I’m not sure I can put my finger on exactly why I like it so much. It’s got tiny elements of so many bands I love or used to love without being overly referential. It’s got a melancholic vibe but never lacks energy. And it is packed with really, really well written and catchy songs without full-blown pop circus. You know you’re listening to a great record when you’re playing a deep cut and uncontrollably blurt, “Fuck, this song is good.” 

Listen here.

6) Converge - The Dusk In Us

Nobody does it better than these dudes, and it’s been that way for the better part of two decades. The Dusk In Us is yet another record a discography full of bar-setting hardcore/metal/noise records that elevate the ceiling of the genre and make everyone else sound/look bland in comparison. This one slides right into the #3 or #4 spot in that storied discography. So great.

Listen here.

5) Manchester Orchestra - A Black Mile To The Surface

This is one of those rare records that blows you away on first listen, and gets better with each subsequent listen. The former happens when the songs --stripped to their bones -- are stellar, and the latter happens when the arrangements and mix are somehow even more stellar. ABMTTS checks the shit outta both of those boxes and then some. Aaaand it was made with multiple producers, but doesn’t sound disjointed in the slightest, which seems damn near impossible. It’s the perfect Manchester Orchestra record ... “The Gold” was stuck pleasantly in my head for a majority of the year.  

Listen here.

4) Pile - A Hairshirt Of Purpose

Disclaimer: I am a late adopter of the majesty of Pile, but I am happy to announce that I am hopelessly hooked on their soulful, noisy, schizophrenic, (occasionally) dreamy, fusion of post-punk, blues, and all sorts of other good things. My entry point was Dripping, but A Hairshirt ... cemented my love for this band. It’s weird, it’s beautiful, it’s energetic, it’s heavy, it’s ethereal, and the musicianship is frustratingly good. If you know, you know ... if you don’t, just trust me. Spin it with an open mind and meet one of your new favorite bands.

Listen here.

3) Propagandhi - Victory Lap

I grew up on Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords punk rock in the 90s, and these guys (and gal) are legitimately the only band of that era that continue to excite and inspire me. I look forward to every release, and they manage to deliver every. single. time. It’s not a nostalgia thing with Propagandhi. Chris Hannah’s lyrics, melodies, and guitar playing continue to push the boundaries of what can be done in that genre. You might expect a group of 40-year-old punks to decline or at least plateau, but they’re still on an upward trajectory and it’s  inspiring as hell. Bonus points if you’re a parent and can listen to “Adventures In Zoochosis” without tearing up. Victory Lap is outstanding -- one of their three best records without question. 

Listen here.

2) Cloakroom - Time Well

If you’ve been following me here, on Twitter, or Instagram, it’s no secret that I’ve got a massive soft spot in my heart for bummer jams -- especially bummer jams of the heavy variety. Time Well is a damn near perfect in those regards. It’s shoegazey without being tired or overly jangly, mildly doomy without being mind-numbingly boring, and fuzzy without sounding like it was recorded inside a sleeping bag. I’m pretty sure I listened to this record more than anything else this year, and after probably a hundred spins, it hasn’t lost any of its luster. It’s outstanding (and it’s got some damn tasty drumming on it too).

Listen here.  

1) Elder - Reflections Of A Floating World

My buddy Scott Evans (Kowloon Walled City vocalist/guitarist, Antisleep recording engineer/producer, multi-talented human, generally outstanding dude, recommender of many amazing bands) turned me on to these guys earlier this year by sharing 2015′s Lore with me. That record f-ing floored me. Riffs for days. Heaviness. Prog vibes. Stoner rock goodness. Dynamics. Space. Sabbath-y vocals. It checked all of the boxes. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to hear Reflections Of A Floating World. 

ROAFW dropped in June, and it’s even better than I could have imagined. I’d wager that there are more sick riffs on this record than your favorite band has in their entire discography. I dare you to listen to this and not get a twitch to start a play air guitar. Also: How the shit do you write 15-minute songs that don’t bore people into catatonia? This is how. Just like this. Parts never drag, parts never feel like they’re just filler, and there isn’t a wasted moment in 64 minutes of music. That’s a remarkable feat in and of itself. This is a goddamn timeless record, and there’s no doubt I’ll have it in heavy rotation for the rest of my life.

Listen here.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The Effects - Eyes To The Light

Brutus - Burst

Nate Smith - KINFOLK: Postcards From The Edge

Employed To Serve - Warmth of A Dying Sun

God Mother - Vilseledd

Slowdive - Sugar For The Pill

Hundredth - RARE

Mutoid Man - War Moans

Grizzly Bear - Painted Ruins

Quicksand - Interiors

Death From Above - Outrage! Is Now

Power Trip - Nightmare Logic

Health - DISCO3

Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

All Them Witches - Sleeping Through The War

Code Orange - Forever

Blis - No One Likes You

Bjork - Utopia

Less Art - Strangled Light ;)

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2015 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

Town Portal - The Occident

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2004 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

The Stella Link - Mystic Jaguar... Attack!!!

CURRENT PODCAST QUEUE

Chapo Trap House (Grey Wolf Feed)

The Trap Set

Song Exploder

Slate’s The Gist

Slate’s Hang Up & Listen

INTERCEPTED

The FilmDrunk Frotcast

Deadcast

How I Built This

Freakonomics Radio

Radiolab

This American Life