#i fucked up all my turns & have a stupid habit of accelerating like my life depends on it

[freesomebodybyluna]

....

[shimeiro]

1- Jean Jacket (Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

- Part 1 -  Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

┃Next Part┃- ┃Masterlist┃

( a / n : I don't know if it's my love for clothes in vintage thrift stores that made me create this story or just my love for that asshole Maxwell but ... Yeah, we'll all see how it goes I guess? (Alistair does not exist in this story so no Father Max sorryyyy) )

Warnings : None ? 

 Words : 2275

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Your life was rather quiet and pleasant, you like your job as a saleswoman in a big and quite famous second-hand store in the neighborhood, the vintage clothes are in good condition and the stock is renewed every day so new pieces from the 60's to the 90's make their appearance on the shelves and the hangers of the store full of clothes, Shoes, accessories... Your status as a saleswoman gives you the right to be one step ahead of the store's regulars to choose clothes you like for half the price and that alone makes your job so nice. Just yesterday you managed to find a real denim jacket from the 80's, and as everyone in this store knows: each piece is unique and when you manage to find something you like it becomes a bit of a treasure just for you because no one will find exactly the same thing in the whole store.

Today you decided to come to work with your new jacket, it's a little big for you but the oversize side is very fashionable at the moment, your work doesn't require a proper outfit and the boss himself wears very extravagant and colorful outfits, this man is adorable and full of life which makes the atmosphere at work great. So, your outfit of the day consisting of a black strapless crop top in fabric that holds your breasts does not leave much to the imagination because you are not wearing a bra underneath - necessarily a bustier. - but more and more women do not wear a bra and you're lucky that you don't have boobs that don't necessarily require a bra so you take advantage. 

But for some people it seems vulgar even though it's summer and the sun is scorching outside and yes women can wear crop tops and no bra, but with your jacket and your high waist jeans that hide your belly button make the outfit modern and vintage at the same time with your wedge ankle boots found a month ago at the bottom of a cardboard box in the store's reserve. But if this is really neccesary you can close your jacket if you feel that some men will become too... agressive in front of a bar when you come home tonight. Women life...

You feel especially pretty today thanks to your new jacket, the new clothes have the power to make you happy the first time you wear them so you walk confidently towards work while the soft air of the sunny summer morning makes a few strands of your hair twirl to the rhythm of your steps while the music in your headphones makes the street atmosphere you taking every day almost magical.

A strange feeling has been gripping your heart since you left home, it feels like some kind of strange nostalgia and you can't really understand why you suddenly feel this way for no apparent reason, maybe it's because when you left home and put your hand in the pocket of your new jacket you found a small piece of paper yellowed by the years, you immediately found it strange because normally when the clothes arrive at the store they are cleaned because most of the clothes come from people who give them to the store to resell them because they used to clutter up their parents' or grandparents' attics or garages sometimes. So finding a paper in a pocket of your jacket is surprising but not impossible.

But when you carefully unfold the little piece of paper it is the sentence written on it that stirred something in you, it's just a few words written with a black pen:

« Can't Take My Eyes off You. » It's the lyrics of an old song but you felt something strange while reading the paper, maybe it's because of your small - big - hypersensitivity and your romantic side but since reading this old paper - which was clearly meant for the former owner of the denim jacket - you feel this strange feeling. You get out of your thoughts when the music you are listening to ends and another one randomly launches from the playlist in your phone but the earphones start to sizzle in an unusual way, you sigh with annoyance because you bought them no more than two weeks ago, and having music while walking alone outside has become almost more of a necessity than a habit, Having music in your ears almost makes you feel like you're in another world when you're walking and it makes you forget your slight discomfort when you find yourself in crowded streets or a bus full of strangers invading your personal space.

Suddenly you feel a violent vertigo that forces you to stop walking and your earphones sizzle even louder so you have to quickly remove them from your ears before they pierce your eardrums or something like that.  You open your eyes gently and don't even notice that you closed them first, your head spins a little and you feel a little nauseous for a few more seconds and then the world stabilizes again and you look around you with incomprehension, you don't know at all the street you're on right now.

You look frantically from left to right hoping to find something familiar, a store, a café, a sign, anything that would help you find your way, but you find yourself in a big, completely unknown avenue that doesn't even look like an avenue that the city where you live might have. You feel your body warmth rise a notch when panic starts to creep into your mind when you realize that absolutely everything seems unknown, the cars are all old American cars, the people walking down the street all seem to be going out in old fashion stores from the 80's, even their hairstyles. 

You feel like you're in a movie.

Your brain rushes to try to rationalize the situation you're in to try to prevent you from having a panic attack in the middle of a street crowded with people looking at you weirdly, if only you had your headphones and relaxing music to make you think about something else ... But yes your phone! A wave of relief comes over you when you take your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans, just having it in your hands right now makes you want to cry with joy, you quickly retreat until your back is against the wall of a building and you are no longer in the passage of the street crowded with people who look at you as if you had a second head. You don't even look at the building you're leaning against and you quickly press the button on your phone to turn it on, but once the screen lights up he flashes frantically it's impossible to unlock it and call someone. 

« What the hell ... Please ..! » You whisper in a trembling voice as you feel your breath accelerating, the stupid phone has absolutely no mercy for you even though you desperately try to make it work properly by turning it on and off, You have a glimmer of hope when the image on your wallpaper - an adorable picture of Mando with his green baby from The Mandalorian series - stabilizes enough for you to unlock it and access your contacts, you were going to text your position to your colleague and friend Daisy to beg her to come and pick you up in car but suddenly the screen goes completely off and you can't turn it back on.

« No no no no no no no… » You swear that you can feel your heart stop beating for a few moments because of the black screen of your only hope in this nightmare. Yes nightmare, you must certainly be in full dream and you will wake up nice and warm in your bed and Roucky your long-haired red cat will come and purr in your ear for you to wake up and give him food and then ...  You are startled when you hear someone clearing their throat insistently right in front of you, it must have been a little while that person has been trying to get your attention and you hadn't even noticed their presence. You raise your head gently with a little smile on your lips to try to hide your internal panic, a salesperson reflex when you are lost in your thoughts while a customer wanted to attract your attention. But your smile fades when you finally see the person right in front of you with his arms crossed over a large chest dressed in a three-piece sky-blue suit, a smirk on his lips and an eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. Maxwell Lord.

Wait...

Maxwell Lord?!

What the fuck ?! 

He is literally a fictional character who is played by your favorite actor Pedro Pascal, and he is there in front of you and his deep brown eyes are staring at you with a kind of fun and curiosity not hidden, you it looks strongly like a dream but everything seems far too realistic in a same time, you can smell his masculine perfume and certainly the smell of his aftershave if he was even closer, you hear the noise of the passers-by behind him. Yeah It's really much too realistic. 

Instinctively you look down on the hand that is not holding your phone to observe the palm of your hand and your fingers, usually when you have a doubt in a dream about the reality of the situation you are in and if you are in a dream your hand will be anything but normal, a finger in addition or something else and after that you know that you are in a dream what leads you to make a lucid dream and thus to be able to control more or less the continuation of your dream, it is besides often amusing but there your hand is completely normal even if you fix it for a long time.

 « Mmh, it's the first time a woman has ignored me like this. »

You quickly raise your head and open your eyes, and Pedr-Maxwell still looks at you, but this time his hands are in his pants pockets.

« Oh- I'm sorry I'm... I'm... in need of sugar! So- I almost fainted so uh... I'm slowly coming to my senses? So... I'm gonna go buy a sugary drink and... I'll feel better. » 

You're aware your voice shakes at times when you tell your half lie to the beautiful man in front of you, you almost fainted when you... landed here. But you weren't going to tell him that you were technically from the future, were you? But this world doesn't really exist because it's from a movie but... Yeah...?

   You probably had to convince him with your lost and panicked look and his brown eyes seem to soften slightly he looks at you from top to bottom - maybe lingering too much on your black top - then he looks on your phone that you still hold in your right hand, he looks at it curiously but he doesn't say anything and then his eyes go back to your face, it's really weird to see her in front of you after the fanfictions you read about him when you haven't even seen the movie Wonder Woman 1984, in fact the whole situation is weird, you always laughed and said to yourself that if you were in the world of one of the characters you love and you met him you might try to be enterprising and enjoy the moment but right now you're just completely lost and scared.

« Need sugar huh? My assistant was going to get me a coffee, » He takes his left hand out of his pocket and makes a lazy wave with his hand, the gold rings on his fingers shine with the sun's rays, barely he make his gesture a beautiful blonde woman with curves worthy of the muse of an expensive lingerie brand appear next to him.

« Yes Mr. Lord? »

 « Usual coffee and something with sugar. »

Her assistant seems slightly irritated when she looks in your direction but she picks herself up when she looks at her boss again.

« What kind of sweet thing Mr. Lord? »

Her tone leaves a kind of innuendo, and you can imagine that as in some fanfictions you read Maxwell must fuck his assistants out of ease, and this beautiful woman with perfect breasts must surely be one of them, Maxwell doesn't pick up the innuendo and doesn't even look at her.

« You bring it back to my office in 5 minutes. »

She stutters a little: "Yes Mr. Lord" while throwing you a murderous look as if it was your fault that her boss was like that, but you are not irritated or hurt by the look of this assistant you are just still in the fog, maybe you really have something sweet finally to clear your mind a bit.

You feel knuckles brushing against your cheek, Maxwell freezes when you look up at his face and his eyes darken for a split second and then he clears his throat and quickly removes the hand that just brushed against your face.

« Follow me, I wouldn't want a young woman to pass out in front of the Lord Industry building. »

You hadn't even paid attention to the building right behind you in your panic to try to get out of this situation but now you've drawn Maxwell Lord's attention and you don't know if it's a good thing in the supernatural situation you're in.

[cesarinthefreezer]

Chapter 1: Fearless

You were never scared of anything, even as a child. Never scared of the dark, or spiders, or even guns. In fact you were good with guns even since your grandfather taught you to shoot you became an excellent marksmen, tracker and hunter. You never hesitated to take the life of an animal, even when you could see fear in its eyes, but that was your favorite part. Your lack of fear is what drew DIO to you ,even face to face with a being of his power you never flinched. He was sure you’re fearlessness would make you a strong game piece in his plans to eliminate the Joestars. Planting a flesh bud in your head and giving you exact orders you made your way to Japan. Your task; kill Jotaro Kujo.

Being only 18 years old you were able to attend the same school as your target. You watched his every move ,memorized his every habit. After weeks of watching you decided today was the day. Loading you gun in the thigh holster beneath your uniform skirt you head to school on your motorcycle. As you park on the street you see Jotaro approaching the grassy area in front of the school at 7:45 right on schedule. At 8:15 he’ll come out the the yard for his first cigarette of the day and that’s when you’ll pull the trigger. Sitting on your parked bike you wait patiently your heart never skipping a beat in anticipation, you were completely calm. 8:14 rolls around, it’s almost time, a minute later Jotaro makes an appearances. As he looks down to light the cigarette you pull the gun from your thigh holster underneath your skirt. You want to see the fear in him before he dies, you make sure the click of the hammer catches his attention. Jotaro stares right into your eyes as you pull the trigger. You expect to see Jotaros body on the ground but instead he’s is standing where he was, but now there is a ghostly purple hand in front of his head where your bullet was aimed. Jotaro has look of extreme anger in his face, yet you do not fear for yourself, even now when he’s running full speed at you. Staring you motorcycle up you steer it to leave the school but when you got to accelerate you don’t move. Looking behind you you see the same ghostly arm gripping the back tire of your bike. You are then meet with Jotaros gaze, lifting his hand he reveals a Bullet in between his finger tips.

���I figure you might want this back you bitch”

Seconds later you black out from the hit landed from Jotaros elbow on the side of your head.

~

You didn’t dream much or rather if you did you didn’t remember them but now was different. You were standing in front of DIO his cold smile revealing pure white fangs.

“You’ve failed me (y/n) I have no use for you now”

He takes a few steps till he’s almost inches from your face, raising his hand he pushes his sharp fingernail into the top of your forehead. The pain is excruciating, but this is a dream how could you be feeling this much pain?

~

With star platinums steady fingers Jotaro pulls the flesh bud from this strange girls forehead. He throws in towards the light of the sun where it turns into ash. He looks to kakyoin who watching the (h/c) girl spasm in her sleep

~

The pain is too much for you to handle, you open your mouth to scream. In a matter of seconds you wake up, springing to a sitting position, screaming. Hand rushing to the top of your forehead you feel for a wound but there is nothing there. Looking around you see 2 men standing above you, you move to run away but you find yourself restricted by several Green tendrils.

“What the hell.... let me go!”

You writhe around trying to free yourself when the man you know as Jotaro Kujo bends down and grabs your chin.

“Will you shut up already you stupid bitch we have questions and you better give us some answers”

The red haired man who seems to be controlling your restraints smacks swiftly at Jotaros arm.

“Jotaro, be gentle with her she probably confused and scared”

You look to the red haired man

“I don’t need your help asshole and I’m not scared of you idiots, I was sent here by some DIO person to kill Jotaro I don’t know why but I heard a voice telling me to do so”

Jotaro and the red haired man take a seat on the floor. The green tendrils release you and the red haired man looks into your eyes

“My name is Noriaki Kakyoin, I was once where you are, we aren’t going to hurt you we want to help you and hopefully you can help us”

Your body relaxes

“My name is (f/n) (l/n) I don’t k ow where I am or how I got here, I just remember DIO telling me he admires my fearlessness and marksmanship. I don’t remember much after that other than my mission to kill Jotaro. But now I feel free I’m not being told to kill anyone.”

You pause and try to remember more

“I was in Egypt with my father for his business trip when I met DIO and I’m pretty sure my father is dead now”

You start to feel choke up and faint. You fall backwards from your sitting position, before you head can hit the floor you feel a strong hand on you back. You look to see that it’s Jotaro, still looking pissed but he gently lowers you to the floor.

“I’m sorry I tried to shoot you, you’re lucky to have that purple ghost with you”

Jotaro raises an eyebrow as a very muscular purple ghost like man appears behind him. Your eyes widen

“You mean you can see my star platinum?, you don’t appear to have a stand”

You look at him confused

“A stand?”

Kakyoin places a hand on your head to check your temperature. But he then realizes you’ve passed out. You are shaking and sweat beads are forming on your head.

“She’s burning up, we need to get her to a bed Jotaro”

With a quick smooth motion Jotaro picks you up bridal style and carried you to one of the guest rooms. He covers you in several blankets and leaves you to rest. Laying there shaking and covered in sweat you slip into the same dream. But the difference in this dream is the figure standing next to you, she is about your height with pale blue skin and all black eyes. But she doesn’t appear to move she just stands beside you. Once again as DIOs finger nail pierces your forehead you sit up screaming, but you haven’t woken up yet. You are trapped in the painful dream. And for the first time in your life, you are scared.

Jotaro rushes into the room to see you shaking and crying but you are still asleep. He rushes to restrain your spasming body when a pale blue figure raises a sword to him.

“She’s manifesting a stand” he says under his breath

“STAR PLATINUM!”

Jotaros stand appears pinning down your stand with a loud ‘ORA’ Jotaro looks your stand in the eyes

“I’m just trying to help her I don’t want to hurt her”

Your stand disappears and Jotaro pulls you into his chest to keep you still. You wake up covered in tears with your face pressed into something warm. Jotaro lets go of you and you pull back quickly. In that moment your stand manifests next to Jotaro. You lunge back and reach to you thigh to pull the gun that is no longer there

“Where’s my gun, what is that thing!?”

Jotaro rolls his eyes

“Your gun is safe, away from you for the time being.... you might shoot someone if I give it to you now. And this is your stand, it’s a manifestation of your soul. Something must have triggered it recently if it’s only appearing to you now, besides DIO has anything in your life changed?”

You swallow nervously remembering you dream and you shave your head.

“For the first time in my life.... I was scared”

Jotaros gaze softens

“If you’ve never been scared then you never needed anyone to protect you and now that something has changed your stand appeared to protect you”

You bring your knees to your chest and take a moment to process everything. What the actual fuck is happening to you. You look up to see Kakyoin standing in the doorway.

“(Y/n) are you alright?”

You nod at him as your stand hovers over to meet him

“So she does have a stand after all, I’ll have to find Avdol and Mr. Joestar and explain the news”

Kakyoin turns and walks away but Jotaro still remains seated in front of you on the bed. Your hands are still shaking as they rest in the tops of your knees. Jotaro places one hand over both.

“You’ll be fine, I’ll let you get some rest”

He stands up and turns to leave when you grab the sleeve of his jacket.

“ can you stay and sit with me for a little bit ?...please”

He rolls his eyes

“Good grief you’re a grown woman you’ll be fine”

Your grip tightens on his jacket. He stares at you with annoyance but you don’t let up. He finally sits back down on the bed.

“I know I said it once already but I’m really sorry I tired to shoot you”

You look into his eyes that are almost hidden by the shadow of his hat.

“You couldn’t help it, just don’t think about trying it again. But I have to admit you’re a good shot”

You smile at him

“Thanks.. I guess”

The two of you share a few more words before Jotaro finds you asleep resting in his shoulder. Realizing he’s stuck there he kicks off his shoes and throws his hat in the night stand.

“I didn’t know you were such a softy Jotaro”

Jotaro looks over to see Kakyoin in the doorway

“ not a word kakyoin or I’ll kill you”

Kakyoin nods as he pulls the door shut and leaves. Relaxing his body Jotaro drifts off next to you.

Notes

Chapter 2 coming soon hope y’all enjoyed

[justalittlelitnerd]

Angry God by L.J. Shen

Man this book was a wild ride from start to finish. I knew from Pretty Reckless and Broken Knight that Vaughn had issues that were borderline sociopathic (all of the main characters in the previous books comment on his weird habits and lack of emotions) but nothing prepared me for his almost psychotic behavior. 

The book starts with the history of Vaughn and Lenora’s relationship which began on a family trip where he killed jellyfish and they bonded over a brownie. It then continued to them both attending a summer art program at Lenora’s father’s academy in London when they were preteens and Lenora witnesses Vaughn in a compromising position. A 13-year-old Vaughn breaks into Lenora’s room, darkly threatening her if she breathes a word of what she saw. 

Five years later, they haven’t seen each other since that night, Lenora’s mom has died, her father and sister have moved to the US to they very place where Vaughn attends high school, and prior to her senior year they convince her to join them. Neither of them are the same, both darker and damaged by their teenage years. Lenora swears she won’t let Vaughn rattle her even as he makes it his mission to make her life a living hell. Between stalking her, breaking into her house, making her stitch him up when he’s been low-key (I say low-key because it wasn’t fully intentional) stabbed, drawing the wrath of all the mean girls to her, and a million other things that are absolutely insane they keep getting drawn together by a sort of unhealthy possessiveness & obsession.

This book was by far my least favorite of the three and that was in part to the lack of a clear trigger warning. I knew based on the previous books that the family dynamics would be complex and the characters would have an unexpected darkness to them. But nothing prepared me for the violence, the public sex acts (though it was mentioned in the previous novels), the BLOOD PLAY (just really not my thing), and the graphic sexual assault/molestation. I had a feeling going into this book that something happened to Vaughn when he was younger to create his issues with sex and intimacy, but I was by no means expecting it to be graphicly depicted. Talking about the psychological effects of molestation is one thing (it still needs a trigger warning, but it’s important to discuss) but actually showing the acts is completely another. As soon as I realized what was happening I skimmed the retelling because it was just too hard to read and I couldn’t imagine how someone would feel if they had similar experiences. 

So basically approach this book with caution.     

Keep reading for my favorite quotes from this crazy novel.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis. Art is long, life is short. The message was clear: the only way to immortality was through art. Mediocrity was profanity. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and we were leashed upon each other, hungry, desperate, and blindly idealistic.

We had the talent, the status, the money, and the opportunity. But if we were silver, Vaughn Spencer was gold. If we were good, he was brilliant. And when we shone? He gleamed with the force of a thousand suns, charring everything around him. It was like God had carved him differently, paid extra attention to detail while creating him. His cheekbones were sharper than scalpel blades, his eyes the palest shade of blue in nature, his hair the inkiest black. He was so white I could see the veins under his skin,  but his mouth was red as fresh blood—warm, alive, and deceiving.

Lenora didn’t strike me as a party girl. She had the strange gene, the one that made her stick out like a sore thumb wherever she went, even without the Maleficent wardrobe. I could tell because I had it, too. We were weeds, rising from the concrete, ruining the generic landscape of this yacht club town.

Watching her react to me was like feeling the first rays of sun after a long winter.

“Y’all gonna slow-dance to a Billy Joel song? If so, don’t forget to leave room for Jesus. And Moses. And Muhammad. And also Post Malone, because hey, he’s kind of a religion now, too.”

My heart accelerated to a dangerous speed, fireflies bursting forth as though escaping a Mason jar. Kissing him was like standing on the edge of a cliff. Nice view, but you knew it was deadly. Still, a stupid, irrational, dangerously alive part of you still wanted to hurl yourself down to meet your own demise. I felt his lips on more than just my lips. I felt them in my fingertips, all the way down to my toes. I felt them when my skin broke into goosebumps.

Heartbreak was a mystical, double-edged sword from where I was standing. And I had no desire to experience the full range of emotions in a car crash of feelings. Not ever going there.

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll still catch you,” he said. “I will always catch you, the fucking dumbass that I am.” “What do you mean?” “You soften me.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to fucking kill you! You’re too fun to fuck with. Now Get. The. Hell. Down.”

There was nothing more beautiful than watching Vaughn Spencer let go.

I said nothing, not really in the mood to correct her and tell her I hadn’t asked whether she believed in ghosts or not because I knew the answer already. It was what made her presence bearable. When we were in a room together, all our ghosts were waiting on the other side of the door. I could hear them.

Strong words, but time, I found, had two opposite effects. Either it made the pain dull and evaporated the anger or it allowed you to stew in your fury, multiplying your rage.

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a bit unhinged.” He said “a bit” for the sake of civility. Truth was, you couldn’t be a bit unhinged, just like you couldn’t be “a bit” dead. Being crazy demanded commitment, which I certainly showed.

He came to her room every night. Not that I was keeping tabs or anything. I was just in the neighborhood when it happened. And by in “the neighborhood,” I mean in her hallway, lurking. And by “in her hallway, lurking,” I mean clearly I needed professional help, an intervention, and a fucking life. I found myself standing behind a Louise Bourgeois statue for hours daily, waiting like some kind of a rabid Belieber.

I pushed the door open, hoping to find her working or reading or converting to a religion where she could only have sex with people named Vaughn Spencer.

I knew Vaughn was incapable of falling in love, but I wanted to steal pieces of him. His time. His talent. His words. His smiles. And yes, his virginity, too. I was a thief of everything Vaughn Spencer. 

“I am hell bound, and you are heaven sent. You’re the first girl I ever looked at and thought…I want to kiss her. I want to own her. I wanted you to look at me the way you look at your fantasy book—with a mixture of awe, anticipation, and warmth. I gave you a brownie, hoping you’d remember me sweetly, praying the sugar rush would spin a positive feel around that vacation. I remember how you looked at me when you saw me killing jellyfish. I never wanted you to look at me like that ever again.”

At nineteen, I no longer had a beating heart. I wore a death mask everywhere I went, and I was thirsty for revenge. For his blood. There was just one, tiny problem that did not occur to me beforehand. Namely, his niece, Lenora, who’d shoved a heart back into my chest. Now that it was beating again, I didn’t know what to do.

We were an unfinished business, personal and always walking the tightrope between love and hate. But we were always something, Len. We will always be something. You might move on and marry someone else, have his children and get your happily ever after, but you will never be completely done with me. And that’s the small chunk of mirth I allow myself. That’s my half of the brownie. That’s my one, perfect summer moment in the South of France, watching the face of the girl I will love forever for the very first time. Because, Lenora Astalis, this is love. It’s always been love. Love with many masquerade masks, twisted turns, and ugly truths. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I’ll be wishing you were there...It is worthy and beautiful, just like you. I wish I were strong enough not to do what I need to do. I wish I could get the girl. Because, Len, you are her. You are that girl. My safe place. My asymmetric happiness. My Edgar Allan Poe poem. You are my Smiths, and my favorite fantasy book, my brownie, and summer vacations in lush places. There will never be anyone else like you. And that’s exactly why you deserve someone better than me. Love, Vaughn

He just hung in the pregnant air, suspended by strings of cruel hope and tragic impossibility. Heartbreak had a taste, and it exploded in my mouth every time I tried to smile.

“You saw what I wanted you to see. I think I always had this idea that you should be my savior, but naturally, the stubborn ass that I am, I didn’t understand it. Now I do. I want you to save me today, and tomorrow, and in a month, and in a year, and in a decade. Save me. Give me your best and your worst and everything in between. I’ve always watched my dad loving my mom and thought he was stuck in a state of insanity. But he wasn’t. Turns out, love really can be that fucking intense.”

[quarterette]

Utawarerumono: The False Faces ep 13-25 Liveblog

Gonna just straight up do individual episode comments, since the second half is gonna be denser in content. As with the first half, this is a rewatch and will have spoilers for the games.

Opening Comments: Man there’s not much movement in the animation but its beautiful all the same.

Ep 13:

- *spit take* why are they sending Rulu? IDK if it was because the directors weren’t informed about the whole “baby of the family” detail because I can’t imagine Shis letting this happen

- Interesting how instead being of a secret force that Oshtoru sent, Haku and gang are now the accompanying force to Rulu and Atuy.

- I’ll be pleasantly surprised if Entua makes more sense in the anime than in the games

- oh wow Dekopompo is even worse in the anime, straight-up running off on his own.

Ep 14:

- I like how instead of Atuy catching the arrow the twins have a force field. Granted, it make Atuy even more of a non-entity

- the extreme long shots of the CGI soldiers are really nice. I don’t feel like we see the loss of formations as they come into contact with each other often in war anime

- why are the twins running like that - imo that way too much movement for dainty girls (maybe I’ve watched too much anime)

- wow they totally recontextualized retrieving Shinonon and cut down a lot of potential runtime.

- did they seriously remove Atuy’s bloodlust

- you know open-eyed Ougi is growing on me, him and Nosuri have such lovely eye color

- poor Maroro

Ep 15:

- I’m relieved that the adaptation art makes Raiko look less like Lelouch. Always seemed like lazy design to me, him and Mikazuchi look nothing alike.

- did they introduce the telepaths in MoD? I can’t remember.

- that triple-take of Zeguni dying was just silly. If it were one slice x3 it would have been fine but this... Oshtoru be flexing with that mountain.

- I never really felt calling Witsu an Eva was quite right but with the Akuruturuka.... yeah I see it.

- truly we are in the war arc proper now.

- Heh wouldn’t it have been interesting to have the proxies’ subservience kick in instead of having the twins shield Haku. Oh well missed opportunities. IMO it would have worked well with the accelerated timeline the anime needed to achieve.

- what is with the triple takes this episode

- ah haku wasn’t even able to save them gg

- post episode revisiting the VN comments:

they hint at the telepaths, and as I thought the Vurai razing the city wasn’t in the VN. It was a good showpiece and works with Vurai’s characterization, but messes with Haku’s as a cost - the VN suggests that Haku inherently can be ruthless (he suggests scapegoating Moznu for Anju’s kidnapping, which the anime totally skips over), while it looks like the anime is gonna use this mass destruction as the reason for steeling his heart. I can’t say I hate that the writers chose to have the main characters in the fray, but it definitely requires more suspension of disbelief that everyone got out okay compared to the VN.

- Interestingly we don’t see Oshtoru’s mech form at all. I do like the increased bro scenes between Mikazuchi and Oshtoru

Ep 16:

- Yeah we immediately feel the ripples of that last episode changing Haku’s trajectory... its a logical trajectory but... ugh. I’m not sure how I feel about such a contrary Haku. It wasn’t really a thing in the VN? So frustrating augh. Utawarerumono was never a story big on moralizing about war... and the anime writers aren’t doing a great job adding it in.

- I’m 99% sure they pulled some of Ukon’s lines for comforting Haku here from a conversation they had in the VN waaaayyy back around the gigiri fight, making the scene all the more frustrating. The concepts of powerlessness and loss of life is something that Haku had been introduced to the moment he woke up and had already been working on dealing with. I can’t say its an invalid take that he’d be shook over mass destruction (I mean, most people would) but it’s a sharp deviation from the VN.

- Oh wow they’re totally gonna retool the banquet to deal with haku’s trauma instead of him dealing with his memories of being the LAST OF HIS KIND aren’t they.

- yeah they did

- oh god don’t say the word seduce haku, rulu’s gonna die from blood loss

- lol i don’t remember the twins being tied up

- rulu is dead

- and now haku is dead too. I think only Ougi and Yakutowaruto escaped unscathed.

- this did give me the bro bonding that I had been missing in the show thus far. Not enough drinking scenes! like literally the VN is literally just baths and booze between the action lol

Ep 17:

- ah finally the flashback episode. lol all the crunchyroll comments are like “watch the first season”.

- haku calling his new buddies family... oof mito’s knowing gaze makes it all the much sadder

- Haku:”did you need to go that far” Mito: “lemme do it again with Tuskuru”

- hah “reposition your camera” nice, easy way to not show his face

- heh stares at your sister-in-law’s butt, that’s actually a pretty subtle hint without adapting any of the monologue from the VN that he kinda had feelings for her

- damn this is probably the most complete vision of the future we get in any medium

- hey to be fair the ameterasu blast was mutsumi and not exactly a product of mankind fighting each other - but it does go to show just how little Mito knew about what was actually going down

- to continue with my frustration, we see that haku is called out by his bro that he has a habit of “conceal don’t feel” so it makes his emo bit last episode even more jarring - though in hindsight I guess his depression comes less out of the blue for his friends now - its just that the reason is misattributed

- oof “make up for lost time”

- ooh I like the final scene with Woshis as the delegate to Tuskuru. The VN did fine without it but man what a cliffie for those watching the first time.

Ep 18:

- oof we’re not going to have any shinonon/kiwru antics are we

- man I can’t wait to see Benawi - he was my favorite chara in Uta1 after Touka

- wow they really did just ignore the fact that Kiwru is the prince of Ennakamuy and cut him out of the party

- dugh never mind I don’t like ougi’s open eyes here

- speaking of ougi they totally glossed over his role as reconnaissance

- and have they even mentioned that nosuri is trying to retake their clan’s name?

- cocopo still best bird

Ep 19:

- of course you’ll be sweaty haku, boro boro only wears that brown undershirt in tuskur smh

- i love how all of the dads we see dote on their daughters so much

- of course only now do they mention the fact that atuy and haku are drinking buddies and we just have to take it at face value

- actually seeing those sailor uniforms in action make atuy’s regret that much funnier, the stills don’t quite do it justice (though really, it’s the sound effects carrying the team)

- lol the background soyankekur antics are great

- cocopooooo noooo damn this romance with mukkur is great

Ep 20:

- huhu woshis was allowed down to the underground garden huh

- benawiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

- dang they didn’t use the hot air balloon ;-; so disappointing like if they do it this way they won’t even get to retake the supplies ;-;

- i guess its a good way to hint at kuon’s identity

- something is wrong with kurou’s face

- also where the fuck is nosuri - i know kiwru is a lost cause for this show but nosuri too? they really are trying to wipe out the tactics seen in the VN

- i do think the line about kurou’s line to kuon about “ripping the country in half” is nice - can’t remember if it was in the VN but at this point most of the good lines seem to be coming out of the VN

- ugh the twins are such a cop out, still think they should have went with the hot air balloon strategy

- we hardly knew ye mito

Ep 21:

- dang I’m pleasantly surprised by these CG soldiers

- bye bye munechika, still salty you can’t turn into a mech

- oof “I’m sure my mom was someone like you” this show lives and breathes on dramatic irony

- bye bye anju, what was the point of actually having oshtoru there when the tea was delivered? makes him seem more incompetent than he is, though entua was nowhere to be seen - imo for the best

- oshtoru, an honorable man through and through, giving up your mask, lowkey too honorable for your own good

- okay one of my favorite things is how regularly dekopompo is ignored during the generals’ council meetings; overlapping voices isn’t really a thing in the VNs due to its nature as a written medium first and foremost

- oh interesting Oshtoru’s men are coming to defend him that’s new

- oh no torture time ;-;

- post episode VN notes: ugh they also dropped the Woshis power grab of locking Dekopompo and Raiko outside of the gates

Ep 22:

- Yes go be a dad Yakuto and stop Nekone from doing stupid shit please oh please oh please

- Man they are seriously retooling oshtoru’s downfall aren’t they - wish it didn’t come off so crudely planned. Like, y’all know Oshtoru is loved by the people, did the generals not think some sort of rioting would happen if you let that info go public? Granted the original plot of having Entua sneak the info out is pretty contrived... but at least it better preserves the perceived competency of the generals by forcing a smaller timeframe in which everything goes down.

- man people watching this will be so confused next season when they realize Kiwru is a prince

- wut Kuon you should know you probably won’t be able to get info to the princesses once y’all leave. Good that Shinonon is going on ahead to Ennakamuy though.

- eh are they’re gonna try leaving by sea this time? even though Ennakamuy is in the mountains?

- secret tunnel ~ ♫

- aw no Evenkuruga reveal for Nosuri and Ougi. Though, I guess the anime never established that their base was in the Hakuorokaku basement...

- you know, since they just generalized the jamming barrier it’s kinda nice to see that the gang had to sneak in the hard way. IMO that’s one of the “game design justifies the plot” moments - the VN tries to keep everyone together so you can have all your unit options when fighting, but let’s be honest smaller strike teams work at times.

- oh hi Honoka, you’re not arrested here? guess not.

- oh god have they been translating Atuy’s “onii-san”s as “mister” this whole time? I can’t say that “love” was a better translation but that’s just tragic

- I wish we got more hints that haku actually has been doing some training (aka the SRPG parts of the game) rather than these random moments of competency and knocking out the guards.

- good god oshtoru your honorableness is gonna be the death of you. how can you trust Vurai. Seriously idk how it’s gonna turn out here, but Vurai literally wants to see Anju dead in the VN.

- ok i lie splitting the party was a terrible idea. they are taking way too long to convince oshtoru to take a stand. these men are way too stubborn. jk its fine

- whelp there goes the boat

- aw yeh Yakutowaruto lets go

Ep 23:

- Yakutowaruto continues to be a badass

- ugh and of course Oshtoru gets hurt, and he’s not gonna tell anyone

- ok I’m enjoying how acrobatic these twins are

- the plot change ripples continue to be seen; there’s no distractions at the gates since dekopompo is inside the gates. Raiko’s strategy stuff does make for good tension tho.

- ugh the fact that Soyankekuru is in the capital is gonna complicate things. The moment Atuy is seen to defect he’s screwed. That’s gonna change the timeframe of things second half.

- lol Kuon god powers time, hope there weren’t too many casualties. Poor Nosuri now has two sacks of people to deal with...

- ok I feel like I’m seeing more poor art quality this episode

- wow it seems that everyone’s on board for some arson today

- bruh don’t take him through the sewers Oshtoru’s wound’s gonna get infected

- oh god who thought it was a good idea to give Rulu a blade.

- Cocopo best bird. Period. MVP.

- Soyankekuru, what a guy.

Ep 24:

- ooh mech fight in the city? oh nvm its just a sword fight. a sword fight between two beasts. thank god vurai ain’t that dumb

- wait they said there was a barrier in the palace, but i don’t think there was a barrier for the outer walls? why the frick didn’t the twins just teleport out for the last bit? they were pretty close to the gates... unless they needed the gates open anyways?

- vurai? not dumb? scratch that, good god do y’all not care about the safety of the people? guess not cuz it’s MECH FIGHT TIME (ok, if we’re honest oshtoru’s the one who initiated so yes he’s equally dumb)

- water vs fire, groudon vs kyogre, this is what animation is all about YASSS

- the twins’ shield is too OP

- haku please stop indulging Nekone

- will the twins actually be able to seal Vurai? they were kind of trash at doing their job in the VN (though they did have the good excuse of being exhausted for this particular instance)

- ok that nekone running sequence is jank

- damn haku blocked that punch? oh no he’s on fire

- looking like nekone’s “it was my fault” is gonna be part of a cascade of setbacks rather than the final blow. I’m kinda glad - the VN’s take was probably the most exasperating part of the whole story - gutwrenching but also made me want to punch her. I’m up for arguing whether or not taking that away was a good thing

- oh no the salt. no. how could you put it at the post-credits scene.

- vurai’s confirmed dead? that could be a problem next season.

Ep 25:

- dang what an opener giving us no info just kuon looking sad. we had emo haku now get ready for emo kuon i guess

- nuedori is probably my favorite song after kimi ga tame, such a good song to overlay the time skip over

- man anime viewers must be so confused. like they saw Haku and Oshtoru get out of town but only Oshtoru show up. man this is so effed up.

- no not the fan noooo augh  brokoro in the kokoro

- sad nekone really sells it doesn’t it

- dang I knew Ennakamuy was surrounded by mountains but I guess the anime went and interpreted that as a CRATER

- at least kuon didn’t leave until later in the night?

-i know the twins did a spell in the VN as well but seeing the visual change between haku and oshtoru is a bit silly

- what’s with the flower field that’s so cheesy

- i can see why someone said laughed rather than cried during this particular use of kimi ga tame - the alternating shots to his saltification is just silly, there’s so many prettier shots for showing people dissolving - like the VN gave you a very serviceable “standing on a cliff as the sun rises and you fade into dust” why didn’t you take it

- side note in the VN i was imagining it something like this scene from CCS but different lighting (sorry I could only find the english dub on short notice, timestamp at 1:13:24):

- also how could you get everyone off model during such an important part

- you know what I’m just gonna pretend that there was some really bad production crunch so they had to do a rush job smh

- i do like this orchestration tho

- oh god the cheese never ends, now it’s raining

- that said it’s not terrible, but definitely missing something compared to the VN

- haha with some of your decisions next season you might just end up in Denebokshir Haku. jk we all know how it ends

- boro boro ;-; yes go hug your kid she needs all the comfort she can get

[stillness-in-green]

Salt-Sweet Curse (5/?)

The backstory drops.  (Also, it’s a good thing they’re both immortal, otherwise letting Toga drive would probably be what we’d call a bad idea.)  

They fled west out of Kyoto, avoiding at Shigaraki’s insistence any of the major roads.  The stolen car (and the body in the fields outside the city) might attract some attention eventually, but it was better than being on foot, even if Toga’s knowledge of driving was closer to a memory of having seen it done than anything resembling practical experience.  

Shigaraki sat hunched down in his seat, hood up, stewing in his thoughts while Toga jerkily got the hang of braking and acceleration.  She left him to the brooding, sometimes concentrating on the drive, but more often keeping up a stream of chatter that required no input from him whatsoever.  

He stared out the window, thoughts a black tangle of doubt and dread.  

It wasn’t the first time he’d had his life—if you could call what he had now a life—saved by someone. It wasn’t even the first time someone had saved him from All for One.  But this time felt different, somehow.  Like it was more than some spirit’s whim, or a would-be good Samaritan act.  Like Toga had been with him long enough to know he wouldn’t have done the same for her if their positions had been reversed.  She had to have seen him try to run, had to know that if he could have, he would have, no hesitation.  

She should have known better than to think I was worth it.  She should have known better than to risk him.  But how’s she supposed to know that when I’ve just been fucking around with question and answer games instead of telling her?  

What the hell am I even supposed to tell her?  Dammit. Goddammit.  

The pain at his neck was distant, a sensation so familiar he might as well have been born with it, his violent scratching rote as a habit and ineffectual as an overused drug.  He didn’t even realize he was doing it until Toga reached over and lay her hand over his.  She’d gone silent, eyes narrowed, and when his hand went just a little slack with surprise, she interlocked them all the tighter, fingertips pressed against his palm, her other hand tight on the wheel.  

“…If you want to talk about it, I’ll shut up for a while and let you,” she said at last.  

I’ve never seen her like this before, he realized, the thought numb, an observation more than a realization.  He huffed out a breath, a poor approximation of his usual disdain.  He turned away from her, pulling his legs up into the seat.

“Concentrate on driving,” he whispered.  

She patted him on the shoulder before pulling back her hand, but she didn’t go back to talking.  The silence rolled out like the road, bright and empty and damning.

He closed his eyes—licked his lips, curled in on himself tighter.  

And then he told her everything.  

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

He found me a few years after I first turned.  There’s not much that’s coincidence with him, but I think that was.  He used to have a manor down on the Inland Sea—maybe he still does.  He likes being able to transform back and forth, so he lives in places that make it easy.  

I hardly knew anything about what I was back then.  He took me in.  Told me he could teach me what I needed to know about—all this.

He’s a criminal. He always has been.  I didn’t care about that—the whole world’s full of criminals, and most of them are running the place.  I just knew at least he wasn’t going to up and die on me.  

I lived with him for a long time.  He used to say he liked having a protégé around.  I don’t know what he even thought he was going to do with me, once he’d decided I’d learned enough.  Maybe try to post me somewhere, expand his influence.  

But then we found out…

Your camouflage thing—the way you change after you do the whole blood-drinking bit.  I can’t do that.  He can’t, either.  That’s just you.  Everyone with this curse has something like that, and they’re all different.  His is his healing.  We all heal, but his is on a different level.  His willpower—no, his sense of self, it’s…  

Eat something’s heart and you gain its power—there’s lots of stories that say that kind of thing.  But him, his power, it…  He can extend his consciousness into people when they drink his blood.  It drives everyone who does crazy in the end.  They always feel like they’re being watched—because they are.  And there’s nothing they can do to get rid of it, to make it stop.  I once watched someone put his head down and run straight into a wall to make it stop.  

…No.  The mermaid curse doesn’t always take with him.  I don’t know why.  His blood’s too greedy to give up its power or something.  

He used to have an enemy, a long time before he met me.  I don’t even know long ago—ancient Japan, maybe.  He never told me who it was; he gets a kick out of being the only one in the room who knows things.  He used to say that an enemy’s not really defeated until no one but you can remember them anymore.

He fought whoever it was for decades.  And the enemy finally beat him—put a sword through his gut and carved out his heart with their bare hands.  They’d tried sealing it, they’d tried burning it, and he always came back from that.  So that time they tried eating it.  

Three days later, he opened his eyes inside his enemy’s own body.  He walked out of his enemy’s house and watched their servants burn his old body. It’d stopped healing, there wasn’t anything left in it—he said it went up like dry paper.  

He’s changed bodies lots of times since then.  There’s all kinds of ways you can get someone to eat your heart, if you lay the groundwork right.  

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

“So what’s he want with you?” Toga asked, eyes on the road.  

“My power,” Shigaraki answered, empty-voiced, watching telephone poles roll by outside.  “…I don’t have to eat.  He doesn’t, either, not really.  Same as you.  But for you two, if you tried to go for too long without, your bodies would eventually shut down.  You wouldn’t die, since we can’t die, but you’d gradually stop being able to move, even being able to stay awake.”  

It had been another tactic one of Sensei’s enemies had tried, this time when Shigaraki had been with him—still as Tenko back then.  They’d been captured and separated, split up and kept in separate cells, ofuda and clippings from sacred trees hanging up in every corner.  It had gone on for almost half a year; the world Tenko could see outside the tiny slit near the ceiling had turned, slowly, from spring to fall.  

“That doesn’t happen to me. If I don’t eat, I just get used to being hungry.  It doesn’t knock me out.”  

He’d probably gone mostly crazy, feral with first the hunger, then the loneliness.  His memories from back then were some of his patchiest. But then Sensei had come, finally, a satisfied smile on his lips, along with a story about a kind but foolish new housemaid.  

They’d set the enemy’s estate on fire and watched, afterward, from the top of the road as it burned to the ground, all its exits sealed.  And Sensei, breathing in deeply of the smoke and the screams on the wind, had asked Tenko in a cheerful voice who he’d charmed so, that they’d kept feeding him that whole time.

And Tenko—stupid, naïve idiot Tenko—told him that no one had fed him, not once the whole time. Why?  Sensei, were they starving you too?!  

He could still remember the furious indignation in his own voice.  That and the thoughtful look in Sensei’s eyes as they made the long journey home.  

The outside deck, floorboards shining.  The ocean wind teasing salt through his hair.  The far-off screams of the gulls.  Sensei, talking to a servitor on the other side of the door. 

“He will be the next ‘me’.”

Shigaraki bit his tongue against the memory, tasting the salt-iron bitterness of his blood.  “He absorbs the powers of bodies he steals. He wants mine.”  He spat the blood out, a brief dark patch against his jacket that faded quickly into the black.  “One less weakness to spend eternity with.”  

“So you ran away?”  

“Yeah.  Since, before you ask, no, it’s not a viable way of killing myself.”  

He’d run away that very night.  Back then, he still hadn’t been ready to die, but even now…

All for One cried in his sleep.  He wept, sometimes cried out, slurred words in accents different from the one he spoke with in waking hours.  It wasn’t him, wasn’t Sensei, doing the crying; that realization, when it came, had prickled Shigaraki’s skin and twisted his stomach with disquiet.  

Those people that cried in the night were the bodies’ original owners.  They were still watching from behind their own eyes, like the people that Sensei’s blood drove mad, but for years on years, decades on decades, and not even able to escape into death like the others, not until he was finished with them.  

I just wanna die. What he wants to do to me is so much worse.

“Ew.”  Toga’s nose wrinkled.  “I wasn’t gonna ask that; I don’t want you to die, Shikkun.”  

Shigaraki stiffened in his seat at the words, the familiarity.  So easily…  

The silence bloomed back into the car like dye spreading through a glass of water.  His heart hurt.  He curled in on himself again, turning away.  It hurt, and he was so tired of all of this bullshit, and now there was Toga, and she was still so young that she could say things like that, not even knowing that words like those were worse than her knives.  

And unlike him, Toga had to eat, which meant more of a trail.  And All for One had seen her now.  He had a whole other face to track.  

A whole other…

“Toga,” he said into his elbow.  

“Yeah?”  

“Find us a gas station. We need to get a roadmap.”

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

I'm not going to say that All for One's enemy was All Might, and taking that enemy's body turned All for One into a horrible funhouse mirror of One for All, moving from body to body and absorbing strength as he goes, yet never losing his own malicious will? But I'm not not going to say it, either. *AU jazz hands*

As for Shigaraki, Decay is frankly too OP for this story, which features only sporadically useful supernatural weirdness rather than cool superheroic powers. I still wanted him to have something that tied him to his canon self, though, so I went with a twist on the superhuman levels of endurance that Shigaraki's displaying in the most recent arc of the manga.

I’m nearing the end of the big gotta-write-it-now ideas I had for this AU of @codenamesazanka’s when I first started.  Here’s hoping I can still write my way to an ending!  

[eternalstereksecretsanta]

love letters straight from your heart

For the lovely @poetry-protest-pornography, who listed one of their favorite tropes as “doing something nice for the other and getting caught.” although this didn’t quite turn out to be that, I hope you enjoy anyway ♥

It seemed like a good idea at the time. How much of Stiles’ life was shaped by those words? But this? This was probably one of the worst decisions he had ever made.

After two years of living in the dorms, Stiles was faced with a choice. Either find some people to get a shitty apartment with, or move back home. Between nightmares and training with Deaton, moving back to Beacon Hills made the most sense. The commute was only an hour and he had managed to schedule his on-campus classes to meet only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Everything else he could take online.

But he just had to go complaining about moving back in with his dad to Derek over the summer. In his defense, he never expected Derek to offer his spare room. Because Derek had a house now. A very nice house. And a job.

Honestly, the idea of living somewhere he could be independent, yet still see his dad whenever he wanted was too good to pass up. But now, standing in the fancy kitchen and staring at the yellow sticky note on the coffee maker, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d made a mistake.

DO YOUR OWN DISHES, spelled out in Derek’s blocky hand writing stared back at him. Stiles sighed, scrunching up the yellow square and setting it beside his mug. It was the fifth note he’d found in as many days. One in the bathroom (PICK UP YOUR TOWELS), one on the refrigerator (DON’T DRINK MY BEER), and several others scattered across the house.

It was infuriating. This was the reason Stiles had wanted to sit down and draw up a roommate contract, but Derek’s only stipulation was ‘pay the rent on time.’ Stiles rinsed his mug and dropped it into the dishwasher. It hadn’t even been a week and he was already worrying about making this work.

—

Stiles was stubborn. He told his dad this was for the best, so he was going to stick it out. And Derek wasn’t a bad roommate, really. He worked odd hours because he was the newest deputy on the force, but he was always quiet and neat. Sometimes Stiles didn’t even know he was home.

After the first month, Derek convinced him to take the Toyota to class. It had much better gas mileage, plus meant less wear and tear on the Jeep. So Stiles parked Roscoe in the garage with the Camaro and hung the new set of keys off of his keyring.

All in all, Stiles though they were doing well. Even if they rarely saw each other. (Which, considering the massive crush he had on Derek, was probably for the best. No need to make it weird.)

It had been two weeks without a damn sticky note, so Stiles figured he’d cleaned up his act enough to make Derek happy. Until one morning he came down to a note reading PICK UP YOUR SHIT. It was stuck to the wall above the pile of shoes and sweatshirts and textbooks that had accumulated in the living room.

Stiles sighed heavily before gathering up the mess to take to his room. “This is why we need the expectations outlined,” he grumbled, not even caring if he woke Derek up.

He dumped everything on the floor, grabbed his backpack, and shut the door a tad bit harder than necessary. KEEP YOUR DOOR CLOSED OR CLEAN YOUR ROOM had been the last message and Stiles tried hard to comply. But hell, it was exhausting trying to remember all of the rules. Maybe he should have kept the notes instead of crumpling each one and throwing it away.

—

For the first two months living together, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually spoken to Derek. Part of it was his crazy schedule, with classes and training with Deaton and hanging out with his dad. And the rest was Derek’s apparent preference for night shifts. In fact, it wasn’t until mid-October that Derek finally confronted Stiles about his sleeping habits.

Stiles was neck deep in practice tests when the door to the garage swung open. Derek dropped his work bag on the kitchen floor and slipped into the chair across from him. There were notecards, loose leaf papers, and multiple notebooks spread across the table between them.

Derek took in the chaos and sighed. “Why are you still up?”

“Stupid exam tomorrow.” Stiles didn’t even look away from his screen. The words stopped making sense an hour ago, but there was no way he could remember this many conjugations.

“Go to bed.” Derek gently slid the laptop out of range. “You can’t learn anything when you’re this tired.”

“But…” Stiles’ protest died as Derek fixed him with a look. It clearly conveyed that he wasn’t listening to arguments. Defeated, Stiles leaned back in his chair and yawned widely. Ugh. It was almost four in the morning.

The next day was brutal. Stiles rolled out of bed at eight o’clock to an alarm that he didn’t remember setting. He stumbled down the stairs, trying not to wake Derek with his heavy footfalls. But when he went to pull the milk out of the refrigerator, the sight of a yellow sticky note on the door made him freeze.

In neat capital letters, it said: GOOD LUCK TODAY. There was even a smiley face. Was this the Twilight Zone?

Stiles stared, then blinked several times. But the words didn’t disappear.

He smiled the entire duration of his morning routine, stopping to stick the note to the inside cover of his Latin textbook before he left. Then he hopped into Derek’s Toyota and drove to school.

He aced the exam.

—

Several weeks passed and Derek was already out on his night shift when Stiles shuffled in from school. He’d had an incredibly long day, filled with lectures and labs and finishing a stupid group project. Finding a familiar yellow note hanging from the microwave didn’t fill him with dread anymore. Especially not when it said: DINNER’S IN THE FRIDGE.

Stiles heated up the leftovers, feeling exhausted and content. Derek had even made his absolute favorite because he knew today was going to suck.

It was difficult not to read into Derek’s little acts of kindness, and Stiles was crushing harder with every note. The newest one was going to hang alongside DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCH, and SCOTT SAYS HELLO, and DON’T WORRY I’LL BUY MORE COFFEE TONIGHT, and HAVE A GOOD DAY. That last note had Stiles grinning like a lunatic, to the point where Deaton asked if everything was alright.

So all in all, life with Derek was good. Stiles just had to keep reminding himself that Derek was a friend and not his co-lead in some rom-com about a werewolf and a spark who live together and fight crime. Although that would probably be an awesome idea for a TV show.

Shaking his head at the thought, Stiles loaded his dishes into the dishwasher and headed up to bed.

—

Halfway through the semester, Stiles’ three accelerated online classes had finals. He was super excited because that meant he’d be down to only two classes. His work load was about to be so much easier, and he might even have time to catch up on Netflix

The only problem was that the exams had to be scheduled at the proctoring center on campus. And because he was an idiot, he scheduled them all back to back. How he was going to survive six hours of testing was a mystery.

But Derek stayed up with him every night for a week, flipping through notecards and quizzing him on what he knew. Plus, he promised to take the night off and have a movie marathon once Stiles got home. Because Derek’s house was ‘home’ now and Derek was one of his best friends.

Sure enough, a yellow square saying: YOU’VE GOT THIS was already in his spot on the kitchen table. Stiles grinned at the note, peeling it away so he could add it to his collection.

—

On a typical Thursday night, Derek tapped at the door and stepped into Stiles’ room. Which he had never actually been in before. It seemed kind of weird, now that Stiles thought about it. He glanced over at the mountain of three week old laundry in the corner that was offensive to even his human nose and, well maybe not.

Marking his page, he set the textbook on his desk. “Hey, what’s up?”

Derek didn’t respond. He was staring at the bed with a slightly dazed expression. Then Stiles remembered the little yellow squares affixed to the headboard in neat rows.

He flushed, not really sure what to say. “Was there something that you wanted?”

Derek tore his eyes away. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Right. This morning’s note read WE’RE HAVING DINNER WITH YOUR DAD. It was a nice reminder of the fact that Derek was taking fewer night shifts. Sometimes he was even around to hang out with.

“Give me a second.” Stiles glanced down at his ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirt. Man did he need to do laundry.

He emerged from his room in more appropriate clothes and followed Derek out to the Camaro.

They were halfway to his house when Derek broke the silence. “You kept the notes.”

“Yup.” Because, obviously.

—

Stiles rushed home from school. It was the last day of the semester and normally he’d be ecstatic to have his freedom back. But this time, he was too nervous. Honestly he had no idea what he was thinking that morning. Maybe he could still get back in time to take that idiotic note off of the counter.

He parked in the driveway and sprinted to the door, hands shaking as he unlocked it. When the door finally clicked open, he crashed into the kitchen. The shower upstairs was running. Fuck. Maybe he could call it a friend dinner? People probably made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town for friend dinners all the time. Right?

Stiles’ panicked eyes landed on the note. His hurried scrawl: Dinner at Luka’s? 6pm was followed by Derek’s blocky print spelling out: IT’S A DATE and underlined three times.

Sagging against the counter, Stiles took a deep breath. He knew he hadn’t imagined the last few weeks. Derek was home all the time now, only taking shifts while Stiles was training or at school. Which meant they spent most of their day bickering over recipes and watching crappy television.

It was awesome and domestic and Stiles couldn’t wait to date the hell out of Derek Hale.

—

(And five years later, they visited Luca’s again. But this time, Stiles’ drink came with a sticky note asking WILL YOU MARRY ME?)

[imdifferentshadesofpurple]

the View from Up Here.

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader Genre: Fluff Word Count: 2.4k

Prompt: “We’re in line for the same ride at the fair, the seats are made for two people, and our friends ditched us, so wanna ride together?”

Surprise Prompt: “You’re a genius with facts, but you’re really stupid with people.”

A/N: Here it is! The collab featuring me, @daegusoftboys, and @haneulismykoreanname (check out her amazing moodboard) for the @kpoptrashnetwork October Fall Members’ Project! Enjoy! xoxo

It’s a Friday night and you’re being dragged to the fair, the smell of popcorn and funnel cakes permeating your nose as you weave through the crowds of people already circulating the grounds.

“Why do I even need to be here,” you grumble, pout on your lips as a little kid screams in victory nearby. 

Your best friend can only laugh, “Because it’s Friday and because there’s no work for us this weekend and because it’ll be fun. We’re meeting up with Jin and his friends so at least I finally get to see a face that isn’t yours.”

That stops you in your tracks, blood running cold and your throat closing up. “What?”

She can only look at you like you’ve grown another head, “What do you mean ‘what’? I told you this morning that they were coming. You were working on some biology homework or whatever. You know, that difficult class you have this semester since you love excess mind usage for some reason. You nodded and bit off the end of another pencil. You don’t remember?”

“Does it look like I remember? If I was actually listening, I would’ve said absolutely hell to the no and I wouldn’t have come! Namjoon will be there!”

She raises one eyebrow as if saying so? which causes you to groan out loud. “Focus. Kim Namjoon. One of Seokjin’s best friends? He’s in my microbiology class and I’ve liked him since sophomore year. It’s like you’re not even my best friend, shouldn’t you know things like this?”

She grabs your hand and you continue on, much to your dismay, “For your information, I did in fact know that because I am your best friend. I just don’t see why it matters much. You’ve shared short, precise conversations since you’ve met and you’ve never once made a move. You don’t even flirt! Tonight we’ll be in a large group so don’t worry. Just try to relax and have a good time.  You have three papers due in the next few weeks so I know you won’t come out for some fun until they’re all finished.”

You feel a little guilty at the declaration of your study and homework habits, following her lead until the Ferris wheel hovers ahead and she squeals in delight. You can make out six boys waiting, Jin’s face lighting up as you both come closer. “You guys made it!”

You wave hello, “I was more dragged by the collar of my favorite hoodie but…it’s good to be out. Thanks for the invite.”

He shrugs, “Hey, no problem. We’ve all had busy weeks, Joon thought it’d be cool to spend at least one night out in the real world with fair food and good company.”

You smile in agreement, eyes searching for the one boy that was missing, “Speaking of…where is Joon anyway?”

Jungkook throws a strong arm over your shoulder, “Why? Our resident brainiac looking for him?”

You turn a heated gaze at your best friend, her tongue sticking out as if to mock you, “Oh please, she didn’t even have to say anything. You become a shy little turtle when he’s around. You’re not the subtle type.”

You become a little panicked when everyone ends up agreeing, choking down the fear that Namjoon himself knows, right when he shows up by your side, drink in hand. “Hi. You…okay? You look a little pale.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. “I’m…I’m fine. Promise,” you’re able to say without your voice breaking.

You try to calm yourself down when you feel your heart skip a beat. “So? Ah…how about that Ferris wheel, huh? Let’s go,” you say, stumbling over your words and temporarily forgetting that you’re afraid of heights.

You’re the first one in line, Namjoon following closely behind. It’s almost your turn when your best friend insists that you pay for your tickets separately. You’re about to complain but the lady in the booth says, “Next please!”, a little too impatiently.

You reluctantly pay and move aside to let Namjoon pay for his. Before you know it, they’ve all bought their tickets — with four of the boys already in their respective seats. Jungkook, Jin and your best friend shoot you a meaningful grin. 

The ‘you’ll thank me later’ kind of grin, before walking away without another word.

You’re beyond speechless when you realize that this means you’ll have to ride the Ferris wheel with Namjoon. Alone. So much for your plan to ride with your best friend.

You look at Namjoon who looks just as puzzled at what happened. He shrugs and smiles, revealing the most beautiful pair of dimples you’ve ever seen. “Guess it’s just the two of us, Y/N.”

“Are you guys riding or what?” one of the workers asks annoyingly. 

You awkwardly take your seat, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze as your hands start to become clammy, beads of sweat starting to appear on your forehead. Suddenly a ten page essay on the layers of cells in your microbiology class and presenting it to the entire student body feels like a walk in the park compared to your predicament. 

You get higher as they gather more passengers to occupy the empty seats and you feel the butterflies in your stomach go wild. But you’re not really sure if it’s due to the adrenaline of being high up or simply because Namjoon is there next to you. You try your hardest to keep it to yourself to avoid embarrassing you both.

“So…what’s up? I mean, how’s school?” 

Dammit! Trust me to sound like a concerned parent, you think. flinching at your words.

You look away as you see him grinning, as if he can read your mind and agrees with your line of thought. 

“Life is great but school is hectic as hell. We’re actually working on our papers due next week Seokjin decided that a night away from all the homework would improve our productivity.” He smiles, dimples making another pleasant appearance. “What about you, Y/N? What made you decide to go out on such a busy time at school,” he says, voice teasing.

“Oh come on, “ you reply, rolling your eyes, “as if you don’t know…ah!” 

The pitch of your voice rises at the sudden movement of the Ferris wheel, announcing an acceleration. As it gains speed, you feel your stomach churn at the same pace. 

Worry is written all over his face as he leans forward. “Y/N? You okay? You…look pale. Do you want to go down?” 

“I’m…okay. Just a little afraid of heights but I’m cool as long as I don’t look down.” You smile to assure him. “I was just startled by the sudden movement, that’s all.”

“Let’s just look at the stars then,” he smiles. He looks up at the sky as you slow down at the top. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

You mimic his movement, head titling towards the sky. “Yeah…and the city looks beautiful, too.” The smell of autumn breeze fills your nostrils, calming down a little. You almost forget how terrified you are when the machine starts to move again.

But this time you’re not as scared because you feel Namjoon’s hands over yours, clutching at the handle as if for dear life. The feel of his warm hands is making your heart pound so fast you’re afraid it might rip your chest open.

The sick feeling inside your stomach is now forgotten, your brain focusing on how his hand grips yours tighter as the ride moves at its fastest. He scoots closer until your shoulders touch. He gives you a warm and calming dimpled smile as if he’s telling you to relax and that everything will be okay because he’s there with you. The loud rhythm of your beating heart is drowning out the crowd, the lively loud music, the shrieks and screams. Suddenly the world stops; it’s just the two of you, hands intertwined. with only the stars, the moon, and the cool evening air as your company.

“Namjoon, I-” you start, blood rushing to your cheeks in anticipation of your next move. He quirks an eyebrow questioningly, seemingly unaware of the inner turmoil his dimples are creating. It’s the perfect setting to spill your guts, the perfect moment to finally let yourself speak the words you been practicing late at night for months. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” you start, casting your gaze at the lonely hand in your lap. “I’m-”

Suddenly your seat swings violently, propelling you forward as it rocks back and forth dangerously. The Ferris wheel has stopped turning, a loud creak from the engine telling you this isn’t part of its usual routine. Namjoon looks at you, alarmed. Your confession dies in your throat, now constricted by the terror filling your lungs. “What the-”, he says, throwing a look over his shoulder to see if he can spot any of your friends. You can hear Jungkook yelling, stringing random curse words together and screaming them into the void. He’s at close distance but it sounds a million miles away.

You feel dizzy. A heat rises up your spine causing you to pull your hand from Namjoon’s, its weight too heavy on your skin. He grimaces at the loss of contact but realizes your change in demeanor isn’t because of him, as soon as you lock eyes - your own grown to the size of saucers. “Namjoon,” you breathe, “I think - I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“Uh - shit, I -” he stutters, his hands all over the place in a frantic attempt to remain calm. “Stay calm, breathe. And uh -” Namjoon freezes, his mind going over every possible article and post he’s ever read about the situation, mentally checking off tips on the list. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to get the fuck down,” you choke, breath still unstable as both your hands are now glued to the handles, your frame frozen in place. Namjoon is surprised at your use of language as he’s never heard you swear before. He’s slightly amused, even, before he remembers you’re about to pass out if he doesn’t get you to regulate your oxygen intake.

“Are you seriously laughing at me right now?” you snarl, your eyes still locked on his face to keep yourself from looking down.

The seat has stopped rocking. A loud voice booms through the intercom, announcing a technical difficulty. “Please, remain calm. The issue will be resolved soon,” a voice tells you, almost tauntingly. Namjoon bites his lip, trying to suppress a smile.

“I’ve never seen this side of you Y/N,” he says, not able to help himself. “You’re always so…sweet and shy around me.”

You try to inhale, shaking your head at his comment. Your eyes shift from him to the nauseating height difference between you and the ground. “You’re a genius with facts, but you’re really stupid with people Joon,” you manage to reply in between shaky breaths. “Now - is not - the time - to get cute with me.”

He chuckles, reclaiming your hand as you glare at him. His eyes are sparkling, the lights illuminating the fair reflected in them. 

“Breathe. You can do this. Listen to me,” he says, moving his hands from yours to cup your cheeks, forcing you to focus on his face. “Count with me. One… two…”

Your chest falls and rises with a dangerous speed. “One, two,” you repeat after him. “Three…concentrate on your breathing,” he continues, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“Three. Joon,” you say, panic enveloping your chest again. “I can’t do this.”

At first he doesn’t respond. His mind is racing, finally halting at a solution he’s seen in a film somewhere. He swallows and tightens his grip on your cheeks, making sure you stay in place. He promptly leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen at the sudden contact, a whirlwind of emotions taking over your mind. The distraction causes your attention to shift from your rapid breathing to Namjoon’s warm mouth.

Your eyes fall shut as you ease into it, his lips moving against yours gently. For a split second you forget the predicament you’re in, his softness the only thing your mind allows you to think about. It’s just long enough to regain your composure, your erratic breathing slowing to a safer pace. 

Even then, Namjoon doesn’t move. His hands release some pressure from your cheeks, his thumbs now tentatively caressing your cheekbones. You remain like this for another heartbeat or two, before he pulls back reluctantly. Somewhere in the distance you can faintly make out a whooping noise, an encouraging “GET IT, BOY!” coming from someone who sounds suspiciously like Taehyung.

Namjoon’s lips still hover over yours, his breath warm on your skin as he sighs. His forehead bumps against yours as you breathe steady, not being able to stop a smile from appearing. You can hear him chuckle even though your eyes are still closed.

“That wasn’t exactly how I imagined our first kiss,” he mumbles against your cheek.

At once, you can feel yourself blushing, the blood rushing to your face coloring your cheeks an adorable pink. You lean back, putting enough distance between you both to lock eyes with him. “Namjoon, I -”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” he says, shooting you a shy lopsided smile. “I think this is a conversation more comfortably held on lower ground.”

You nod in agreement, pursing your lips as your gaze wanders to the edge of your seat. “I mean, I could use a little more of that distraction,” you dare him.

Namjoon releases a short, heartfelt laugh before pulling you closer. His kiss feels even warmer than the last one, all hesitation gone and replaced by meaning.

Your seat gently rocks back and forth as the Ferris wheel engine kicks back to life, and you catch yourself wishing you never had to come down.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

The Martian AU - Bucky, crew doctor, overwhelmed with guilt because he's the one that proclaimed Stark dead which led to Captain Rogers making the decision to leave Stark behind.

A/N: I LOVE The Martian and just couldn’t resist when I saw this prompt. I have based the fic on the book rather than the movie (due to certain differences at the end) but I think you might be able to read it even if you’re not familiar with the source material.

However, since this fic is a total of 32k, the remaining five chapters will be posted on my AO3 rather than on the blog. So GO HERE to subscribe/find the rest of the story. Enjoy!

Hindsight - Chapter 1

"STARK!"

Bucky was startled by Romanoff's shout over the comms channel. He had never heard her sound so frightened.

"What happened?" Steve asked sharply. The Martian sandstorm was roaring around them, fierce enough to turn each step of the evacuation into a struggle — only made worse by their bulky EVA suits. The wind was whipping up enough sand that Steve was the only one Bucky could see clearly.

"Something hit him." Romanoff's words were clipped and efficient, but that only made her underlying fear more apparent. "I don't know what. He got thrown off course — I can't see him."

"Stark, report," Steve demanded, voice tight.

Silence.

This couldn't be happening.

"Stark, report!" Steve turned, facing the way they had come. Bucky couldn't see his expression thanks to the reflective glass of the helmet, but Steve's anxiety bled through the terse command.

Bucky pushed back the panic, trying desperately to remember procedure. He was supposed to be trained for this, but he found it increasingly difficult to breathe around the tightness in his chest.

"He's offline," Bucky said, willing his voice to remain stable as he looked at his arm computer. "His... his decompression alarm went off, before we lost contact."

Decompression on the surface of Mars was a death sentence — it only took seconds, much less than a minute.

Seconds they didn't have. Seconds that might already have passed.

(Mobile readers, watch out for the break!)

Bucky felt his stomach drop, and dread lodged in his throat.

"Which direction did he go?" Steve asked.

Bucky could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears.

"West," Romanoff replied.

"Barton, get to the MAV, prepare for launch," Steve ordered. "Everyone else, lock on to Romanoff. We need to find Stark — line up and walk slowly, heading west."

They hurried to obey, Thor on Bucky's left and Steve on his right. Bucky stumbled in the harsh wind, gaze aimed at the ground, hoping to see some kind of sign of their missing crewmate. His heartbeats echoed painfully loud in his ears, his body moving on autopilot. All thoughts seemed to have fled, slipping through his fingers — all but one.

They had to find Tony.

Each careful step was made more difficult by the wind and the sand, and the tense silence that had settled over the channel only made the knot in Bucky's chest grow tighter. Fear hung so thick that Bucky could almost taste it on his tongue.

"Commander." Barton's voice rang out clear over the comms; he must have reached their transport. "The winds are too strong. The shuttle is tilting seven degrees. It'll tip at 12.3, and if it does, we'll never be able to take off."

They would be stuck on Mars. If they continued to search for Tony, none of them might ever leave the planet — at least not alive.

"Copy that," Steve replied. Bucky recognized the determination in his voice — Steve hadn't given up yet. "Continue prepping for launch, Barton."

"Will do," Barton shot back. For once, Steve didn't comment on Barton's habit of not following proper comms procedure.

Bucky's legs felt heavy and shaky, but he kept walking, as did the others. He wasn't sure if Thor had ever been this quiet before, at least not during the years Bucky had known him.

"Commander," Romanoff said, "Stark's bio-monitor sent a fractured information packet before he went offline. I managed to retrieve the raw data in plain text."

"Read it," Bucky demanded, surprised by his own harshness.

"BP 0, PR 0, TP 36.1," Romanoff replied. "I couldn't get more."

Bucky faltered. He couldn't breathe, sudden grief squeezing his chest.

"Bucky?" It was Steve's turn to abandon protocol — on comms they were Commander Rogers and Doctor Barnes, not Steve and Bucky.

Somehow, Bucky managed to make himself form words. "Blood pressure zero, pulse rate zero, temperature normal," he reported in a monotone.

There was only one way to interpret those numbers, though Bucky tried his damndest to deny it.

"If his temperature is normal—" Thor began, only to be interrupted by Romanoff.

"It takes a while for a body to cool." Her words were flat and jarring, but Bucky had learned that Romanoff only ever fell back on that when she was overwhelmed by her emotions.

The silence that settled over the comms was deafening. Romanoff's brutally honest declaration had thrown them all off balance. Up until then, they had been able to pretend that Tony was still alive. Bucky knew that was stupid — he, if anyone, knew Tony couldn't be. Even without the damning readouts from Tony's bio-monitor, the depressurization would have killed him by then.

Tony was dead.

"Barton." Steve was still clinging to his stubbornness, Bucky could tell.

"Yes, Commander?"

"How long can you give us?"

"I can launch at any time," Barton reported, "but the tilt is almost at eleven degrees."

"How long?" Steve repeated, his patience clearly run thin. Bucky swallowed, trying to catch up to what Steve was planning — he had a feeling it wouldn't be good.

"Two, three minutes, tops," Barton replied tightly.

Bucky could hear Steve take a deep breath, dreading what would come next.

"All of you, go to the MAV. Get in and prep for launch." As usual, Steve's orders left very little room for negotiation. "I'll stay here—"

"No." Panic burned through Bucky, making him reach out and grab Steve's arm. He couldn't feel much through the thick gloves and material of Steve's suit, but it was still a comfort — as if Bucky could stop Steve's foolishness simply by clinging to him.

"That is an order, Dr. Barnes. Head for the—"

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Bucky snapped, his grip tightening. They were lucky he had used his right hand and not his left — his bionic prosthesis could literally break Steve's bones. "I won't let you risk your life for this!"

"I won't leave—"

"Tony's dead!" Bucky could hear his own voice waver, thick, ugly emotions making it difficult to speak. It felt like a betrayal to say those words out loud, Bucky's heart breaking from the surge of sorrow and desperation. "There's nothing we can do. We can't stay — the MAV can't take it. We'll all be stranded."

Bucky didn't want to leave Tony any more than Steve did, but they had to prioritize. He had to protect his best friend — he had to make sure Steve made it off this fucking planet alive. Tony might not be able to, but Steve still could.

The heavy silence was broken by Romanoff's softly spoken words. "Barnes is right."

Steve hesitated, clearly not prepared to give up just yet. A cold, paralyzing fear was seeping into Bucky's bones, his eyes stinging from unshed tears.

"I can't lose you too," he whispered. He knew the others could hear, but he spoke only to Steve. "Don't make me lose you too, Steve," he begged.

A second passed, then two, before Steve finally relented.

"Everyone, head for the MAV," Steve said reluctantly, defeat clear in his voice. "Proceed with the evacuation."

"Copy," Romanoff replied.

Bucky didn't dare to let go of Steve's arm — not until they were stepping into the airlock of the MAV.

They all moved efficiently and mechanically as they shed their EVA suits, falling back on years of training. The silence felt like a living entity, the lack of the usual snarky comments making it painfully obvious what they had just lost.

Who they had been forced to leave behind.

No one spoke as they climbed the ladder and strapped into the acceleration couches — no one seemed to find the words.

Bucky noticed he was shaking. He clenched his teeth, trying to blink away the burn behind his eyelids, but to no avail. His breaths trembled, catching in his throat.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Bucky turned his head to look at Tony's empty seat, right next to his. The grief slammed into him full force, his breath hitching. He couldn't even hear Steve's order to initiate launch over the roaring in his ears.

Tony was gone.

Bucky closed his eyes, just as the first tear trickled down his cheek.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

---

Growing up, Bucky dreamed of becoming an astronaut with his best friend. He wasn't sure if it was he or Steve who first planted the idea, but both of them clung to it with the kind of certainty only children seemed to possess.

One day, they were going to explore space together.

It didn't take long before Bucky learned that childhood dreams weren't as easy to fulfill as he had believed when he was a little boy, but he was far too stubborn to give up. Each time a new obstacle was thrown their way, both he and Steve only seemed to become more determined. They would fulfill their dream, and they would do it together.

When both Bucky and Steve were picked for the Ares 3 crew — the third expedition sent to explore Mars — Bucky could hardly believe it. During those first couple of days after getting the news he feared that NASA would change their minds, but they never did. To reach his goal after so many years felt surreal.

He was going to Mars. He was literally living his dream.

Bucky knew that they wouldn't actually be setting foot on Mars for another couple of years — there was still training and preparations to consider, not to mention the months it would take to travel — but he was giddy with excitement.

After the accident that cost him his arm, Bucky hadn't thought NASA would ever consider him for an actual mission. Thankfully, it turned out that NASA was dying to test the effects zero-g might have on a bionic limb, and Bucky was only too happy to oblige. He knew there were risks — he had to go to a total of six meetings informing him of all the ways this could go wrong — but Bucky was determined. At the end of each meeting he declared his intention to go through with the mission, no matter the cost.

He wasn't going to pass up on a trip to Mars with his best friend just because his arm might stop working.

Besides, there would be a mechanical engineer with them on the journey, in charge of maintenance and overall supervision. Bucky had met Tony Stark several times already, and while the man was both incredibly intense and arrogant to the point of obnoxiousness, it was clear that he knew what he was doing. The fact that Stark had always been on Bucky's side during the meetings — pointing out the durability and strength of the newly designed prosthetics, using technical terms that occasionally flew over Bucky's head — also helped a great deal.

That didn't mean that Bucky wasn't nervous when he was sent to have his measurements taken, to ensure that the new prosthetic fit him with NASA's usual perfectionist standards. Bucky was still a little wary whenever someone wanted to poke and prod at what little was left of his left arm.

Bucky couldn't quite hide his surprise when he stepped inside the lab and Stark was the one who greeted him. The fact that Stark was wearing a pair of tattered jeans and a dark, long-sleeved sweater pushed up to his elbows didn't help. Bucky had only ever seen Stark in crisp, tailored suits before, his hair neatly styled and grin sharp. Here, in clothes Bucky was pretty sure had at least three holes in them, Stark looked more human than he had during the meetings with the higher ups.

The change was kind of unsettling.

"Dr. Barnes, glad you could make it. Right this way." Stark gestured towards a chair placed next to one of the lab tables, his movements effortless and relaxed. The easy smile on his lips helped settle some of the tension Bucky could feel coiling inside of him.

Bucky was confused to note that they were alone in the room — things like these usually required a small team of scientists. Even so, he did as told and sat down on the unexpectedly comfortable chair.

"Anything I need to know before I get started?" Stark asked, typing something on the nearby computer. Bucky couldn't see the screen from where he was sitting. Stark shot him a wide, dazzling grin, the playful spark in his eyes making him look nothing like the brash, relentless man Bucky had seen during the meetings. "Medical history? Allergies? Music preferences? Favorite color?"

"Blue," Bucky replied automatically, feeling a little dumb.

"A traditionalist." Stark nodded, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. Bucky had to quash the impulse to reach out and brush it aside. "Do you mind if I play some music?"

Bucky shook his head before glancing around the lab. "It's just us?"

Stark shrugged nonchalantly. "You're a doctor, I'm an engineer. If we put our two clever heads together, I'm pretty sure we can make this beauty work." Stark stepped away from the computer and pulled up a chair of his own, winking at Bucky. "Besides, I designed it — no one knows how the arm works better than I do."

It was on the tip of Bucky's tongue to ask about that — Stark had never said he was the designer during the meetings — but Bucky decided that he had looked like enough of an idiot for one day.

"Works for me," he said instead, smiling crookedly. He was secretly grateful that there wouldn't be anyone else in the room with them — he felt less like a freak that way.

"Excellent." Stark took a seat and reached over to the computer to tap on a couple of keys. "Now, AC/DC or Black Sabbath?"

"Metallica," Bucky replied, grinning at the scandalized look he received.

Stark scoffed, his lips twitching towards a smile. "Fine, have it your way — but only this once." The teasing look Stark shot him, a spark of genuine warmth through long, dark lashes, sent a little jolt straight to Bucky's heart.

The music started playing over the lab speakers and, for some reason, Bucky found that he couldn't stop grinning.

---

Bucky saw a lot of Stark after that. Not only did they have several more sessions to work on the prosthesis, but there was mission training as well. The other four crewmembers were involved in those too, of course, but Bucky couldn't help that some fraction of his attention always lingered with Stark.

All in all, Bucky liked their crew — which was fortunate, he supposed, considering the amount of time they would be spending together.

Bucky trusted Steve with his life and had no trouble following his command. The difficult part was not slipping into fond bickering while on the comms, and not tease Steve about being a botanist about to be sent to Mars — a planet where nothing grew.

Natasha Romanoff — Russian cosmonaut, geologist, and quite possibly a spy — was as terrifying as she was competent. Bucky liked her instantly, if only because he knew that she would help keep Steve in line. She was guarded and held herself at a certain distance from the rest of them, but Bucky suspected that would pass once they earned her trust.

Their pilot, Clint Barton, was a little more difficult to pin down. He acted carefree and nonchalant most of the time, trading jibes with Stark as easily as breathing, but Bucky had a feeling there was more to him than that. There was too much intelligence in his eyes, and sometimes Bucky couldn't help wondering exactly what Barton saw when he looked at the rest of the crew.

Thor Odinsen was by far the friendliest. The Norwegian astronaut and chemist had insisted they call him by his first name rather than his last, and Bucky hadn't quite figured out if that was a cultural thing or Thor being Thor. Everything Thor did seemed so genuine, somehow, which in turn made him into one of the most dependable people Bucky had ever met. It was comforting to know that he would be along for the ride.

Stark, though, continued to be frustratingly unpredictable. There were times when he was warm and friendly — always willing to help, laughing along with the rest of them — but he could just as easily switch over to fake smiles and cutting words, often without warning. Despite his changeable personality, Stark was a genius with machines and computers, and had a work ethic that bordered on obsessive. He might be tricky to get along with, but there was nothing wrong with Stark's dedication. Bucky knew that Stark would do his absolute best to ensure that the ship, their equipment, and Bucky's arm remained functional during the entirety of the mission.

There were occasional bumps during training — which was expected when combining a group of such widely different people — but the more the crew worked together, the more confident Bucky grew of their success. Steve was a natural leader and the rest of them seemed to find their appropriate places soon enough.

Bucky had no doubt that they'd pull off this mission without a hitch.

---

Bucky discreetly rolled his shoulder, trying to get rid of the annoying pinch he felt. Stark noticed immediately, despite being busy running simulations on the computer.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, a small furrow between his brows. He stopped typing and looked at Bucky, who sat in his usual chair.

"Nothing I can't handle," Bucky replied as he flexed his fingers, marveling at how fluently the metal plates moved. He had no idea how Stark had been able to build a prosthetic this complex, but he felt incredibly lucky to be the one who got to wear it. He didn't even dare consider the price tag.

The small furrow developed into a full-blown frown. "Wrong answer, Barnes. Even a little pain will grow unbearable in the long run." Stark abandoned the computer and walked to stand in front of Bucky. "Where does it hurt?"

"Back of my shoulder," Bucky replied, knowing there was no point in arguing. Stark had veto on the prosthetic — if he wasn't pleased, NASA wasn't pleased, and that meant no Mars for Bucky. "It's not that bad," he added, perhaps a little more sullenly than necessary.

"I'll be the judge of that," Stark replied as he circled around Bucky's chair. There was a fleeting brush of fingertips against Bucky's flesh shoulder — the bare skin not covered by his undershirt — and he tried not to shiver. Stark was surprisingly tactile, each pat on the back and playful nudge helping him convey the concern and care he didn't seem able to verbalize.

Stark was always gentle when he touched Bucky, but he didn't treat him like he was an invalid, afraid to break him. Bucky found it comforting just how often and casually Tony touched him, as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. The certainty Stark radiated made Bucky feel like he belonged, and it was obvious that Stark didn't see Bucky as less of a person just because he happened to be missing an arm.

"It hurts when you move?" Stark asked, clever fingers running along the seam where metal met skin. The touch was distracting and far too pleasant, causing a telltale squeeze in Bucky's gut — one he did his best to ignore.

Bucky swallowed tightly. "Yeah," he replied, grateful that his voice wasn't as hoarse as he had feared.

Stark hummed noncommittally, thankfully too focused on what he was doing to notice Bucky's difficulties. Bucky knew exactly what was growing in the pit of his stomach — had been for the past three weeks — but he was determined to ignore it. Putting a name to the emotion, much less acknowledging it, was a very bad idea.

"We need to work on the angle and weight distribution," Stark said, as if Bucky would be able to offer some kind of insight in return. Mechanical engineering wasn't his strong suit.

"Do what you need to do," Bucky replied, which earned him a low chuckle.

"You have quite a lot of faith in me, Dr. Barnes." Stark nudged his arm."Raise it for me, as high as you can."

Bucky did as told, a stab of pain making him flinch. He tried to keep going, but Stark quickly placed a hand on his bicep, halting the movement.

"I guess I should have specified 'until it hurts,'" Stark said.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed with a grimace, "that would have helped."

This time he shivered noticeably when Stark's hand slid up along his arm, stopping on his shoulder. Bucky couldn't feel the touch against the metal, but when it reached his bare skin he certainly did.

Bucky cleared his throat, fumbling for another subject. "And why wouldn't I have faith in you? I've heard you're the best engineer NASA has."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, doctor," Stark replied with what could only be described as a purr. Bucky was instantly grateful that he wasn't actually able to see Stark's face — and that Stark couldn't see his.

One of Stark's palms continued to rest on Bucky's metal shoulder, the other carefully touching along the edge of the prosthetics. "Move your arm forward, straight out in front of you. Stop if it hurts."

Again, Bucky did as told, stopping when he felt the first spike of pain.

"Good. Now let it relax again."

"I'm just sayin'," Bucky picked up, moving his arm as Stark instructed. "NASA are perfectionists, they only want the best. So you must be doing a good job."

Stark scoffed. "Well, I have to make sure to prove my old man wrong, don't I? You can't imagine how angry he got when I decided to go into robotics instead of weapons design." Stark let out a sharp, humorless chuckle. "On second thought, everyone knows that, considering my current lack of billions."

The words faded and Bucky didn't know how to reply. The hand on his shoulder stiffened before pulling back, a loaded silence settling between them.

Stark had never mentioned his family before. Bucky was aware that Stark was, well, a Stark — a disowned one, but a Stark nonetheless — but that had never seemed to be something Stark felt comfortable discussing. Judging by the sudden tension in the air, Bucky's assumption was correct.

Bucky took a measured breath, praying that he wasn't about to fuck this up.

"He was wrong," he said, with as much conviction as he could muster. He didn't turn around, knowing that Stark probably didn't want to look him in the eye.

The thought of Stark having gotten disowned for pursuing what he enjoyed hit a chord within Bucky. Their situations were far from similar, but Bucky knew what it was like to fight for a dream that seemed impossible to fulfill — how difficult it was to keep going when everything seemed to be against you. Stark had his respect for following through, despite the literal fortune he had lost.

Perhaps it was the fact that they weren't facing each other — limiting the awkwardness of the situation — but Stark relaxed. He didn't say anything, but when a warm, calloused hand settled on Bucky's right shoulder, he chose to take that as a good sign. There was both care and gratitude in that gesture.

"Let's get back to work, shall we?" Stark said after a couple of seconds, his tone softer than his words might suggest. "By the time I'm done with this, you'll never want another arm again."

Bucky turned his head and looked up at Stark. Their gazes met, a second ticking by, then another. The moment held — breathless and expectant — making Bucky's skin tingle.

"I know," was all he said, not surprised by the amount of sincerity and trust those two simple words contained.

Stark remained silent, his expression unreadable, before he gave Bucky's shoulder a gentle squeeze. His smile was smaller than usual — shy, almost — but there was a tentative spark of something in those dark eyes of his, and that was more than enough to leave a warm, contented feeling in Bucky's chest.

---

The launch of the transport shuttle that would take the crew from Earth to their ship Hermes was a success. They boarded the ship — which had been waiting in orbit since the Ares 2 crew had returned from their trip to Mars — without complications and started running all the necessary diagnostics and checkups. Once they had made sure that Hermes was still in working condition, Bucky found himself a window. The view took his breath away. The only thing stopping him from pressing up against the glass like an excited five-year-old was his dignity, but it was a near thing.

That five-year-old had waited a long time to get to where Bucky was now.

He heard approaching footsteps and smiled, knowing exactly who they belonged to.

"I honestly wasn't sure if we would make it," he said, still looking out at the dark reaches of space, stars twinkling in the distance.

The spaceship hummed with activity, offering a comforting background noise.

"But here we are," Steve said, stopping next to Bucky. Steve's posture was the same as always — firm and commanding — but there was a kind of softness in his eyes that revealed just how happy he was.

They had been looking forward to this moment for years.

Bucky let out a slow breath. "We did it, Stevie," he said, allowing the awe to shine through.

"Yeah," Steve agreed, looking at him with a wide, dorky grin. "We did."

---

"Any complications? Sluggishness? Weird clicks?" Stark was running his hands along Bucky's arm, as if he would be able to feel any imperfections through touch alone.

"None whatsoever," Bucky replied patiently, though he couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Just like last time."

Stark gave him an amused look. "That's quite the attitude you've brought today." His tone was fond, his fingertips still mapping out the dips and curves of Bucky's arm.

They were sitting in Stark's lab on Hermes, music playing on low in the background. Despite his initial resistance, quite a few Metallica songs had found their way into Stark's playlist, and whenever one started, Bucky had to fight down a silly grin.

The banter between them was comforting — familiar after so much time spent together — as was the genuine smile on Stark's lips, and the way their knees kept bumping. And the sight of Stark's adorably messy hair, more unruly than ever after five months in space; Bucky had to fight an urge to run his fingers through it.

"You know I have to ask," Stark said, somehow both apologetic and teasing at the same time.

Bucky couldn't help wondering how he had earned the privilege to see what Stark was like behind all the fake smiles and snark. The man usually hid behind a mask so impenetrable it might as well have been a suit of armor, but with Bucky he let his guard down. He clearly liked the rest of the crew, but Stark never looked as at ease as when the two of them were alone in his lab, working on Bucky's arm.

Bucky tried to ignore the warm glow spreading in his chest.

"I want you to have the best care possible, Doc," Stark continued. He was still smiling, his gaze focused on the panel he was opening on Bucky's arm.

Bucky felt a twinge of guilt; Stark was willing to spend hours on the maintenance and Bucky repaid him by whining. Still, Bucky couldn't help feeling that if the arm hadn't broken down yet, it probably never would. The prosthesis had held up beautifully even after months of travel and prolonged exposure to zero-g.

"I just get restless, that's all," Bucky tried to explain. "We waste hours on this every week, you know? I don't really see the point."

The arm wouldn't break — Stark had seen to that.

A short silence settled over the room, more awkward than Bucky had expected.

"I'll finish up as quickly as I can, I promise," Stark replied. There was an odd note in his voice despite his cheerful smile — a stiffness in his shoulders that hadn't been there mere seconds ago. He was already reaching for his tools, not meeting Bucky's gaze.

Bucky frowned. A sickening feeling began to coil in his chest.

Truth be told, the maintenance wasn't bad at all. Twice a week Bucky got to spend at least half an hour in Stark's company, discussing whatever topic came to mind while Stark worked on his arm. Stark never seemed to have any problems dividing his attention between the maintenance and the conversation, always tossing out sharp, insightful observations — sometimes faster than Bucky could match. During those precious minutes, Bucky was the sole focus of Stark's attention — an experience as addictive as it was nerve-wracking.

More often than not, the maintenance sessions were the highlights of Bucky's week.

He spent time with all of the crewmembers, of course — he couldn't not when they were trapped on a spaceship together — but the moments he had with Stark were special, somehow. They felt real in a way Bucky couldn't quite explain, but treasured all the same.

He knew he was attracted to Stark — Bucky had finally given up on denying it — but there was a strict non-fraternization policy, as Steve had reminded them once they had made it aboard Hermes. Bucky knew that he could get away with certain things on account of being Steve's best friend, but this was not one of them.

So as much as he wanted to reach across the space between them and pull Stark in for a kiss, Bucky knew he couldn't — at least not while they were in the middle of a mission. The infuriating part was that Stark might actually want it too, if the lingering glances and fleeting yet sizzling touches were anything to go by. Any and all advances had to wait until they got back to Earth, however, but once they did, Bucky would definitely make sure to ask.

Today, Stark wasn't quite his usual self, however. He answered Bucky's attempts to start a conversation with short, noncommittal replies, his gaze flitting away before Bucky had time to catch it. Stark wasn't usually this distracted.

"There, all done," Stark announced suddenly, scooting back.

Bucky actually flinched. "What?"

Barely ten minutes had passed — this usually took half an hour, sometimes more.

"Well, you're right that I don't need to perform a full maintenance check each time," Stark explained, putting his tools back on the table. His smile didn't reach his eyes and he quickly averted his gaze, leaving Bucky feeling off-kilter. "The arm is fine. We can cut down to one quick checkup per week, and one more thorough maintenance once a month. That should save you some time."

Bucky was desperately trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. The last thing he wanted was to decrease the amount of time he got to spend with Stark. The mere thought made a cold knot of dread settle in Bucky's chest.

"But—"

"Sound good?" Stark only waited half a beat, continuing much too quickly for Bucky to give an actual reply. "Great! Now, I need to go and instruct Romanoff on Hermes' system and its maintenance, and I'm sure you have doctorly things to get back to."

Bucky's stomach dropped. He felt like the entire conversation was slipping through his fingers and he wasn't even sure why.

"No, I don't—"

"Well, I do," Stark interrupted, smiling one of those sharp, false smiles he hadn't given Bucky in over a year. It was the kind of smile that said that Stark's plans were infinitely more important than whatever objections Bucky might come up with, so he should simply stop trying.

It was the smile Stark gave people he didn't like and wanted to avoid.

"Have other things to do, that is," Stark clarified, getting to his feet. "I'll see you next week, Dr. Barnes."

Stark was already out of the lab by the time Bucky's brain caught up and his desperate, "No, wait!" got cut off by the automatic doors sliding shut.

Bucky blinked, not sure what had just happened. He knew he'd done something — he must have. Stark only started deflecting like that if he felt defensive and vulnerable, and he hadn't had a reason to act like that around Bucky for a long time. Something was wrong.

Bucky desperately thought back on what he had said, trying to figure out what had upset Stark. It didn't take him long to realize — the answer was mortifyingly obvious, even. Bucky bit back a groan, running a hand through his hair.

Did Stark honestly believe that Bucky saw their sessions together as a waste of time?

That wasn't what Bucky had meant at all, but he couldn't blame Stark for misunderstanding him. Bucky should have clarified that he loved spending time with Stark, but would prefer if they did something else than work on his arm. That's what he should have said.

Bucky gave himself a couple of seconds to regroup before he got to his feet and left the lab.

He needed to find Stark.

_____________

- Amethystina

[elspethsunschampion]

Rainbow Café, Chapter 1/2

Rating: T

Summary:   When Billy Kaplan walks out of a bachelorette party because he's stressed, he's not expecting to meet the cutest barista in the known universe.

Warnings for descriptions of homophobia and Billy having the mother of all panic attacks.

A/N: Have I mentioned I have a Thing for Wickling and way too many feels about Billy Kaplan?

       Billy was shaking all over, hands shoved deep in his pockets, as he made his way numbly down some Chicago street. At some level, he knew this was stupid. He should just go back to Karaoke, tell Cassie he’d needed a minute of fresh air, and sit in the back of the room, maybe text Tommy. He was leaving the day after tomorrow anyway—no, checking his phone, he saw that it was after midnight. He was leaving tomorrow. And he didn’t really want to ruin Cassie’s bachelorette party over something so stupid.

           And yet the thought of going back made bile rise in the back of his throat. He looked down at this freshly-painted nails, then balled his hands into fists and shoved them deep into his jeans pockets. It’s fine, he told himself. Yeah, it’s after midnight, but you’re in the middle of a big city in a well-lighted area. No one’s going to—

           The words of the Uber driver rose up in his head again, burning in his ears. Cassie had asked, Do you ever have any problems with passengers? and seriously, why had she done that? The guy hadn’t been really talking to them or anything, and, frankly, Billy liked it that way. It was so much less anxiety-inducing to not have to carry on a conversation with a complete stranger.

           The gays, the Uber driver had said, and Billy’s mouth had literally dropped open because seriously? People said that? Sometimes I have to put them in their place. Conversation had gone dead at about that point, and Billy had just—sat back in his seat and sat on his hands, horribly conscious of his pink-and-purple shirt and gelled-up hair. No, people shouldn’t assume he was Gay™ but a) he was, and b) he knew they would anyway. Especially someone who said something like that.

           God, what if there was someone else like that around? Why had he left the karaoke bar at all? Billy’s hands were shaking; his head was buzzing with alcohol, and he could feel the beat of his heart increasing to the point where his shallow breathing was making him dizzy. And he stillcouldn’t face heading back to karaoke. Mindlessly, he took a right turn down a side street, glancing from side to side and then stopping, because—oh, thank god!—there was a rainbow triangle sticker in the window of the café next to him, with “safe space” printed clearly across the top. Bright lights were streaming out of the windows, and the place was nearly empty, but a quick glance at the hours of the Runaways Coffee Shop told him it stayed open for another hour or so yet.

           Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Billy shoved the door open and walked in. The lone barista behind the counter looked up and gave him a surprisingly sincere-looking smile, which Billy self-consciously returned as he headed up to the counter. “Uh,” he said, looking up at the menu. “Just a hot chocolate, I don’t think my system needs any extra adrenaline tonight.”

           “Whipped cream with that?”

           “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

           “Name?”

           Billy blinked, looking around the entirely empty coffee shop. “Billy?” he hazarded. The barista’s ears went slightly red, and Billy noticed that he had three cartilage piercings on each one, little silver rings that wobbled slightly when he moved. “Sorry, habit,” he said. “I’m Teddy, by the way.”

           Oh shit, he’s cute. “Billy,” Billy said, and then immediately felt like an idiot. “Buuut you knew that, because I literally just told you that. I’m going to go sit in the shame corner now.”

           “Let’s just call it even for me asking for your name when you’re the only customer in the store,” Teddy said, with a grin. “What size hot chocolate did you want, by the way?”

           “Oh, give me a large,” groaned Billy. “I deserve it.”

           “Your night going that badly, huh? That’ll be $5.20.”

           Billy felt for his wallet, and his stomach plummeted into his shoes when his hand slapped at an empty pocket. “Shit,” he said. “It’s a worse night than I thought.” He’d been trying to make a joke of it, but his voice was rising with nerves. “Shit.” The rapid heartbeat accelerated in his ears, and he had the back of his hand in his mouth before he realized it. It was so fucking hard to breathe, and the room was turning dark and contracting around him.

           “Shit, man, are you okay?” someone said from very far away, and Billy wanted to say, yes, absolutely, nothing wrong with me, but the words couldn’t make it through the tightness of his throat. “Billy? Can you hear me? Is it okay if I touch you?” Somewhere, very far away, Billy managed a nod, and a pair of large, warm hands were set gently-but-firmly on his shoulders, and he was being steered across the room. “There’s a chair here, why don’t you sit down, okay?” He let the hands press him into the chair, and then he folded over the little wooden table and tried to breathe. A moment later, someone set a paper cup of water down in front of him, and the hands were back, one of them rubbing tentatively at his upper shoulders. “Just focus on breathing, in and out,” said Teddy’s voice.

           Slowly, the horrible tightness in Billy’s chest started to ease up, and he managed to take a deep breath. “Christ,” he managed. “I’m sorry.”

           “Dude. You do not have to be sorry for having a panic attack.”

           Billy squirmed. “I swear I’m not usually this much of an idiot,” he muttered, digging his phone out of his pocket. He was going to have to text Cassie and find out if he’d left his wallet at the karaoke bar. Joy.

           “Just sit there and don’t try to do anything for a few minutes,” Teddy said. “You can deal with the wallet thing in a few minutes. Sip that water, and I’ll be right back.”

           With a sigh, Billy was forced to admit that his new friend had a point. A few minutes wouldn’t make a lot of difference in wallet-recovery, but it could make a lot of difference to his mental health. Shakily, he sipped at the water, listening to the tinny, canned coffee shop music and tried not to think too hard.

           After he’d taken three or four long, slow sips, Teddy appeared as his elbow again and pushed a hot chocolate in front of him. “I can’t—” Billy tried.

           “It’s fine, it’s just five bucks. If you really feel bad, you can pay me back sometime. Now what’s going on? And don’t tell me ‘it’s nothing.’”

           “Ugh.” Gratefully, Billy took the hot chocolate and sipped at it. The fluffy whipped cream bumped at his upper lip. “It’s dumb. It’s really dumb. It’s just a bunch of little things. Look—are you sure you can take the time to chat with me?”

           Teddy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, because it’s so busy in here,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Besides, my boss is pretty understanding. I think she kind of founded this place as a haven, you know?”

           “I—yeah, I got that. I came in because of the sticker.”

           “I thought you might have.” Teddy smiled at him. “That’s why it’s there. Now come on, tell me what’s going on.”

           Billy heaved a sigh. “I’m in Chicago for the weekend for a bachelorette party,” he said, finally. “I go to Northwestern. Anyway, Cassie and I have been friends since we were kids. We met at Band Camp,” he pulled a wry face. “Interlochen Arts Camp, actually. And she decided not to restrict her bridesmaids to women. I don’t think it’s because I’m gay?” He hated how uncertain he was at this point.

           “Oof,” said Teddy.

           “Yeah. I mean—she was super chill when I came out to her. Most people in my life have been pretty chill about the being-gay thing. I grew up on the ritzy side of NYC, I got a little shit in high school, but not a lot. I was lucky, I guess. Anyways. Not the point. It’s just—this whole weekend has been an exercise in, uh. Okay, I kind of hate the term microaggressions because it sounds like I swallowed a textbook and I’m complaining about something that’s super minor, but it’s probably the best way to put it?”

           “Death by a thousand cuts. I get it.” Teddy pushed his hair back from his forehead. “It just gets to you after a while.”

           “None of the bridesmaids are bad people,” Billy sighed. “They were just, uh, Trying Really Hard, I guess. You know. And honestly I don’t need everyone to ask me if I have a boyfriend? Especially when I don’t. Then it just gets embarrassing. And like…Cassie told them all I was gay. Which—I don’t care! I’m out to my department and my family and, like, everyone?”

           Teddy chewed on his lip. “It’s still your choice to make,” he said quietly.

           “Yeah, but she didn’t really have any reason to assume I wouldn’t want to tell people. I don’t even get why that bothered me.” He sighed. “And it’s not like it’s Cassie’s fault that the maid of honor started hitting on me. But I just—don’t really want to talk to her right now, but my wallet is probably back at the karaoke bar, and I don’t want to ruin the weekend for her. She’s under a lot of stress with the wedding and shit—she really is usually more thoughtful than this.”

           “You know you can still be upset with her right now.” Teddy put a hand on Billy’s arm. “Listen, your friend fucked up, and it sounds like you’ve been under a lot of stress, too. It’s okay for you to be mad and hurt. You guys can patch it up later.”

           “It’s her wedding,” Billy said patiently. “And it’s not her fault the Uber drive was a douchebag. Or that her bridesman is a goddamn mess.” He buried his face in his hands.

           “Hey. Stop beating up on Cassie’s favorite bridesman.” Teddy tentatively ruffled Billy’s hair. “Think about something else for a few minutes. Your major, maybe?”

           “Oh, I’m actually in grad school,” Billy said. “I don’t know if you call it a major anymore? Physics, though. Because I’m crazy. Um.”

           “Cool,” Teddy said. “I liked physics in high school. I might have done the engineering thing in college, but, uh, my dad died, so I never finished.”

           “Oh,” said Billy, feeling like a heel. “Shit.”

           “It’s okay, I wasn’t going for pity points.” Teddy rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not as smooth as I like to pretend I am sometimes.” But he was shifting awkwardly.

           Different topic of conversation. “Do you like the MCU?” Billy blurted, then cringed. Real smooth, Kaplan. To his surprise, Teddy actually blushed slightly.

           “Yeah, actually, I like it a lot,” he said. “Iron Man’s my favorite. What about you?”

           “That is such an evil question to ask. I feel like I’m betraying whoever I don’t answer,” Billy groaned. “Tie between Captain American and Iron Man, though.” And then, because he was sleepy and probably still a little tipsy, and because the lights were very golden and almost dream-like, he added, “I ship them like burning,” as he sipped his hot chocolate. Before he could even feel like an idiot for about the fiftieth time, a surprised laugh fell out of Teddy’s mouth, and a delighted smile spread across his face.

           “Me, too,” he said quietly.

           The sudden, heady rush of oh-wow-real-life-kindred-spirit was as sudden as it was silly. Thousands of people probably shipped Captain America/Iron Man. Millions, even. It was a ridiculously popular ship. If you were enough of a fanboy to ship. And yet the rush of warmth was undeniable and delightful. “Well, thank god you don’t ship Bucky/Captain America, I don’t know if we could stay friends,” fell out of Billy’s mouth, and Teddy laughed again. “Although I’ve, uh, been known to dabble in Science Husbands. Occasionally.”

           “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

           Billy’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Shit,” he said, and looked down at it. “Oh, it’s Cassie. I guess I should see what she wants. I still need to figure out where my wallet is, and I don’t have anywhere to stay except at the Airbnb she rented.”

           Teddy nodded, suddenly serious again. “You sure?” he asked.

           Billy managed to nod. “Yeah. I—yeah. Shipping talk made me feel—a lot better, actually.” He pulled his phone out and checked the messages.

1:27 AM Dude where are you

1:29 AM Billy are you ok?

1:31 AM Shit I cannot believe Taylor was hitting on you I am so sorry please text me back

1:35 AM Billy seriously if you got mugged I will never forgive myself

           Billy winced and quickly kicked a message back.

1:43 AM Yeah I’m fine

1:43 AM I was just kind of awkwarded out and needed a walk. Did I leave my wallet at the bar?

1:44 AM You scared the hell out of me. And yes you did. Idiot.

1:45 AM That’s me, I’ll head back now.

           The fact that Cassie had been worried soothed the nasty cold feeling in the pit of Billy’s stomach, replacing hurt with another dollop of guilt. Worrying Cassie on her bachelorette party weekend had really not been part of the plan. “Shit, I guess I should be getting back,” he said. “Um, thanks again. I really appreciate it?”

           Ask for his number, urged a voice in the back of his head, but he dismissed it. It was probably creepy to hit on someone when they were still technically on the clock. And just because he shipped Iron Man/Captain America, it didn’t mean he was into guys. Necessarily.

           “Don’t forget your hot chocolate,” Teddy said, looking up from the other side of the table and pushing it across to Billy.

           “Thanks.” Billy took it automatically. “I’ll—” see you around, he almost said, and closed his mouth over the absurd statement. “Uh. Thanks,” he said again, awkwardly, flushing to the roots of his hair. He wanted to say more than that, but he couldn’t find a way to begin, so he just got up, slid his phone back into his pocket and headed back out into the heart of Chicago.

           When he made it back to the karaoke bar, Cassie was almost depressingly apologetic. “It’s fine,” Billy said for the fifth time. “I just needed a breath of air. I’m really sorry I worried you.” Cardboard crumpled underneath his fingers, and he looked down in surprise to realize he still had the empty hot chocolate cup in his hand.

           “What’s written on your cup?” Cassie asked, and he held it up, frowning, and turned it around.

           You’re cute. I hope this isn’t creepy. Call me sometime? We can talk about shipping, was scrawled hastily across the back, and beneath it, nine numbers in large, sloppy handwriting. Teddy must have scribbled it there at the end of their conversation, maybe when Billy was texting Cassie.

           “Holy shit,” Billy said numbly. “Cassie, thank Taylor for me.”

           “What?”

           “I think she indirectly got me the cute barista’s number.”

2:03 AM I got my wallet back.

2:05 AM You’re not creepy

2:06 AM Also thanks again          

2:27 AM You’re welcome

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song - part four.

You don't think about it. 

It's easier than you expected. 

Just the usual routine of work-eat-gym-wank-sleep that's sustained you for years. No interruptions. No intrusive thoughts. Elvis, now and again at the end of the phone -- wanting a lift, or to borrow money you'll never get back -- but you've grown to expect that. He's part of your routine too. Scratched himself a jagged little hole to nest in your life long ago. 

Julian, though.

Julian. No.

You don't miss his daily text in the form of a political joke. 

You don't miss his daft knitted jumpers or poncey art gallery shows.

You don't miss the warm, woody alcoholic scent of him. Tree bark. Cedar wood sap. 

You don't. 

You don't miss the sound of breaking glass - water jars, paintbrush pots.

Or the thud of his body against his worktable - he'd been viscous, you'd both fought. 

(For everything you needed, he'd made you /work/.)

But you especially don't miss his swearing - sharp little outbursts, gasps licking the dark with a foreign tongue. 

Or the murmur of your name.

So fucking quiet.

Just one wretched, half-whispered syllable, barely a minute in, that caught you off guard and ended up too much.

"It happens to everyone their first time, it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

No, it doesn't, not like that, fuck off.

Fuckoff-fuckoff-fuckoff.

So you don't think about it.

Bury it deep in the back of your mind and carry on. (Because you were built for that. Your Dad made sure you were.)

And he's silent. 

And that's fine. 

That's good. 

Until... 1 new message - Julian.

"It's been two weeks, Dominic. We need to talk."

-----

You meet up with him.

Because you're not ignorant. Because you're not a cunt.

You don't wanna go, you don't wanna see his stupid face, but he's got a point. You agree with that much. The two of you do need to talk.

Because it won't be long until Julian chats with Elvis, or Mattie, or Specks, or — heaven forbid — Noel.

And you need to make sure this whole thing is kept quiet. Make it crystal clear it can't get out.

Nobody can hear of this. Nobody can know.

So you sit across the table from him in a far corner of Costa on your lunch break, your hands leaving guilty fingerprints on the saucer and the spoon and the cup. Like a criminal, implicating yourself with everything you touch.

For a long time you sit in silence. For a long time you both wait for the other one to talk.

And when the quiet's finally broken — not by you, but by Julian — it's not the first time you wish you'd been the one who spoke up first.

Because when Julian opens his mouth his voice is too tender, his cadence too soft, and his carefully handpicked words only succeed in riling you up.

"I'm sorry, Dominic. I should've kept my distance. Should've been a better mate. Should've actually thought about what was happening. You were mad drunk."

"Don't." You flinch away when he settles a hand on your arm. "Don't make it sound like that."

"Like what?"

"You know."

(Like you took advantage of me. Like I'm vulnerable. Like I'm too stupid to make decisions on my own.)

You stare into your cup of tea. Try not to choke on all the unspoken words piling up in your throat.

Try to forget the way his body had felt when it had moved underneath yours. Hunched low over the table, you feel your chest vibrate against the wood as a vicious growl builds power behind your breastbone.

"I'm not gay, Julian."

You're not. You know you're not. You don't exactly make a habit out of going round fancying other blokes.

And Elvis doesn't count. Because Elvis is your best mate. And with Elvis it's not like that.

"I know." Julian's flippancy makes your fist clench.

"I'm not bi, either."

"You don't have to be." He shrugs.

And when you glare, your top lip curling up into an impulsive snarl, Julian lowers his body and lowers his voice and reaches out to touch your arm one more time.

"There is more than just straight, gay and bi, you know. Sexuality's a spectrum. A huge, incredible spectrum. There's all kinds of weird and wonderful inbetweens. Fucking hell, man, I can help you work it all out, if you just give me some time, if you just open up and talk—"

"I DON'T NEED YER FUCKEN HELP." You're on your feet before you know it, his wiry wrist clamped in your fist. And if you hadn't been so focused on the shock and the fear widening Julian's eyes, you'd have noticed the sudden eerie hush cutting the coffee house's chatter apart. "I DON'T NEED YER FUCKEN 'SEXUALITY SPECTRUM'. I NEED YOU TO KEEP YER FUCKEN MOUTH SHUT. UNDERSTAND ME? JUST SHUT. THE FUCK. UP."

You square off for what feels like hours but must really be seconds. Turning away only when Julian surrenders. When his shock gives way to weakness, and he ducks his head in retreat. Pulls his hand from your grasp. Screws his eyes closed and mouth thin, like he's fighting to suppress a comeback, but says nothing.

Thank fuck.

You grab your coat. Your phone. Catch the sudden whipping of a dozen heads turning in the opposite direction when you spin round.

Shit.

Shit.

Fuck.

You pull your hood up over your head.

Sink deep into the funnel neck of your parka.

Begin your long walk of shame through the whispering crowd.

----

You remember how it starts.

You're six.

Sat on a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen with a near painful buzz vibrating through the back of your skull.

Wincing, hunched, flurries of fluffy black hair peppering your Mum's freshly mopped laminate floor.

She's not happy. You can tell. And not only because of the mess.

You can't see her — she's across the room — but the loud crashing close of the cutlery draw says enough.

"Fuck's sake, lad. Will you keep your head up." Bearish voice in your ear. Tattooed hand crushing your jaw.

You flinch.

Wince against the tufts of hair that keep finding their way into your eyes, your mouth, your nose.

On the other side of the kitchen, your Mum pipes up, "Careful with him, John. Don't be so rough."

Your Dad scoffs. "He can 'andle it. He's not soft."

Clippers raising all hell round your temples.

Clippers feeling like they're drilling into bone.

Your Mum again, something hinting round the edges of her voice that sounds a bit like concern, "I don't like it. I really don't. It's too short. He looks like a thug."

Your Dad, determined, something in his voice that you want to believe is pride, but know is not, "And? What's the matter with that? Rather him look like a thug, than a puff. He's gonna look ace on Sunday at the rally. 'Ardest little skin in the north."

"For God's sake, don't call him that! And you're not taking him on that horrible bloody racist march. He's six years old!"

"Better to start 'em off young. Before the school starts puttin' fucken ideas into their 'ead. Equality — my fucken left nut. He's comin' to the rally, whether you like it or not."

Your jaw yanked to the side.

Clippers accidentally catching at an earlobe.

You yelp.

He swears.

Belts you round the head with an open palm.

"What did I just say about ya not bein' soft?"

----

You're a hundred and twenty miles North of Manchester, pushing ninety on the M6 with your foot crushed into the accelerator, destination-fucking-nowhere, when you realise you're 'doing an Elvis'.

That is, disappearing. Running away.

You've bunked work. Couldn't face going back in after your public stand-off with Julian. Just got into your car, then threw the rattling piece of shit onto the motorway. Ground the pedal into the floor until you were snarling over the speed limit.

Now it's two and a half hours later and the sign for Carlisle is quick closing in.

You don't feel any better.

You're still raging, still on edge. You still wanna slam Julian against a wall and break his face with your fist.

But at least you're half a country away from him, now. And at least neither of you can do any more fucking damage.

It's not Julian you want to hurt, after all.

(It's you. It's him.)

Your phone's been going on one for the last full hour, having an epileptic fit at the bottom of the little hollow Elvis' arse has dug into your passenger seat, but you only bother to check it when you finally pull off into a service station, desperate for a piss.

You're not sure why you expect it to be Julian.

And you're not sure why the absence of his name tugs a raw nerve in your chest.

It's Elvis.

It always fucking is.

Over fifty notifications. Missed calls, voice-mails, texts.

The famed words, "Mate, come pick us up?"

Over and over and over again.

Halfway across the car park you pause in your step.

But it's not to answer.

It's to press the little 'delete all' icon, then jam your thumb against the power button until the screen falls dead.

(I'm sorry, man. It's not you. It's me.)

----

You're sixteen when you give it to him.

The two of you hanging out in your bedroom after school. John Lydon's ground down, teething snarl blocking out the caterwauling of your sisters arguing over clothes, or make-up, or something equally uninteresting in the room next door. You're sat on your bed, surrounded by textbooks, doing your GCSE English Language homework so Elvis can take it home with him, in order to copy it down word for word.

(He's not lazy. He's just absolutely shit at the subject. And you don't mind letting him copy all your work so he can keep himself afloat.)

Elvis himself is being kept busy by the contents of your wardrobe. Standing in front of your mirror. Trying on all the stuff he finds cool.

Like the vintage leather jacket you bought in the Northern Quarter nine months ago and haven't yet worn.

He's in love with it. You know he is.

He was in love with it back then, and he's still smitten by it now. Admiring the way it hangs off slowly sloping shoulders, rolling the too-long sleeves to his elbows and flipping the collar up.

You've got your attention fixed on the essay, but you can see him there, in the periphery of your view. Posing. All loose stripy school tie and creased white shirt buttoned up wrong. Scruffing his hair, perfecting his scowl.

Your leather jacket looking a thousand times cooler on him than it ever did on you.

"Keep it, if ya want." You tell him, without looking up, "Take it home with you. It's not doing anything other than collecting dust in my wardrobe."

"Yer what?" He spins, something a bit like hope pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"You 'eard. Have it. Fits alright, does that."

It doesn't. It's massive. But you're just kids. He'll grow.

"Ya sure, man?"

"Aye. Course." with your pen wedged between your teeth you flick him an admiring glance, "looks better on you."

And so he takes it.

And he wears it.

And in his excitement he never says thank you.

Just rocks up to school in it the very next day.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

And the one after that, too.

Wears it every waking second of his life until Elvis and leather jacket are synonymous.

Until it's littered with shabbily sewn patches and the elbows are half worn through.

Until he looks like a completely different person without it — without /you/.

And when you buy your first car — an old cherry red BMW, he throws himself down in the passenger seat, then shoves a mixtape in your stereo.

It doesn't surprise you when the first track turns out to be The Cribs 'Leather Jacket Love Song'.

Because this is Elvis.

Your cocky, sweary, slightly bow-legged best mate.

Useless at the English language.

But not unappreciative.

Never forgetful.

Just secretive.

Subtextual.

Just Elvis Ianson.

Who never got any pocket money from the toothfairy for that one missing milk tooth.

Now smoking in your new car with his boots on the dashboard.

Boyish and beautiful.

And two years too late with his wordless, musical thank you.

----

You don't know where to go from here.

You don't even know where you're supposed to start.

As steam rises from your service station coffee, you slump over the table, cradling your head in your hands.

Somewhere on the ceiling, Radio One are playing Sterophonics' 'Maybe Tomorrow' from a crackling speaker that keeps shorting out.

You don't want to go home tomorrow.

You're not sure you ever want to go back at all.

Because every time something good walks into your life, you fuck it up with either your heart, or your cock.

And you wonder if this is what Elvis always feels like. If this is the reason he could win a gold medal at pissing off.

Because his head's always too chaotic. Too messed up. Too filled with self-doubt and self-loathing and all the impossible masculinity you've both been force-fed since you were born.

As exhaustion sets in, you press your eyes closed against the burn.

Try your hardest not to drift off.

Fall into a confused state of semi-sleep, clouded with fragmented memories — part real-part dream — hunkered down in a corner of a deserted motorway cafe, half way between everything that was and everything that might be.

"I should be the one walking you home, the state you're in." Julian.

Julian, outside Trof on your birthday. Pulling on his jacket. Laughing when the fresh night air makes you feel a bit dizzy and you lean into him.

"M'alrigh'. Sober up inna minute. S'not that bad. Walk on."

Words sticking in your mouth. Treacle-thick.

His arm around your waist. Anchoring you against his hip.

"Hope you don't think you're sleeping on my couch again. I've got a lecture at eight. I'm not missing it."

"Don't wan' yer couch. Jus' makin' sure ya get in safe."

Safe.

Julian.

Unlocking his studio door and gesturing you in.

"I'll bell you a taxi. You might as well wait about a bit."

"S'alright. I'm feelin' better now. I'll just go flag one down outside, innit."

You, turning to leave.

You, halted mid-step.

You, with Julian's hand encircling your wrist.

"Come on, don't be daft. Wanna make sure you're safe as well. Told Elvis I'd look after you. I promised him."

Julian, sincere.

You, hesitating.

Words you hear which neither one of you speak, "What are you afraid of, Dominic?"

----

You regret it.

Waking up in the grim service station cafe with cramp in your neck.

Conjuring a smile for the waitress when she strikes up conversation.

Feeling lonely. Feeling weak.

"Where you heading?"

"I'm not sure, yet."

"Where you come from?"

"You don't wanna know."

Laughter. Blue make-up creased on her eyelids. "Mr. Mysterious. I like it."

(You don't.)

You regret it.

Her gold hooped earrings and yellow-blonde ponytail.

Tired eyes that say three kids at twenty.

A direct view into her ample cleavage when she leans over the table.

Big looping handwriting left on your napkin.

'I get off at midnight x x'

(You're not into other guys. You're not gay.)

But you regret it.

As soon as you get her into your back seat. As soon as it begins.

Not because of her. No. Because it's not her fault. She's doing everything right, with her head in your crotch.

There's just nothing happening. Nothing going on at your end.

You think maybe it's because there's not enough room, so you push the front seats forward a bit.

You think maybe it's because there's no background noise, so you stick the radio on a bit.

And when she's got her mouth on your neck, and hand round your dick, trying different tactics, you think maybe you just need to think about something else.

Grasp for anything even slightly arousing in your desperation.

Julian on the phone with his Nanna, talking an incredible, fluent puzzle of Mancunian accented Polish.

Elvis plucking strings on his guitar, hands crooked from early onset arthritis, but eyes narrowed, determined.

A glorious FA Cup win for Manchester City.

They're all great thoughts, they should all get you going.

But when all you manage to will up is a half-cocked semi, you think maybe your imagination isn't really helping.

You need something else. Something real. Something intellectually stimulating.

And you realise, later — when your car smells like cheap perfume and you're using your wing mirror to examine the damage on your neck — that suddenly blurting out "hey, wait, what kinda music do you listen to?" just as she was guiding your hand between her legs, probably wasn't a very sexy moment for her either.

You regret it.

But not as much as you regret fucking off and doing an 'Elvis' in the first place.

----

You get home at six o'clock the next morning. Running empty on an hour of cramp induced sleep behind the steering wheel of your car. You intend to get back, jump in the shower, then head off straight to work — show up early with your excuse for yesterday's missing afternoon promptly in tow.

(I'm sorry. Didn't feel well. Started throwing up. Must've been something I ate. Won't happen again.)

But when your legs forget how to walk as soon as you pull into the driveway and you have to focus way too hard on just putting one foot in front of the other enough times to get yourself near the front door, you think maybe it's better to ring in sick.

Have a day in bed. Catch up on sleep.

Start again.

It's not like you make a habit out of bunking off. The last time you took a non-sick sick day you were sixteen and slamming school with Elvis.

(Scrawling your name on the backs of train seats. Hanging out in Macclesfield crematorium. Sharing cheap fags and bottles of blue WKD.)

Your mum, sat drinking a cup of tea in the living room, watching morning telly, wrapped up in the fluffy ASDA dressing gown and matching slipper set you bought her for Christmas, lifts an eyebrow as you slope in.

"What kinda time d'ya call this, mister?"

"Sorry..." You know she's only messing, but the apology falls out of your mouth anyway. You feel fucking sorry for everything lately. "Got talkin' with mates and lost track of time."

She nods. Once. Up.

(I see...)

"Did Elvis manage to catch up with you?"

Shit.

Elvis.

The text messages. The phone calls.

You'd almost forgotten about him.

"Nah, 'aven't seen him. Why, what's up?" You feign ignorance as you shrug out of your coat. Try to repress that horrible growing feeling that you've fucked up.

Again.

"I dunno, he wouldn't talk to me. Just came round last night looking for you. A state and a half, he was though."

"Yeah? He not say anything at all?"

"No. Just asking where you were. Said he'd been trying to get a hold of you, but your phone was off." She gives you a look that's part confusion part concern and wholly disbelief.

Your mum knows just as well as anyone that Elvis /always/ has you on call.

You've woken her up enough times fumbling about with your keys in the dark at three in the morning.

"Shit yeah... my battery died. Left the cable in my room."

"Well make sure you call him or go see him or something. He was a mess, the poor sod."

"I will, I will. I'll give him a bell."

"Good."

You turn to head off upstairs. Ready to crawl fully clothed into bed and give the fuck up.

"Oh, Dominic?"

"Hm?" Your head peeking back round the doorframe.

Your mum looking a bit skeptical over the rim of her cup. "You were /careful/ weren't you?"

"With what?"

Chipped polish nail tapping at her jugular.

Chipped polish nail suddenly making you burn up.

You duck your head. Instinctively cover your neck with your hand.

It's gonna be turtlenecks for a fortnight. You're gonna get ripped into by the lads at work.

"Course." You mutter. "Always am."

And it's true.

Kind of. In a way.

Because she certainly doesn't have to worry about you producing any little baby Woods.

(Not with what /you/ like to do...)

----

You're thirteen when Elvis gives up the glittering promise of a brighter future for you.

It's unexpected. (Like everything else he does.)

An important decision at an unimportant moment, chirped up out of the blue.

You're on your knees in the back garden, installing wheels on the wooden go-kart you've spent half the summer trying to build. Elvis is supervising (as always) his long rail-thin shadow doing its best to block out the orange glare of the sun.

He wants to help, you know he does. Frustrated by the limitations of bad eyes and bad hands, he's resigned himself to fetching everything you need and telling you where you've fucked up.

You don't mind, though. It's still a build that belongs to the both of you. And, considering neither of you can figure out how to fit any brakes, you're ninety-nine percent certain it's gonna get you both killed.

"Me Dad's moving to Blackpool. Got managing position at a pub. Says I can go live with him, if I want."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah..."

Focused on screwing the wheel to the steering crossbar, you don't look up.

Elvis carries on, "I wanna go, but..."

"Go. You should. I would. You could go down the fair and the beach every day and that."

"Yeah... I know..."

"And I could come see you. 'Ave a free 'oliday." You grin away to yourself. Imagining summer holidays spent darting in and out of arcades and eating fish and chips on the sea front. Going crabbing on hot days. Coming home with socks full of sand.

(Driving your mum mad.)

But when Elvis doesn't make any sound of approval and you finish tightening the last bolt on the wheel, you can only ask, "What's up?"

For a minute he doesn't say much. For a minute he just stands there, looking down at you, all peeling sunburn and scabby elbows and a fake shagger on his left forearm that he did to himself. And you know. You know he wants to go. You know he really does.

Elvis lives for excitement. For the unknown. He fucking /loves/ the idea of just packing up all his shit and running off.

Plus, he's always been closer to his old man. Ever since he caught meningitis at four years old and nearly died there's been this odd distance between him and his mum.

(Elvis is convinced she never wanted him - his dad was the one to name him, after all. You wonder if maybe she's just trying to protect herself from the ticking death bomb of a son she loves too much.)

So you don't understand, when Elvis just shrugs, then reaches out a hand to help you up.

"Bit far away, innit." He reasons. Like he's telling the truth. Like the non-obstacle obstacle is big enough.

"In't that kinda the point, though?" You gesture for Elvis to help you get the kart back onto four wheels. "Gettin' as far away as possible from this shithole?"

You stand back, hands on hips, proudly surveying your handiwork.

Elvis slides himself onto the karts 'driving seat'. A grubby 'welcome' mat you found in his dad's garage nailed down onto a wooden pallet.

"Yeah, but..." He plonks his feet onto either side of the steering crossbar, takes the accompanying rope in his inflamed hands, tests the turning, "...it's /our/ shithole, innit."

(Me and you.)

Then, before the topic can go any further, he throws you a devilish, dangerous smile, sudden fever lighting his eyes up, "Bagsy the first go?"

--

You hear them all before you see them.

While standing outside the hospital room. Gathering up the balls to go in.

"Did you even stop to think about this for one second?! Did it ever cross your mind how it might affect me??"

"You? What about /me/? Fuck's sake! Not everything's about you, Elvis!" Mattie's shout is shrill and aching with sobs, but the fact that she's even shouting at all puts you at ease.

(It's alright. He's alright. It's not the end.)

"Guys, maybe you should take a breather for a second. Shouting's not solving anything." Julian. The calm voice of reason. It's always him.

"You keep that nose out. It's got nothing to do with you." Specks.

"Oh fuck off, sis. It's nowt to do with you either. But you still can't help sticking your bleeding oar in."

It continues.

The bitching.

The bickering.

Until you realise there's no sign of it calming down any time soon, so you might as well just waltz right into the middle of it.

You've got no idea what the hell's got under everyone's skin, but Specks' outburst as soon as you crack open the door, gives you a bit of an inkling.

"Oh great! Misogynist bastard number three is here! Hip hip hooray, we're all saved!"

"Excuse me?" Your eyes case the room. Specks and Julian by the window, both glaring. It's the first time since you met the two that you can tell they're twins. Mattie in a chair in the corner, curled up into a tiny ball, tight as can be. "Elvis?" Your mate doesn't even spend the energy in acknowledgement. Just remains stood in the centre of the room with his arms folded and feet firmly planted like he owns the place. "Anyone wanna bother filling me in?"

It's not 'That'. But from the tension stretched all the way across the room you know it might as well be.

"Why don't you ask Suicide Sally, over there." Elvis snarls, practically spits.

You follow his gaze to crumpled little squeezed small Mattie, who looks like she wants nothing more than to escape.

"Aw come on, Elvis. You know that's not what this is." Julian. Again. Forever trying to talk shit out. Forever compelled by the urge to /verbalise/ things.

Elvis bristles. "Whose fucken side are you on, mate?!"

Julian shakes his head. "This isn't about taking sides, for god's sake. It's about what's best for Mattie."

"Oh yeah? And withdrawing from life saving treatment is best for her, is it? Just giving in?"

"She's not 'giving in'. She's not getting any better, mate. And the treatment's just making her sick. She's withdrawing because she'd rather spend her last months at home, comfortable. Not pumped full of chemicals in a hospital bed." Julian's speaking as much to you as to Elvis. "And rightly so. I don't blame her. I wouldn't wanna spend the rest of my life trapped in this place."

Elvis steps towards him, "You won't have a choice if that cock loving mouth of yours keeps on talking—"

"Oi." You're winding an arm round Elvis's chest before you know it. Gently easing him back. Reminding him who's he's threatening. Reminding him where he is.

Only as quickly as you diffuse the bomb between him and Julian, he spins, lit up and sparking again.

"And I don't know why the fuck /you/ came." He scoffs. You flinch. "You're a bit fucken late. Would have been useful if you'd bothered to turn up /before/ she signed her life away."

So that's what it is.

The bombardment of texts and calls and voice-mails.

(Come pick us up? Come pick us up? Otherwise known as 'I need you. I need you' in Elvis-speak.)

He'd thought you could talk her out of it. Believed you could be the one to make her see 'sense'.

You don't know why you feel like you've /failed/ him.

"I know. I'm sorry. I really am. It's just, I just, I went..." You flounder. Before you walked in you'd practiced all your excuses, got your story sorted out straight in your head. Now, standing in front of him — and Julian, and Mattie, and Specks — you can't remember a single fucking word of it. "I had to go pick up a thing, a delivery, for work. But it was way out. Up the M6. And I had to take the van. But it broke down. And I couldn't—"

Elvis holds up his hand. Cuts off your anxious verbal scrambling. "Save it, mate." He tells you. His words softer now. /Disappointed/. And you catch the momentary flick of his eyes to the side of your neck. To shifted fabric and a slither of exposed bruised up skin. "I just hope whichever slag you spent the night with your dick inside was /worth/ it."

Feeling yourself burning up for a second time today, you wince. Divert your attention to the floor. Avoid eye contact with Julian who's just on the edge of your peripheral vision, /frowning/.

"And you..." Elvis goes on, now addressing Mattie, "Fine. You go right ahead and kill yourself if that's what you want. Nobody's stoppin' you. But don't you /dare/ expect /me/ to stick around and watch you do it."

--

You struggle to keep your feet still, but you don't go after him.

You know Julian and Specks are waiting for it. Mattie too, probably.

But you can't do it.

Not when he's being this much of a dickhead. Not when you know, instinctively, that it's all just going to end up in fists.

You know he's spouting shit and doesn't mean a word he said. Projecting, most likely. And hurting, definitely. Leading to him dealing with it all the only way he knows how, you bet.

Elvis has never exactly possessed the most acceptable coping mechanisms.

But as you sit with Mattie sniffling into the broad arc of your shoulder, the glint of a diamond reflecting on the floor where she'd thrown her ring in rage, you can't help but feel like you're just /conditioned/ to make excuses for him.

"Take it." She says, later on, when you bend to rescue the ring from getting lost (or stolen) and turn to place it on the windowsill. "Take it, please. I don't wanna look at it."

And when you take no notice of her, placing it on the sill anyway, because it was bloody expensive, she yells, "I'm fucking serious, Dominic! I want it out of here. It's yours anyway, innit?!"

You glance down.

At the three hundred pound car fund sparkling on the tiniest gold band you've ever seen.

Technically, yes, it is.

Honestly, though, you don't want it.

(Why would you?)

Elvis will come crawling back (you hope) and the two of them will sort things.

But when Mattie looks like she might fall out with /you/ if you don't take it, you have no choice but to drop it into your pocket, muttering, "I'll give it back to Elvis..."

On your way out, Julian -- returning from a coffee run with a Costa tray, side-eyes you but says nothing. Nothing other than a silent 'you better fix this' or alternatively 'you're a prick' — you're not sure which.

And when you reach your car, your day just gets all the fucking better, when you find a far too familiar and viciously loved leather jacket hanging off your wing mirror, but absolutely no sign of Elvis.

Another tragic-romantic gesture.

Another fanciful unspoken message.

'Fuck you, Dominic.'

--

You wish you knew what went on his head. You wish he came with some sort of manual that could help you troubleshoot him, like your car did.

You're great at working out problems. Fucking brilliant at fixing shit. But it's starting to feel like every time you mend all of his fractured parts, Elvis just breaks again in a completely different place.

Because he's fantastically fragile in a way that nobody else sees. A heavily armoured, heartrendingly vulnerable, destructible-indestructible being. A walking contradiction. Determined to map out his life in poetry. Create some kind of idealised, ill-starred narrative in a world full of meaningless, painful coincidences.

He's playing a role. You know it. And it kills you a little bit every time you realise that you romanticise him.

Because that's precisely what he wants.

(And precisely everything you've always wanted to be.)

And it's precisely why you're always on the receiving end of gestures like this.

You're the one and only person in /deep/ enough to play his games. The only person who understands that every move he makes has some kind of sentimental hidden meaning.

You just wish, sometimes, that it was easier to read him. To find out what he needs.

And you just wish, sometimes, that he could find a way to act the theatrical rockstar without being such a dickhead.

Elvis doesn't answer your phone calls or your text messages.

When you go round his house carrying jacket and ring, his mum — appearing short-tempered and frustrated, informs you he isn't in.

You consider leaving the jacket with her, until you remember all of the comments she's made throughout the years about how much she hates it. And so you're destined to hang onto the damn thing.

Your entire friendship with Elvis passionately sewn and scuffed, and beaten and /bled/ into a physical object.

An object you have to store in your sister, Chantelle's, old room, because after three days of hanging in your wardrobe all your clothes stink of him.

And when he shuns all your repeated attempts at communication, you take a step back.

Anticipating his next move.

Waiting for him.

It only takes him a grand total of three weeks...

[jesusbukkake-blog]

Smoking

I put the lighter to my final cigarette and inhale. What a childish habit.

My first drug was fire. Fire meant power. An entire element, gripped in a fist. Whenever I pressed the button, my heart jumped. Touch the flame against paper and it accelerated; adrenaline soared through my veins. Breath heavy, palms sticky, I would watch, wide-eyed, as the yellow ate the white.

Light a match, put it in a full box, and turn the box upside-down. The matchheads would glow white-hot, all the phosphorous igniting simultaneously; hisses and huge fireballs decimate the contents. The boxes were surprisingly flame resistant, perfect coffins for thousands of charred wooden bodies.

I was too sensible to be doing this, even at 14. I suppose that was half the joy, and always will be – allowing stupid urges to override your internal monologue. The lighters and matches were a nag, just as real as the urge to eat, shit, drink and fuck; my mind would flash to them when I was bored, and the resulting inferno would satiate the delicious pyromania. I loved controlling the uncontrollable. My behaviours and whereabouts for every moment were stipulated by my parents, but I could do all of this, and get away with it.

I wouldn’t regret it so much if I had taken my habits outside. Lighting paper in my bedroom was dumb. Losing control and burning the house down never crossed my mind; now I’m older, the potential for disaster is all I consider. Arson, the firemen would say, and I would say, no, it was me. I was playing with fire.

I stopped doing it at around the same time I started smoking cigarettes, a vice that stuck for years. I like to think that this was slightly less moronic. The fire was even more controlled now, a hot cherry advancing towards my face. The master’s scope had extended beyond mere flames, to wanton self-harm, choking down burning fumes and enjoying them. I took this into nature; go to the park, pull a Lambert and Butler to my mouth (the most advertised brand, replaced with roll-ups) and suck the smoke into my lungs. Countless times have my eyes focused on that glowing ember, the smoke trapped in a cigarette paper, funnelled into my mouth.

Individualism. When society hates cigarettes, it doubles their appeal.

It was only when the reality of being in control of my own life sank in that I decided I didn’t want to smoke. The fire of youthful rebellion flickers under the wind of imminent employment.

The first time, the nicotine racing through my blood, seeping into my brain, dizzying me, weakening my legs, and I’d lie back and sigh in a crazy haze. It was amazing how easy it was to get away with it. It’s different now. Enjoyment moved to satisfaction, and that moved to addiction, and now it’s disappointment. I’m done. Fire is the only ember left to be extinguished.