#i just want to add line breaks between the bullet points...!! and then it refuses to save!

[south-sea]

Second Chance AU Shadow (Headcanons Masterlist)

I was encouraged by a certain someone to share all the Shadow headcanons I omitted from a more recent post, but it quickly got away from me and turned into a sort of masterlist with all the links being added in for context.

So in the interest of eventually having a working catalogue of "view these specifics posts for more organized information on Second Chance AU instead of sifting through various rambles", here it is!

Initial context for what this AU even is is here.

(edit: this is definitely out of date by the time you're seeing it, see pinned for an overall tag)

He figures things out about himself/interacts with new or developing interests in phases. Which is probably pretty standard, but so far he’s gone through a particular trend of weather —> photography/scrapbooking —> food —> adventuring/getting into Situations [you are here]. No telling what’s up next, but he never really abandons discovered interests either. He still keeps up with photography/scrapbooking, still appreciates new weather patterns/cloud formations and whatnot, and is basically never not thinking about Good Food. I would love for him to some day focus on music and maybe pick up an instrument or something; he could learn piano from Metal’s caretaker, even.

Discovering preferred foods is also a slow but unique process in that he doesn’t notice, really, until someone else points out he has a clear preference for something. From his perspective, he still doesn’t really have favorites because why would he, but anyone else would be able to tell there are certain things he gravitates toward (and that applies to everything, not just food). So far, other than expensive chocolates, that’s mostly tomatoes, whether raw or roasted; cherry tomatoes especially. They’re somewhat of a comfort food at this point. A few other honorable mentions: avocado, sautéed spinach mixed in with things, and grilled veggies in general. Weird little kid who goes out of his way to ask for vegetables, really. He also especially likes the crunch of carrots, but celery and lettuce on their own practically insult him for how comparatively tasteless they are.

Don’t ask him what his favorite color is either. He has no idea. He likes the green Emerald the most, but also the light blue one (he’ll never admit it, if just because he doesn't consciously realize it, but it’s because that one specifically reminds him of Metal). From his perspective, that’s about as much as he’s able to place; wires get crossed and he answers according to his Chaos Emerald color preference, not ‘colors in general’. From my perspective, I see it as him being partial to blue and green because that’s what he’d most commonly see from the ARK, looking down at earth. Objectively, blue probably wins by sentimentality alone, given so many of the people he’s close with are/were inherently associated with blue.

He starts a lot of sentences with “I think”, as a sort of parallel to Metal regularly starting statements with “but”. Those who don’t know him might wrongly assume that this, paired with the fact he rarely speaks above something comparable to a whisper, means he’s not very assertive/sure of himself. Not the case, he’s just naturally very quiet. To hear him use his whole chest to speak is unusual, and to hear him shout is downright shocking.

He rests his hand on his forehead to self-soothe, as leaning it against Maria was something he would regularly do when cuddling with her back then. As a direct consequence of this, he does not allow people to touch his head without warning, but pushing his forehead into someone's chest/shoulder is often something he does automatically if someone hugs him, so it's an "on my terms only" kind of thing.

This is very much canon. She/her feels like he’d be stepping on toes (that’s for Maria, not him), they/them doesn’t quite feel right, and neo pronouns are not for him. So, using he/him really is just for the sake of convenience. It’s not quite right, but being referred to that way doesn’t bother him either, so there’s really nothing else for it. That’s just how it is.

The more exploring and such he does, the less sensitive his paw pads get. That eventually leads to wearing half-gloves instead.

He currently lives in a place that looks an awful lot like space. The house is shared with Metal, and has two stories. Upstairs is where his study/bedroom technically are, but he rarely goes up there to do anything but write. A majority of his time is spent downstairs, either cooking or napping. Who needs a proper bed when he has a comically oversized blanket to make a nest out of? (This blanket is eventually torn beyond reasonable repair. While it's replaced with another of similar size, the original is eventually tailored into a jacket.)

Re: this, it directly lends to what I was getting at in this post. There will come a day where he’s so much more “Maria” than himself that he practically drops everything and has to find a more earth-looking [second] home. He will keep and take care of this place even after the “Maria day” passes. I expect this location to be mostly rural—he wants to appreciate nature, its sounds, weather, and things like sunrise/sunsets unhindered, but not so much that he’s fully isolated. Maybe on the outskirts of a smaller town, but still within walking distance of it so he can check in and people-watch or window shop, things like that.

Relatedly, his relationship with his own age is complicated at best. He's neither adult nor child. (There is no argument to be made about how mentally mature he is otherwise. No matter how you spin it, he is still a minor. Arguments about that are not tolerated here.)

The rest of the points are arguably less general and more “Shadow regularly gets himself into trouble: the series” and delves into things like his regeneration ability/biology in relation to the Black Arms/etc, so I’m stuffing ‘em under the cut. Nothing particularly gory or anything like that, just a general courtesy in case people don’t want to read about that rougher/more scientific aspect of his character.

Shortly after his revival, he (safely) gave himself over to trusted scientists. For a few months, he underwent a gauntlet of tests/scans/etc in hopes they would help him find a cure for the illness Maria suffered. Some of these scans were painful despite what he thought was a high pain tolerance, which came as a surprise to him. This is relevant for most of the upcoming points.

Most controversial take: he finds guns boring. Primarily in the sense of what’s being used against him as a weapon, though. Bullets will not stop him. If you want him to stop moving, you’re going to have to lop something clean off, then flip a coin. Heads he stops, tails he’s too hyped up on adrenaline/chaos energy and will still wreck the antagonist’s shit.

Needless to say, his relationship with pain/injury is a bit weird, to the point of being distressingly casual about it. He can recover from just about any damage within reason; so far, he can and has regenerated an entire arm before (with help from an Emerald). Pain and dangerous situations that might inflict damage do not scare him.

His tolerance for pain is another matter entirely, though. In some twisted kind of way, once he realized he does in fact have a limit/pain threshold (e.g., the scans, and a particular other few events, even before the arm loss), he almost started getting more reckless to challenge and raise that threshold. His pain tolerance is already pretty high, so the fact there still exists situations in which damage exceeds that tolerance is almost like a thrill/challenge. He won’t go out of his way to or purposely hurt himself, but if the dangerous situation he’s half-intentionally placed himself in causes an accident or something, then so be it. The more experience he gains, the less likely he's going to be stunlocked by pain when stakes are high.

If he’s left to his own devices for too long, he gets restless. Being restless leads to getting himself into Situations (e.g., the above points, and also kind of like this.) Basically his impulse control just plummets. That’s where races or spars with Metal might eventually come in later. He can only stand being serene and mild-mannered for so long. There is still Black Arms blood in him; it's where he gets his otherwise well-hidden temper/competitiveness/etc. Playing rough with Metal, who has a similar “so what if I lose an arm, it can be repaired” outlook, is a good way to safely manage and expend that energy when it starts to drive him a bit stir-crazy.

Speaking of blood, his is not green. The chaos energy overrides the Black Arms’ blood color, so instead his glows bright gold in the first few seconds it’s exposed to air, and then gradually dulls down into a near-black.

In the event he’s injured, the spots being healed/regenerated come back a bit paler, not unlike a scar (the fur, too, is a bit finer). Eventually his fur evens back out to the usual black, but is a bit longer around the edges of where the injury was for a little while after/to the point he might have to manually trim it. Also tends to keep souvenirs of sorts when he gets into Situations. (General sketch page mulling over all of this. I'm still not 100% sure about the 'his fur eventually goes back to its normal color' thing; he may just Stay Like That with the paler patches/missing quills/etc like regular scars, but until I decide for sure, I'm just operating under the assumption this is not the case.)

He's essentially a highly efficient energy burner. Food/water just gets converted into pure chaos energy. Nothing is wasted; frankly his anatomy doesn't even allow for it.

In the same vein, he can go a few days without food/water, but it'll take a lot to replenish his energy stores. It's typical for him to go into an almost coma-like sleep for a few days to recover from critical injuries (not unlike in Sonic Battle). Outside of that, if he doesn't replenish his chaos energy quickly enough, he stays lethargic/fatigued for about a week.

He is biologically incapable of contracting illnesses (the Metal Virus would still, hypothetically, be an exception), and cannot be poisoned. Whether it's inhaled/ingested, he'd just cough or spit it back out without it taking effect. Similarly, he doesn't experience typical nausea outside of extreme fatigue/pain, so it's one of the few things he knows of due to his time with Maria, but can't really empathize with.

When tired, he's more Creature than not. There's a lot more little squeaks/chirps/huffs and whatnot that you'd expect from a typical hedgehog. This is especially true when he's already asleep/recovering. If he's cradled or hugged for an extended period of time, he will start to purr in a way more comparable to a bear cub than cat. It's so faint it's more felt than heard, and can otherwise only be heard by the person actively holding him.

[wastelandlovingscenarios]

Romanced!companions react to their precious fem!sole survivor getting slapped or strikes by an npc right in front of them? Can we categorize this; who would be the violent/threatening/just angry group? >:^0

omg, i’m pretty sure none of them would be remotely calm if that happened... but damn imagine the outcome of that poor npc. they lived a good life. this was a short request while i work on like 7 other ones, LOL.

thank you for requesting and please enjoy!

the next request i’m posting is gonna be a react that turned out a little longer than i expected so buckle up. 🤠

-

Danse:

violent/threatening

danse would for sure fall under the violent criteria of this situation. he already has one foot in the door once someone dares to go too close to sole, but hit her? that’s a totally different story for another day. that person better be praying to some god out there to give them mercy cause danse knows he won’t. the minute he hears that slap on soles face, it will trigger him to attack without a word. and to answer the question; does danse need a gun to do the job? absolutely not. those muscles are not just for show after all. no matter how many people hold him back, he will always fight his way through the crowd of people and beat the living fuck out of the person, even if they’re begging for him to stop. he won’t even realize the damage he’s done until after and won’t regret it either way, knowing that it was well deserved on their case. now if it was a situation where it was shoving or showing signs of starting a fight with his beloved, he’d step right in front of them and stare them down angrily with the biggest scowl ever. in some cases, that’s more than enough to scare most people off towards the other direction but in a few, he’s forced to threaten them. “i advise you step away unless you desire for this situation to escalate into something that involves solely you and i.” no one will ever be a threat to sole on his watch and he will make sure that nothing will stop him from protecting her.

Deacon:

threatening mixed with violence (depending the intensity of the situation)

deacons nice. he’s really laid back in most situations and is more than willing to let things go if he feels like it’s not worth the trouble. following that, deacons nice to a certain point and if you cross that point? consider yourself on his hitlist for the rest of your life. the intensity of the situation will determine how he’ll react towards it. if the person were to do as simple as shove sole, he’d keep an eye on them and say something within the lines of, “woah, woah, take it easy.” now if it was something like a slap or a punch, he wouldn’t even let it happen, not while he’s around. deacon would have fast enough reflexes to catch their wrist and he’d grip it enough to leave a mark, a displeased expression on his face. he’d even go as far as making jokes with an evil smile, such as, “oops my hand slipped,” or “oh you dropped this,” and proceed to deck the person as hard as he can with his free hand, not caring whether or not he knocks them unconscious. after that incident, he’d constantly terrorize the poor individual, often pulling pranks on them without any breaks. sometimes, he’d even go near them and speak in a happy tone while patting their back in a manner where it seemed a little too friendly.

Maccready:

threatening

mac is aware he’s not muscular nor is he made for fighting, which is why he sticks with guns during most situations. hes a lanky man and gets intimidated a little easier than most people, knowing that many of them could take him down with something as simple as a punch. it’s easier to say he’s more confident with a gun in his hand in these instances. despite his weaknesses, he would not hesitate to step up, knowing that hes unable to control his anger. he’d immediately point the gun at the persons temple and cock it just for intimidation purposes, but knows that he’s more than willing to pull the trigger if he needs to. it benefits him and the commonwealth more than damages it, seeing that this world needs one less asshole living it in, so who is he to care if this person dies or not? he’d slowly press it harder against the persons head, angrily speaking, “back away now.” if the person does so, he’ll gladly let them walk away without an injury and instead tend to sole. he wouldn’t let them go without some snarky comment like, “yeah keep walking and please let the door hit you on the way out.” if they refuse to move away from sole though, he’d gladly take the butt of his gun and smack it against their temple within seconds, completely ignoring the persons body knocked out on the floor. mac would get sole up and out of there as soon as he can, complaining under his breath about how much of that guy was an asshole and how he shouldve shot him.

Hancock:

violent group

consider one thing; that this person who fucked over his lover is beyond dead in his eyes. no one touches his sunshine, and if they dared to? theyll be wishing they hadn’t. hancock can quickly become someone’s friend, but the same can be said if it were an enemy. if he’s willing to stab someone for getting even a little too chummy and touchy with sole, imagine what he’d do if they dared to inflict pain on them. depending on where they are, like a bar for instance, he’d grab a glass bottle and crack it on the guys head, pushing him down on the floor without another word. using his shotgun, he’d make sure he’d put a few bullets through his body before he decides he’s completely satisfied with the new makeover he’s given them. now if he was in a more violent mood and was definitely not having it, he’d want to have their blood on his hands and wouldn’t care if it stained his clothes or not. he wants to send the message to everyone watching that if anyone dares to fucking cross his line, they’re gonna learn it the hard way and he will make it very known how the outcome of the situation will be. for example, he has a knife and what better way to use it than to stab the fuck out of someone for pissing him off? in some cases (depending on the severity of the situation), he’ll shank them in a place where he knows it’ll hurt the most and leave them there to suffer so they’ll get the idea that if they fuck with the people he treasures, they have another thing coming.

Nick Valentine:

mix of threatening and just angry.

honestly, nick is very civil about most cases and he won’t get violent unless absolutely necessary. he will definitely be beyond angry and give the person so much fucking shit for their actions. nick almost never yells but in this case, he’d yell so loud, it would fill up the silence of the room. nick also uses a lot of profanities when doing so, unable to maintain his professional attitude and his usual cool. “now what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” he’d even go as far as shoving them back, keeping a distance between sole and the person who deemed themselves as a threat to her presence. he’d try to minimize the possibility of violence arising, knowing that both him and sole are not as replaceable as they seem. he’d sneer at the person who striked sole, talking in the most irritated tone possible, “if i wasn’t here controlling her anger, you would’ve been dead on the pavement just a few minutes back, pal. consider yourself lucky that you were spared.” regardless if the person continued talking or not, nick would casually take soles hand and pull her away from the scene as he let out a remark loud enough for them to hear; “we don’t have time for the likes of you anyway, so take your trouble elsewhere.” nick has like zero shame when it comes to back talking or insulting someone he’s not fond of, so you best believe he won’t shut up until you both are out of sight.

Preston:

honestly, just angry.

preston will avoid violence at all costs, considering he doesn’t favor the idea and as much as he hates seeing sole get hurt, he doesn’t want to risk starting another issue. sole has a reputation amongst the commonwealth and the last thing he wants is to taint it or fuck it up, so he lets sole decide whether or not violence should be pursued. also considering that she has more than enough on her plate, he doesn’t want to add on to the list of problems she already has. so unless this guy is literally on the verge of gravely injuring his other half, he won’t do much besides step in front of sole to protect her from any further hits. he’d rather take the hits than to let someone as important as her take them firsthand. he wouldn’t forgive himself if such a thing happened. even if sole did most of the work in the end, he’d still send them the dirtiest look he’s ever given anyone and his hand would already be on the trigger of his laser musket, ready to fire at the guy anytime just in case. before officially leaving the person to do their own thing and bidding them goodbye, he’d get a little up close and personal, talking in the most threatening tone possible (even if he’s not the greatest at it); “once you mess with the general, you mess with the minutemen. i’d suggest you choose your battles a little better next time around.”

Sturges:

just angry

we all know by now sturges is a huge pacifist and will refuse to resort to violence unless he has no absolute choice but to do so. sturges is a very kind man and just like deacon, he’s willing to let most cases go but he respects sole too much to let violent situations like this slide. even if he’s very afraid to get into a violent situation head on, he’ll try to keep it as calm as possible, not wanting to escalate the situation more. being the considerate lover he is, he will ask sole to stay back and keep away from the person as much as possible as he tries to handle the situation himself. even if sturges doesn’t show it, he does get very angry in these instances and will not allow it to happen regardless of the reason. he’ll probably talk to the person with a firm tone and an irate expression but do nothing further than that unless the individual wants blood spilled, which in this case, sole is brought back into the situation. knowing sturges, he’d probably tell the person something like, “hey buddy, i really don’t appreciate what ya just did to my girl. ya need to quit it cause it ain’t right.” or, “if we got a problem, you can always just come to me instead of strikin’ that beautiful lady of mine. i’m willin’ to fix it with ya and if not, then i’m willin’ to take the hit.. though i’m sure my girl wouldn’ appreciate such a motive.” he knew she really wouldn’t. sole would shoot them down before he could let out a soft, “told ya so.”

Gage:

the ceo of violent

even if the raider life consists of injuries, blood, dirty work, and violence, he will never allow sole to get hurt under his watch. even if he tells her to toughen up and get used to it, he truly wants to protect her from the world and anything that could run as a potential hazard. that being said, he doesn’t care who the fuck strikes sole- it could be a man, woman, the highest and most royal person in the planet and it’d still have the same result in the end. gage wouldn’t even give them a chance to explain themselves and would simply let out a small, “oh fuck no, you ain’t.” and shoot them down himself before sole could give him an order. he would take the situation into his own hands with or without soles persmission, knowing that they crossed gages line of comfort. if he’s not satisfied with that or feels as if that’s too much of an easy way out, he’ll shoot their leg and come closer to them to step on their chest to block any chance of escaping. “wanna act tough, huh? show me how tough ya are, why dontcha? be my guest and apologize to the overboss. i’ll let her decide if it’s good enough to let ya go.” if sole were to deny every apology, he’d continue to shoot them limb by limb until he decides to put them down completely. now if sole decides their apology is more than enough, he’ll willfully let them go but let her decide their fate on whether they should be put down or not. in the end, if he had his way with that bastard, they wouldn’t be seeing the light for a long while.

[cole-grey-writes]

Different, 70 Years Later

Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Timeline: Post-The Avengers

Character(s): Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Male Reader

Warning(s): swearing, perceived homophobia, mentioned period typical homophobia

Request: Omg hi i miss seeing you in here. Can i request Steve Rogers X Male Reader angst + fluff. Like they had a big fight and then in the end they just forgive each other and cuddle and talk about a beautiful memories together until they both asleep. I love you ❤️

A/n: WOW can i just apologize that it took me literally months to finish this. I’ve just been so preoccupied by another fandom that I started hyperfocusing on (it was my hero academia if anyone wants to know). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and ignore the fact it took me a decade to get it out :)

You and Steve have only been dating for five months when you have your first fight. Honestly, it’s surprising that it took this long to happen.

You wish you didn’t remember what the fight was about, you really wish, but you remember exactly.

The fight had started due to Steve’s attitude towards your relationship. It’s clear that Steve isn’t ready to come out to his friends about your relationship, as you’ve come to realize, but that’s obviously not your actual concern. You’re not at all bothered by Steve not being ready to come out, it’s a subject you would never push. No, there’s a much bigger issue that you have a problem with.

It seems Steve is still being influenced by rotten and outdated 1930s ideology, still thinks that being queer is a bad thing which is very much untrue. You had done your best to explain that to your boyfriend, done your best to explain that there is absolutely nothing wrong with two men being in a relationship despite how much Steve’s time period has convinced him otherwise. Your efforts to help had backfired, though, for reason you can’t even begin to figure out.

Steve had gotten defensive all of a sudden, the conversation getting out of hand and blurry from there. The conversation turned into something else, something bordering on a screaming match. The fact that it was near midnight when the fight began had saved your neighbors from having to endure any interrupted sleep.

You and Steve had broken apart, eventually. Unfortunately, it was not because you were actually done fighting and instead, because Steve had stormed out of your apartment where you both had gathered after a long day (well, more like a week) of work. Maybe it sounded cliche or something, but you realized you wouldn’t be speaking to Steve for a while once you hear the echoing of the apartment door slamming shut.

You were right about you and Steve not speaking because you’re sitting in a local coffee shop called Honey Bean all by yourself by the time a week has passed.

You’re settled down at one of the two-seater tables in the front of the coffee shop so that the sun can bath you in light. You’d ordered a large muffin, although it’s not your favorite kind because apparently they don’t make more batches after 10:00 a.m., and are also half-way finished with your second venti cup of iced coffee. It’s not much of a lunch, though you don’t really care because you weren’t paying attention to your food all that much.

Your mind is still preoccupied with the fight, unable to force the thoughts revolving around it away.

“Want some shop with that coffee?” the voice breaks through the constant replay from behind your eyes. Your eyes snap up to Clint who has taken a seat across from you. You and Clint have both worked for SHIELD for years so you are very close, working as partners on missions many times. Actually, missions are where you and Clint grew closer, Natasha Romanov as well, which lead to your inevitable friendship.

You press your lips together, putting your coffee down as you refrain from rolling your eyes. “How’d you find me?” Clint’s mouth opens as if he’s going to say something but you interrupt him at the last moment. “Why am I even asking? You had Nat track my phone, didn’t you?”

Clint smiles too sweetly for the conversation you have no doubt is fast approaching. “You got that right.”

“Well,” You sigh heavily, “have at it. Say what you want to say.”

Clint hums, clearly appearing amused is the smile he’s failing to hide is anything to go by. “You know, I think I’ll start with the fact that you’re sitting in a coffee shop all alone because you’re too embarrassed to run into Steve in the SHIELD cafeteria.”

You don’t reply to Clint’s spoken truths as you play with the crumbly remains of your muffin. You mumble something along the lines of, “Hate being friends with SHIELD agents,” but your miniscule snip only causes Clint to laugh.

“So,” Clint says, “are you gonna explain why you and Steve are avoiding each other?”

You stare straight at Clint instead of avoiding eye contact, otherwise that would be admitting defeat, but you don’t say anything either because that would also be considered admitting defeat mostly because you have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re supposed to tell Clint. You and Steve are in a secret relationship. It’s bad enough that spilling your guts to Clint would be sharing your relationship without Steve’s permission but you would also be outing Steve in the process, which is completely out of the question disrespectful.

“No?” Clint says in a wondering tone before he shrugs, almost as if he knew you were going to refuse to answer the question. “I guess I’ll just tell you why you’ve been avoiding each other. You two got into a fight, a pretty bad one, not that it was hard to figure out. Bad enough to drive a visible wedge between two best friends who’ve been practically joined at the hip for months.”

You’re even more speechless, more than before, as Clint stares at you knowingly from across the table. Apparently, it’s his turn to sip his coffee pointedly.

You choose to bite the bullet and speak when Clint doesn’t continue picking apart your relationship with Steve after about a minute of complete silence. “Do you have a point to this?”

“There is a point,” Clint confirms. “The point is to make you talk to Steve.”

“Yeah, no shit. But, why?”

“Because you pout everywhere you go,” Clint informs you as if you didn’t already know. “Look, you’re obviously really bothered by whatever the fight was about. You and Steve aren’t gonna go back to what you were before unless you talk to each other about whatever happened.”

Your gaze lowers dejectedly, towards the muffin crumbs that stick to the napkin it sits on. The picture is clichely symbolic of what your and Steve’s entire relationship is gonna be if you don’t at least try to work through your fight. “You really think me and Steve could go back to being what we were before?”

Clint doesn’t even seem to hesitate before answering. “Guess you won’t know until you talk to him.” You roll your eyes more due to the harsh truth behind his words than any actual annoyance towards Clint for saying it.

You chew the inside of your cheek as you wonder if you should say what you’re thinking because you know it’s gonna be a very high ego boost for Clint. Ultimately, you decide to say it anyway. He deserves it after coming all this way so he could get two friends back together.

“You’re too convincing for your own good,” you tell him, Clint only smiling smugly in response. “Thank you.”

Clint shakes his head slightly. “Thank me by tracking Steve down and talking to him.”

Smiling, you nod in agreement. Finding Steve and making up is definitely going to be an immediate priority.

Standing from the table, you pick up all your trash, which just consists of a dirty napkin and two empty coffee cups, so you can throw it out on your way out of the door but Clint is stopping you.

“You can also thank me with another coffee,” Clint quickly adds before you’ve even begun to walk away. You scoff in disbelief before you internally give up.

“I’ll buy you as much coffee as you want when this is all over,” you promise him while grinning at the return of Clint’s playful personality.

Clint grins back at you, saying, “I’ll hold you to that.”

It seems as if the walk back to SHIELD takes forever while simultaneously taking no time at all which makes you even more anxious because now the discomfort and awkwardness that will be accompanying this talk is closer than you would like. But, that thought is quickly shoved away by the other side of your brain. Instead, it presents you with another thought, a fact actually that if you didn’t have this talk with Steve, your relationship would never be able to heal.

You suddenly realize that this fight could very well cost you your relationship with Steve which is even worse than having to deal with some minor discomfort for an hour at most. You don’t want that at all.

You remember how Steve had been adamant that being queer wasn’t right, most definitely from internalized homophobia, but you also remember how painfully upset he had looked while you two were going back and forth. You don’t want to give up on Steve, he doesn’t deserve that, especially not after enduring so much violent discrimination in his day and even some in the current years. Steve deserves to finally have some reprieve, deserves at least a shot at a happy ending.

You waste no more time wallowing in your own side of the story, pushing yourself to find Steve quickly.

Trudging through the halls of SHIELD headquarters seems to be more confusing than usual but you still manage to find Steve before the end of lunch. You spot him through the giant windows that provide a good view into the cafeteria. Steve is sitting with Natasha at a table with half-eaten food forgotten in front of them. Now, you want to march right inside the cafeteria so you can talk to Steve immediately but you don’t want to interrupt his lunch with Natasha so you just wait impatiently in the hallway.

Leaning against the wall across from the double-doors leading into the cafeteria, you watch as Steve finally stands from his table. Steve and Natasha exchange some sort of short conversation before he’s hastily making his way out of the cafeteria. Steve’s in such a hurry that you’re almost worried you won’t catch him before he walks off.

“Steve!” you call out, Steve pausing in his apparent quest to turn towards you. His eyes widen slightly upon recognizing you. As you approach him, you wonder, “Hey, um, can we… talk?”

“Wha– yes, of course!” Steve stutters awkwardly. “I was… actually just looking–”

And then there’s a buzzing noise echoing out from his pocket, clearly coming from his phone. You and Steve stop moving at the same time, the same look crossing your faces because you know exactly what that buzz means.

“You have a mission,” you state plainly as if Steve didn’t already sense that.

Steve sighs sadly, mumbling, “Yeah.”

You had feared this precise situation. You had wanted to make up with Steve before he left for a mission so that your fight wouldn’t stew any longer than it already has.

“This isn’t over,” Steve blurts. You look at him, confused and slightly worried at his phrasing. “I–I mean… I’ll text you. When the mission is over. We’ll talk.”

Managing a smile, you nod your head in agreement. When Steve steps forward, eyeing you questioningly, it takes a second for you to understand why. He’s clearly wondering whether or not it’s okay for him to kiss you goodbye. Kissing goodbye was just something you always did before Steve left for missions, your shared way of expressing that you’re gonna see each other again.

You take a step forward as well, understanding and relief flashing through Steve’s eyes as you do so, and you come together to exchange your goodbye kiss. You stay in the kiss for as long as you can but Steve’s phone is buzzing inside his pocket once again.

Separating reluctantly, you watch as Steve turns and walks away from you as the kiss lingers in your mind. Remembering how it felt, remembering that it felt like every other goodbye kiss you’ve exchanged before, which is surprisingly comforting to you.

The kiss in no way signifies that everything is fixed between you and Steve but it definitely means that you aren’t going to run away from each other anymore.

The mission doesn’t last very long, surprisingly, because Steve texts you around 9 o’clock asking you if he could stop by your apartment after he lands which you immediately agree with. You don’t even have to think about it anymore, the hours you spent alone giving you some time to really think about your fight.

In all honesty, as the hours ticked by, the fight between you and Steve grew to appear increasingly stupid and kinda messed up. You can’t even believe you’d blown up at Steve like you did instead of trying to reassure and comfort him. Steve isn’t like modern day homophobes, he didn’t have an open environment in his days to safely navigate and learn about queerness.

Your mind races with all the better ways you could have reacted to Steve as you impulsively made your living space cleaner for your boyfriend’s arrival. He knocks on your door at just past 10:30 p.m. and you don’t even have the willpower to stop yourself from instantly opening the door so it doesn’t seem like you were anxiously waiting right next to it.

You and Steve nervously stare at each other from opposite sides of the door before you finally step aside and invite him in. Steve smiles and enters your apartment, which is when you notice that he’s still dressed in his Cap uniform meaning he came straight to you after he landed. It’s a little dirtied and has clearly been drug through the mud but it’s not destroyed.

Relocating to the living room, Steve sits on the couch while you choose to sit perched up on the arm of the single seater. “Okay, so I think I should start off by telling you that I’m sorry,” you say, speaking meekly while subconsciously rubbing at the back of your neck. “I know that’s probably not what you wanna hear–”

“No, I’m sorry, too. I didn’t react the way I should have…” Steve trails off, as if he’s trying to get his thoughts and feels in order. “It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready to tell people, yet.”

Your mind stalls at your boyfriend’s words for a moment, your confusion causing you to stutter. “Wha– Steve, you don’t have to be.”

Steve’s face falls as he seems to cave into himself slightly, the sight twisting your guts in circles. You have never wanted to make Steve feel like that, like he has to hide from you. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

You feel your face scrunch up in confusion as your head tilts to the side. “What do you mean?”

Steve shifts around in his seat awkwardly. “Earlier, you know…” he shrugs and waves his hand around a bit, as if to help remind you of what he’s talking about. “when you were trying to convince me to come out.”

“What, Steve, no!” You’re immediately sitting up straight in your seat, your entire face widening in surprise. “That’s-that’s not what I was trying to say at all.”

“It wasn’t?”

You shake your head vigorously. “No, of course not. Me trying to bully you into coming out is just as bad as outing you myself. The only person who gets to decide when you come out is you.”

“Well, then what was I even mad at you for?” Steve wonders, his turn for his face to mold into a questioning expression.

“I have no idea… alright, let me get something straight,” you speak slowly, trying to make sense of the fight you and Steve had a week prior. “Last week, during our fight, you were only telling me you weren’t ready to come out about our relationship.”

“Correct.”

“And… and you weren’t actually saying you that being queer was a bad thing?”

Steve’s eyes darken with worry. “You thought I was saying that?” his voice seems so small, it makes you feel guilty for even thinking what you thought.

“I don’t know,” you sigh heavily, hands coming up to rub at your face. “I thought you were still being effected by your time period’s public homophobic ideals.”

Steve hums understandingly for some reason. “I know I used to internalize that stuff before, but I’ve worked through all that. I know being queer doesn’t make me less than others.”

You stand from your place on the arm of the single seater sofa so you can approach and reassure your boyfriend of the feelings you had previously thought he had. “That’s good, it doesn’t,” you pause before continuing. “I only wish I could go back and actually understand what you were saying. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if I had just listened to you.”

“We both weren’t listening,” Steve smiles up at you sadly, clearly just as regretful as you are about this stupid fight that obviously shouldn’t have even happened in the first place.

You and Steve sit in silence for a moment, processing everything that’s just come out about your fight. There’s not more words exchanged between you as you both stand from your seats and gravitate towards each other in order to wrap your arms around each other.

You hug tightly for quite a long time, not saying anything, until you finally say, “I know you didn’t say anything about spending the night…”

“… Yeah,” Steve answers your unvoiced question without hesitation.

Somehow hugging even tighter, you and Steve manage to maneuver yourselves into the couch, laying side by side while pressing up against each other. You’re mostly on your back with Steve’s head resting near your neck and unable to stop yourself, you rest your hands in Steve’s soft blond hair in order to play with it despite how much soot and dried sweat lays within it.

It’s a while before one of you speaks. Steve begins to wonder out loud, “You remember how we met?”

You scoff lightheartedly, “How could I possibly forget?”

The memory comes to your mind easily. It was in the SHIELD cafeteria, you and Steve walking with your respective companions when Steve makes a sharp turn and accidentally bumps into you. Steve’s tray of food, as well as your own, spills all over you and your agent uniform. You remember Steve becoming a stammering mess of apologies out of embarrassment while Natasha stood next to him, surveying the scene in obvious amusement.

“You cost me $15 in dry cleaning,” you remind your boyfriend.

“I paid you back,” Steve whines as he pouts playfully.

Pressing your lips to Steve’s forehead, you mumble, “You certainly did.”

And, in fact, Steve did pay you back and he paid you back in the form of a two hour coffee date three days after he’d asked you out with a face as red as the tomato soup he’d spilled all over you.

You and Steve fall into a comfortable silence as you both seem to reminisce about an easier time in your relationship. Not that you want to go back to that time, you’re confident in that because while the first few months were easier, you and Steve have become more connected as time went on. You and Steve are closer to each other than you had been in the beginning and you don’t want to lose that for anything, not even for an easier time in your relationship.

“I know we can’t prevent fights,” you mutter, voice catching Steve’s attention. “But, can we at least promise that we’ll never stay away from each other for that long ever again?”

You feel Steve trying to burrow further into your neck as he says, “Only if we promise not to yell at each other that loud ever again.”

You agree immediately.

(NOT MY GIF)

Main Blog // Other Side Blog

((NO ONE HAS MY PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE EVEN WITH CREDIT))

[onisiondrama]

"Onision: In Real Life DEBUNKED” Breakdown & Thoughts

Confirmed by Sarah over a 9 hour phone conversation with Onision

I’ve seen a lot of people speculate this phone call never happened because James’ claim that it was 9 hours long. I can’t lie, that threw me off when I first read it too. 

I believe most likely he is exaggerating the length of the conversation, although it’s not impossible for the them to speak for 9 hours.

The date he claims the call took place on lines up with the dates and times of Sarah’s last 2 tweets. She seemed very upset. I am not going to post them because her account is currently private.

the conversation started January 22, 2021 and ended around 1am her time, it continued laters that morning only to end with Sarah's sister taking the phone away and screaming that she was happy Sarah ruined his life while refusing to give the phone back to Sarah

So they took a break in-between calls. Possibly he is counting the 9 hours based on when their first phone call started and their last call ended.

Her sister taking the phone away and telling him off gives me the impression Sarah was extremely upset while talking to him. I don’t believe this was a confession / begging for forgiveness call like he is trying to make it out to be.

SARAH'S CONFESSIONS DURING COVERSATION 1-22-2021:

I doubt that these were confessions. Based on his past debates and interviews, I think it is more likely James walked her through carefully worded scenarios / events and forced her into answering with a simple yes or no. If she tried to add more or explain herself, he would cut her off and exclaim he was right. That’s how he’s treated others during debates, especially during recent interviews about Sarah’s (& others’) accusations against him, so that is how I imagine the call going down.

- The fraudulent #MeToo'ers were paid to participate in the documentary.

I understand the concept of it being unethical to pay accusers for interviews due to it possibly being an incentive for them to exaggerate, but everyone already participated in free public interviews. Everything they said in the documentary they have already stated multiple times for free. They did not say anything new. I personally don’t see them allegedly getting paid to be on the documentary as a blow to their credibility.

Also, James wanted to be paid to participate as well. So if he participated and was paid, should we no longer consider his claims valid? Especially since he would not just defend himself, but also make accusations against everyone since he claims he is actually their victims. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already paid for at least one of his interviews about this whole thing by now.

- Sarah now has enough money to "Make a down payment on a house"

This is so incredibly vague. That could be almost any amount of money. Also, I don’t trust his quotations. He didn’t specify that was a direct quote from Sarah. He could have asked her how much she was paid and she would not say, so he asked if she could make a down payment on a house.

- Sarah again admitted to apologizing twice for raping Onision via sexual extortion.

So she agreed that she said “sorry for raping you guys” twice as she was angrily leaving the house? We already heard that story from him 100 times. He never went into detail about why she left angrily, but I always assumed it was because they got into a fight and that is when he first accused her of rape. I always assumed she said that sarcastically in response to his accusation.

- Sarah made it clear the documentary had her sign a contract of silence so she could not "legally" reveal how much the fraud #MeToo'ers were compensated to be involved.

I don’t think she would know how much other people were paid? I don’t believe she is in personal contact with Shiloh or Regina and I don’t think Discovery would disclose details of their contracts with other participants.

Since Sarah falls under “fraud #MeToo'ers” in James’ perspective, this makes me think she stopped him questioning how much she was paid. Now that I think about it that way,  he may have been taking the “down payment on a house” quote out of context. She may have been giving him an update on her life. He did says she “now has enough money” to do so, but didn’t specify that was because of the documentary.

- Sarah stated she truly hates both Shiloh & Regina (the other fake #MeToo'ers)

We already know this. Sarah and the other victims publicly cut ties with Shiloh and Regina because they chose to stick with Chris Hansen and participate in the documentary. The other victims wanted to stand together and not participate to try to prevent the documentary from happening.

- Sarah admitted Regina & Shiloh are frauds.

If she did, he’s not specifying what was allegedly fraudulent. The way he says “admitted” makes me think he talked about a specific incident and asked her if she agreed it was fraudulent. Like, Shiloh’s tattoo fund or something.

If she admitted she believed Shiloh and Regina were lying about their accusations, he definitely would have said that and not this vague shit.

- Sarah admits she herself intentionally mislead people to make Onision look bad.

Lmao as if she needed to strategically mislead people in order to make him look bad because he was so gosh darn innocent in this whole situation. I definitely believe he lead her into agreeing that she was misleading about one thing that made him look bad and he is using that to justify this broad statement.

- Sarah again admits she was kicked out of Onision's life for comitting a crime against Onision.

He’s just repeating himself. This is the same point as the alleged rape apology.

- Sarah admits she blatantly went out of her way to silence Onision/prevent interviews from happening so he could not deliver facts/evidence.

We already knew about this. Chris Hansen said he decided to drop negotiating an interview with James because the victims asked him not to do it.

This did not “silence” him. He went on plenty of other interviews.

- Sarah admits the laptop she had and mislead people about, in fact had nothing on it.

I am imagining two possibilities:

1. It’s possible James was misleading with his question and asked if there was something specific that he already knew was not on there, like photos of himself or photos of minors.

2. Sarah also sent a cell phone to Chris Hansen and Vincent. Perhaps the internet got mixed up and hyper focused on the laptop when it was really the cell phone that contained the damning nudes Kai sent to Sarah as a minor.

- Sarah admits she only turned her laptop in because the internet pressured her to. Confirming she defrauded countless people to replace the laptop via GoFundMe, not revealing to them the laptop she turned in had nothing on it.

I don’t believe the internet pressured her into originally sending the laptop to Chris Hansen / Vincent. I believe she did it to help the investigation. When she found out it was never given to the FBI months later, she seemed extremely upset.

After she got it back, that is when she noticeably hesitated on what to do with the laptop. People on the internet definitely pressured her into doing something with it before she was ready. Her being pressured into handing in the laptop to the FBI does not prove there was nothing on it. She most likely hesitated because either she did not want to deal with it / needed a break or she did not know who to trust with it.

Sarah was not the one who made the GoFundMe, it was Shiloh. The description said she needed a new laptop while the FBI had it for an investigation. That was true.

I’ve seen the argument that Sarah asking for funds for a laptop was fraudulent because she was fine without one while Vincent had it. Looking back, Vincent told her he was going to remove the hard drive, send the hard drive to the FBI, give the laptop a new one, and send her laptop back. I know during this time she was borrowing a friend’s laptop. This makes sense to me. She was borrowing because she thought it would be temporary. Once she officially handed it over herself to the FBI, she no longer had access to one and needed one for school.

(Washington state law prevents phone conversations being recorded without both parties consenting, Sarah was very concerned the conversation was being recorded, repeatedly asking if she was being recorded - as usual, Onision told the truth, he recorded nothing)

I’ve seen a lot of people talk about ways he could have gotten around this law or legal ways he could have proven this conversation happened. At the very least, he could have taken a screen shot of his call logs to show the date and how long he was on the phone for.

I think it’s worth noting he has recorded people over the phone without their consent in the past. Like Shiloh’s manager and Madison.

I’m not saying he’s outright lying about the call, but I don’t understand why he expected the internet to believe some vague bullet points about a phone call no one knew about about until he randomly made a page on his site for it a whole month after the call took place.

Tl;dr - He’s being way too vague. I believe he is taking a lot of the conversation out of context and manipulatively lead her into answering yes or no questions that would make it look like she’s admitting to the thing he’s accused her of and denounced her past accusations against him.

[inkling0121]

Writing tips: Story lines

Okay so I’ve been writing for five years now, but only for two to three of those years have I been writing story lines with them, and let me tell you story lines are life savers, especially if you get stuck on scenes easily.

You’re not quite sure what I’m talking about when I say “story lines”? Story lines are your plans, it’s basically a very detailed, very long summary, paraphrasing several paragraphs or even chapters into one sentence. Example: “Character A corners Character B in an alley way and interrogates them.”

Now I could write a whole chapter about that, about A chasing down B into the alley and getting into a small fight with them before subduing them and a whole long interrogation scene. B spills the beans on whatever info A wants or B refuses to talk and A takes them to a second location, depends on how my story is supposed to go.

You write the whole story out like that first, the whole entire book, and bang you got a completed story line to follow while you’re writing out your story and you won’t get stuck that often. Story lines are great for foreshadowing and it’s basically the backbone of writing (in my experience at least, everyone has different writing techniques.)

Now I suggest you don’t ever start a story without completing the story line first UNLESS you already have an idea of where the story is going to go and you’re very confident in it.

There are two story lines that I have used, the neat one and the messy one.

Another name for the messy one would be a brain dump basically, or just spit-balling onto an empty doc. You write whatever comes to your mind as fast as possible while making sure you’ll understand what you wrote down later, you can make side notes in parenthesis or if you’re using google docs you can comment on a sentence, whatever you’re more comfortable with.

But basically it’s one whole paragraph that is several pages long. No paragraph breaks, too much time and it divides your focus. You can add those in later for scene changes or chapters if you want. Or if paragraph breaks help you while you’re writing it out, that’s fine too!

I’ve been using this one a lot more recently because the neat one has become a little more stale for me lately and I run into more blocks with the neat one.

The neat one is a lot more organized. You write down a bunch of small scenes using bullet points and it would look something like this:

A interrogates them

B doesn’t give up

A knocks them out and takes them back to their base

[End scene]

(You can click tab to make those indents, I hope this posts clearly enough)

I suggest adding a lot of notes for the more difficult scenes but do it in a way that doesn’t sound like a robot so it’s not boring to read over and over again. A way I could make that example more interesting is by replacing “B doesn’t give up” with “B goes ‘no way Jose! I ain’t talking!’” (Note that when you write this scene in the actual story, you don’t have to actually write that, it’s just to make you laugh while you’re looking over your story line).

While writing the story lines when you first start one out, you can divide them in different ways if you get stuck between scenes. If you’re not sure what you want to happen between scenes you can add in [Write another scene here].

An example for both would be: “A captures B. [Write scene here during B’s short time as a prisoner]. B escapes or is rescued.”

Obviously you could add in more detail and notes there unless you already have the whole scene planned out in your mind for how A captures B and how B escapes. You’re main focus would be figuring out what happens while B is a prisoner.

If you get stuck on that then I suggest during your day, if you day dream often like me, instead of thinking about that one really cool scene that you’re super excited to write, think about what is going to happen during the part your stuck on. It’ll be like untangling a knot, super hard but once you figure something out the knot seems to unravel all by itself.

One last bit for those people who post their stories chapter by chapter on different platforms: write your stories out on a google doc (or something similar) first. You’re going to want to keep all of your chapters together so you can easily scroll up to see what happened in an earlier chapter if you have trouble remembering.

Another tip for these people, you’re going to want to write at least 5 chapters of your story before you even start posting it. Always have more chapters ready to post, you don’t want to post those 5 before you start writing your 6th chapter, keep a few unposted until you start writing more chapters.

It gives you time to go back and change something if you need to, and if the story isn’t working out for you then you can restart the whole thing. The amount of times I had to restart a whole story, even if I’m 40 pages into writing it, is ridiculous.

Don’t forget to spell check your chapters before you post them! Look for spelling or grammar mistakes! Everyone makes them! And if you’re willing, please put trigger warnings at the beginning of every chapter.

I know this is a long post and I’m really sorry about that, but I hope that this has been helpful! Practice with different kinds of story lines and see if it makes you’re writing better! Remember, you don’t have to do this, if you have a writing style down then that’s good! The main thing to focus on is making sure you’re having fun!

[spaceskam]

our fainted thrill carries on (1/13)

and the season 2 fix it is here! warning for anxiety, ptsd, canon referenced violence (aka mentions of jesse), etc!

ao3

Michael watched Isobel drag Max’s body across the ground.

She was yelling at him to help, Liz was arguing with her, Kyle was trying his best to subdue the situation, and Rosa had left the cave pretty much the moment he entered to get away from Isobel. It was all too much for him on top of all the other bullshit he was already feeling.

His hand throbbed, aching with a dull handprint with nothing on the other side. He was attached to nothing. He supposed this was the true feeling of emptiness. The worst part was that he was still pissed at Max. He was pissed at him for being selfish, for shooting at him, for healing him, for acting like his problems didn’t matter. But wasn’t he the dick for hating a guy who was dead in front of him?

“Michael! Help me!” Isobel spat.

“That pod’s broken,” he offered limply. They all gave him their attention for some reason.

“What do you mean it’s broken?” Kyle asked. He seemed to be the only one with a level head which made sense. He was a doctor and all. Plus, he’d been slightly less likely to die in the last 48 hours than the rest of them. Felt fair that he played the calm guy.

“You put him in that thing and he gets fucked up like Noah.”

Isobel gave an irritated, mournful whine and then started tugging Max’s body in the other direction. How much did Max weigh? Over 200lbs? Probably. He was tall and he worked out, so over 200 made sense. How did alien BMI work? 

“Michael! Why are you just staring?! Help me!” Isobel spat, dragging him out of his thoughts. Or, kind of. He tried to focus, he really did. It didn’t seem to work, his mind drifting away soon after she got his attention. 

He didn’t like this feeling, this emptiness. It brought him back to nights alone in the airstream when Max was always busy being a cop and Isobel was always busy with everything she could get her hands on. Bringing him back to those moments brought him back to missing Alex. It ripped that band-aid off, pushing him towards that crash landing like always. He hated it. But in the moment? In the moment it felt good. Maybe he could figure out a way to have both…

“Guerin,” Kyle suddenly said, right in front of him. He genuinely looked concerned which was strange. “Are you alright? Are you in shock or are you having a panic attack? Or something else? Are you sleep-deprived?” 

Michael blinked a few times and then looked around. Liz and Isobel had gotten a blanket and were in the process of getting Max’s body in that blanket to make him easier to carry since Michael was useless.

“I’m fine,” he said. Kyle gave him a look. 

“Go home,” he said. Which didn’t sound right and apparently his face betrayed that. “You’re not in a good state of mind and you’re not going to help anyone, especially not yourself, if you stay here. So go home and get some sleep. Can you drive?”

Michael nodded, “I can drive.”

And drive he did.

-

Alex eventually gave up waiting outside Michael’s trailer, realizing that he wasn’t coming home.

He tried not to jump to conclusions about why. He knew Michael had to be going through some shit on top of what happened the day before if that little moment he’d seen him said anything. He could give him some space until he was ready.

Or, at least that’s what he thought until he entered his cabin and found Michael sitting on his couch in the dark.

“Hey,” Alex said when he saw him, locking the three locks on his door behind him. Michael didn’t look up at him, face just so painstakingly sad as he stared at the coffee table. Alex dropped his keys in the bowl beside the door and just waited for him to say something or do something.

“Max is dead,” he whispered, voice breaking, “My mom is dead and Max is dead and Isobel told me I need to move on and I tried, but I… I don’t know why I’m here.”

Alex slowly walked towards him, deciding the best option was to treat him like a wounded animal. He didn’t ask any questions as he made himself known by stepping in his line of sight. He wasn’t sure if he could actually see him, but he was trying his best. Alex noticed his hand was no longer scarred, a glowing layer on top of his skin. He ignored the mixed feelings that stirred in his stomach at the sight.

“You’re always welcome here, okay? No questions asked, no matter what you do or need,” Alex promised. Michael blinked slowly and his eyes drifted slowly to meet Alex’s, his current state of mind portraying how much he didn’t believe him. “I’m not going to be another person you lose, alright? It’s not happening. Tell me what you need.”

Michael was silent for a moment and then another before Alex realized he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know what he needed. He wondered if anyone had actually ever asked him that before. So, he stepped a little closer and slowly but surely pulled him into a hug. They didn’t hug often, but he needed it. Honestly, they both did.

What Alex didn’t say was that he was thankful he was here. Caulfield was all too fresh on his mind and, even someone as great at compartmentalizing as he was, it was hard when it involved someone he loved and that someone was not doing well in its aftermath. It was just more shit and he knew if he felt like that, Michael must’ve felt it even more. So he wasn’t going to add to it, he was going to take some away.

“I’m gonna go get you a blanket and you can sleep on the couch. I’ll call Liz or Kyle and have them fill me in, you sleep,” Alex whispered to him, trying his best to be some form of comfort. Michael held onto him for a little bit longer before eventually letting go.

Alex did as he promised, fetching a blanket from his bedroom as well as a pillow. Michael pulled off his boots and curled up on the couch while Alex covered him up. He watched him for a moment, watched him cocoon himself for some semblance of comfort. Alex’s heart ached for him, but he couldn’t just watch him all night, so he went to his room and got his phone.

He called Kyle and grabbed a notebook, taking notes as he got filled in so he’d be able to order his thoughts better. Max was dead, Rosa was alive, Isobel had insisted they work on bringing Max back, and Liz was refusing to acknowledge the facts. 

“Okay, what do you need me to do?” Alex asked, drawing a line under the top half of his notes and starting his first bullet point.

“Um, I-I guess we’re going ahead and trying to fix Max,” Kyle said, his voice hesitant and unnerved. Which made sense. In the margin of the page, Alex scribbled ‘make Kyle talk about Caulfield’. “So if you can help me find a space to make a lab, I guess?”

“I can do that,” Alex agreed, “Guerin’s here by the way. I know you don’t care, but I figured Isobel might.”

“Okay, good, good. I’ll tell the girls,” Kyle said. Some rustling sounded on his end and then he spoke again in a hushed voice, “I, uh, also need to talk to you about your dad.”

Alex sat up straight, his eyebrows furrowing. His heart skipped a beat involuntarily and he grabbed the remote on his bedside table, turning on his TV that showed a screen of all the cameras he had around his house. No one was trespassing outside, the doors were all locked (though he’d double-check before he took his prosthetic off), and Michael was still in a ball on the couch.

“He tried to shoot me,” Kyle said, voice still soft but he was clearly on edge.

“Excuse me?” 

“I was wearing a vest and I put him in a medically induced coma. I just got him in the hospital when Liz called me, so I know where he’s at and he’s incapacitated as of right now, but this isn’t forever. We need to move Project Shepard headquarters soon or it’s going to get bigger than this,” Kyle warned. Alex decided not to tell him that it already was bigger than this.

“Okay, I’ll work on shifting everything I’ll work on finding a lab space. Hopefully in the same building and we’ll see what we can do. We can talk more about the specifics tomorrow, I guess. Are you good, though?” Alex asked.

“I’m as good as I can be. Sore, a little confused on how to be a brother all of the sudden,” Kyle sighed, “Look, I gotta go. Liz is trying to fill Rosa in on a decade of information, so I’m gonna try to help or something. Fuck.”

“Okay, take care of yourself. Call me if anything goes bump during the night,” Alex told him.

“I will.”

They hung up without saying goodbye.

-

“Michael.”

Michael sighed and looked up from the car he was working. Isobel stood a few feet away, face cleaned up and dressed almost regal as if that would cover up the fact that Max died last night. He was dead. Dead, dead, dead. 

“What?” he asked. She scoffed, shaking her head.

“What is going on with you? That was so uncharacteristic for you to just leave and then I find out you went to Alex’s? After everything you said yesterday?” she laid out, not wasting any time. He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t really know how to. There wasn’t much to say. He’d hit his limit.

“What do you want me to say, Isobel? Nothing happened between us, I just ended up there because…”

“Because you love him,” Isobel filled in. Michael turned his focus back to the car. “And I know nothing happened because there’s something wrong with you and I don’t know Alex that well, but I know enough that he wouldn’t do anything when you’re... like this. You were off before Max decided to play martyr. So, what happened? Tell me.”

His jaw clenched, gripping the hood of the car until his hands ached. His left hand had a glove on it, hiding the handprint that felt like a taunting reminder of everything, but it still seized up far too fast. It’d been hurting all night and now all day and Michael had to wonder what exactly Max did to him if he didn’t heal it.

“Michael,” Isobel said firmly.

“What? What do you want me to say?” he demanded, “If you knew I was so off, why didn’t you say anything when we were talking yesterday? I thought my relationship problems weren’t that big a deal compared to yours?” Her eyes narrowed at him.

“This isn’t a relationship problem,” she said, scoffing, “It feels closer to the way Max felt after he brought back Liz. Like something is literally wrong inside your head, you’re on edge.” Michael scoffed, slamming the hood and turning to face her. “I didn’t say anything then because I didn’t feel it as strong until Max’s went out. Liz thinks that since my connection to him is shut down, the one I have with you is stronger.”

He felt something hit him deep in his gut. How was she doing that? How was she talking about Max dying as if it was just a small inconvenience? Hell, he barely even liked Max half the time and it felt like much more than an inconvenience.

“Okay,” Michael said, waiting for her to go on. Waiting for her to give him more of a reason to speak.

“What is wrong with you?” she said, ordering him like always.

“Honestly, Iz, none of your business.”

He pushed past her, heading towards the airstream so he could try to order his thoughts. But she followed because of course she did.

“I reported Noah missing this morning,” she said, dropping the subject of him. That got him to stop walking. This was too much. As many times as they’d been involved with a murder, they never had been so close to that person when they were alive. Reporting him missing meant it was real, meant they were going to find him, meant they were on the radar. Isobel stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I did it so I wouldn’t be as suspicious, I need to play the part of a grieving widow and I need your help.”

“Need my help? For what?” Michael sighed. He was tired again. He’d slept so hard at Alex’s, how was he so tired already? 

“Liz is going to be working on the science-y part of bringing Max back,” she said. He furrowed his eyebrows.

“What does that have to do with you playing widow?”

“I need you to help me work on my powers and work on the science part with her,” Isobel said. He still stared at her, wondering how overworking him meant helping her play a role. “But, when the time comes, I need you to be on your best behavior, okay? People know I’m friends with you and I don’t need them thinking one of us killed Noah to be together.”

Michael stared at her for a little while before nodding. What else was he supposed to do except agree? Still, she took it as a positive and hugged him.

“Also, I think I’ll have to keep some space from Liz and Rosa. Rosa kind of wasn’t happy about me staying at Max’s last night and looking at Liz kind of pisses me off right now.”

“Iz…”

“I know, I know. It’s not her fault Max did what he did, but I’m still working on that, I’ve only had a few hours,” she said. Michael nodded and she again gave him that look. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen, okay?” 

He wasn’t sure if he could believe that.

-

“So Rosa’s good and my dad’s stable?” 

“Yeah, I did tests on both of them. Max literally healed her completely, like any sign that she’d ever abused narcotics are gone. Guy gave her a brand new brain,” Kyle said, rolling his eyes. Alex couldn’t help but give a little smile. “And, like I said, I’ll make sure to keep your dad under until you’re ready for it. It’ll be hard since Flint is technically his medical power of attorney, but I’m already breaking rules for worse shit, so.”

“Thank you, man, I really appreciate it,” Alex said, sipping on his beer. Kyle gave a warm smile.

“Rosa said she wants to see you, by the way,” Kyle said, sipping on his beer. Alex tilted his head. “Yeah, she told me she asked Liz to tell you, but I honestly don’t think Liz is on par with where Rosa is. Like, Rosa isn’t really adjusting to having everyone back in her life, just the time jump, so she wants her friends around and Liz is… struggling.”

“I mean, I don’t blame her. It’s gotta be hard,” he agreed. Kyle gave me a look that said ‘you have no idea’ and then took a large swig of his drink. “But, yeah, I’ll make time and I can go see her tomorrow morning.”

When Alex had woken up that morning, Michael wasn’t there anymore. However, his dirty clothes were and he’d stolen some of Alex’s because they were apparently on the level of relationship where he did his fucking laundry. Besides that, though, he made a pot of coffee before he left and Alex was content enough.

“Speaking of, uh,” Alex said, eying Kyle, “Are you good? It’s been a rough couple days. Where’s your head at?”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Alex Manes, are you trying to talk about feelings with me?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, I’m trying to be a good friend or whatever the fuck. Nevermind.” 

With a laugh, Kyle said, “I’m okay, I’m just a little more paranoid which isn’t a bad thing considering. Are you okay, though? You and Guerin cut it close getting out of there.” 

Alex shifted in his seat. He’d slept twice since Caulfield, but he could already tell he had a brand new shade of red added to his nightmares. Hell, the only thing that got him back to sleep the night before was seeing that Michael was safe on his couch through the cameras. Part of him wanted to ask Guerin to keep coming back every night, but he didn’t want to sound needy. 

“I’ll be okay. I’m more worried about him though,” Alex admitted. Maybe he had too much to drink or too little to eat or both. Kyle didn’t say anything. “He was so shaken up.”

“Where’s he at now?”

“Knowing him? Drinking and fucking with shit to pretend like he’s fine,” Alex sighed.

“Pretty sure Liz is doing the same,” Kyle said, tilting his beer bottle behind him. Sure enough, Liz was a few seats away talking to Maria and taking shots. She didn’t seem to notice that they were there.

“He did what?” Liz said, her face twisted in response to the tequila and doing a fantastic job at hiding the fact her boyfriend just died and that she was harboring a zombie.

“He just left without telling me why and now he won’t respond!” Maria groaned, rolling her eyes, “Boys are so stupid.”

“I can’t believe he was even here yesterday,” Liz laughed. Alex couldn’t help but furrow his eyebrows, listening a little closer. 

“Yeah, it was honestly kinda romantic before he left. He came in after the storm and just kissed me then played guitar for me, we kissed some more,” Maria said, giving an overexaggerated pout, “But then he ruined it by ignoring me, so.”

“Give him some time. I’m sure he had a good reason,” Liz said. Maria leaned a little closer.

“You know what was weird though? I noticed when he was playing‒his hand was healed. Like, I know it wasn’t like that two days ago, that’s weird, right?”

Alex felt his heart drop, confusion tying knots in his stomach. He kissed Maria. He went to Maria after he promised he would meet Alex, but then chose to go to him after Max died. What the hell did that mean? Was he too embarrassed to be sad in front of her? And to think he almost bought that she would actually step away.

But they weren’t together. Even if Caulfield happened, even if he tried to get his point across, even if he threw his dirty jeans in with his uniform that morning. They weren’t together.

Alex cleared his throat and tried to focus back on Kyle who was already watching him.

“You wanna go?” Kyle asked before he could even try to act like that hadn’t thrown him for a loop.

“Yes, actually.”

“Got it.”

-

“Oh, shit, you got buff.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

Alex grinned nonetheless, rolling his eyes as Rosa felt his biceps during their hug. He’d forgotten how much he missed her. It felt weird, hugging her and being reminded that she had been his idol back in the day. He’d wanted so badly to be like her when he was young, but now she was still 19 and he had grown out of everything she taught him.

“He already thinks he’s hot shit,” Kyle added once they pulled away.

“As if you don’t think you’re hot shit,” Alex shot back.

“Boys, boys, don’t fight, you’re both pretty,” Rosa insisted. They both let out soft laughs, sitting on the couch of Max Evans’ house like it was normal. But he supposed it would have to become normal.

“Where exactly is Liz?” Kyle asked, “I mean, I know they found Noah’s body this morning, but I thought she’d be here with you.”

“She left this morning to go to work and I think she has plans to meet up with the aliens to discuss what to do with the white savior,” Rosa explained. Alex snorted, folding in his lips to suppress a laugh. 

“So, just a question, who all knows about this alien bullshit? Like who am I allowed to talk to?” Rosa asked, “Because the idea of being stuck here forever with just Liz and Isobel Evans dropping by kinda makes me want to scream.” Alex laughed, rubbing his leg mindlessly as he readjusted on Max’s stiff couch. 

“Um, I think you’re all caught up on who knows. Me, Kyle, Michael, Isobel, Liz. That’s it, I think,” Alex said. He was technically leaving out a couple people, but that was territory he wasn’t in the mood for. Besides, those were the only people that mattered.

“What about Maria?”

“What about Maria?” 

“Why do you know, but not Maria?” Rosa asked, gesturing to Alex. That confused him and he looked to Kyle as if trying to understand why that had anything to do with anything. However, it became a little more clear when he remembered just how much of a package deal they’d been at one point in life.

“So, I don’t really wanna get into all the gritty details, but my dad was involved with alien shit. I found out through that and I’ve been using my military clearance to make sure no one gets caught when they do things like resurrect dead girls,” Alex pointed out, giving a teasing smile. Rosa snorted.

“You went into the military?”

“Air Force,” he said. She scoffed and leaned back into the couch, shaking her head at him.

“No wonder Liz thinks you’ve changed.”

Alex cocked an eyebrow. “She said that?”

“I mean, yeah,” Rosa said, “I asked if you could come over, but she acted like you weren’t the same person that you were when I saw you last and I had to ask Quarterback here to even get in touch with you.” Alex tried to not let that hit so hard. It made enough sense. It must’ve been hard to like him now that he wasn’t so nice, right? He shifted in his seat and Rosa, of course, spotted it immediately. “But fuck that, you know? I know Alex and you still own a room, so you’re still there.”

“He definitely does more than own a room now though,” Kyle jumped in. Rosa made a face like she didn’t have to be convinced to believe that.

“What about your music, though? Or boys? C’mon, give me all the gossip, I’ve missed out on a decade of boy drama. Spill.”

“Okay, I can’t really help on this topic, so I’m gonna raid the kitchen,” Kyle decided, earning laughs from both of them as he exited. But Rosa just leaned forward, eager for whatever he had to say.

“I don’t have much boy drama, sorry to disappoint,” he said, smiling sweetly. She rolled her eyes.

“Bullshit, you’re a fine piece of ass and you always have been,” Rosa insisted. Laughter bubbled out of Alex easier than it had in weeks. “At least what about Michael? He’s still around, so, like, something happened.”

Alex smiled a little sadly as she brought him up. He’d almost forgotten that she was the only one who knew, mainly because she was the only one who could see it from a mile away. He didn’t have to tell her anything, she just knew. She felt like his only safe space for so long and it was strange to remember that maybe, just maybe, he could have that back.

“Well, to shorten a long story, we’ve been kinda on and off since high school. We’re both just… It’s hard to be with someone when their family literally hunted your entire family, you know? I don’t blame him for not wanting me anymore,” he blurted. Rosa tilted her head, looking at him without a single ounce of pity. He loved her for it.

“Alex, fuck that. You’re a good person and if he doesn’t get that, then fuck him,” she said. He smiled and tossed his head back on the couch, groaning slightly.

“No, no, it’s just a lot. We keep just fucking up around each other. I push him away, he pushes me away, we never seem to be on the same page,” Alex tried. 

“Then get on the same damn page,” she insisted. He looked over to her.

“How?”

“Alex, I know this sounds scary, but you speak to him.”

He huffed a laugh, glossing over how terrifying that actually sounded.

Talking with Rosa again felt like a certain type of therapy he didn’t know he needed, even if it was weird to throw Kyle in the mix. She was always able to unscramble things in his brain in a way that he understood. Even if right now, they were simply talking about what she’d missed over the last decade and they were skipping the serious stuff. This felt good.

A few hours passed and they’d agreed to hang out more until they could figure out what they were actually going to do about her. Honestly, it felt like the first conversation Alex had had in a while that wasn’t life or death. It was casual. And you know what?

Alex felt better.

-

The night before, after Alex had gotten back from the bar, Michael had shown up and let himself inside. 

He was wearing his own clothes, the ones he stole from Alex nowhere to be seen, and crawled onto the couch without a word. Alex had watched in silent amazement as he re-locked the door without looking. He hoped one day he wouldn’t be so impressed every time Michael used his telekinesis. It would have to happen one day. Today wasn’t that day, though, and they shared no words as Alex let him sleep there. As confused as he was, he promised him a safe space and he wasn’t going to take that away.

If he slept a little better that night having Michael so close, no one had to know.

Tonight, Michael did the same thing. Alex, however, feeling a little more confident after his talk with Rosa, walked over to the back of the couch. With a mug of tea in his hands, he peered down at the man he loved more than anything in the world. He looked rough and sad, but equally adorable as he had the blanket pulled up to his nose. Eventually, he felt eyes on him.

“Is this your way of telling me to go?” Michael asked, his voice set like he expected this to happen despite the fact he never opened his eyes. Alex shook his head.

“No, I said you’re welcome and I meant it,” Alex told him, “But I do want to make it clear that I meant what I said before that too. I want to feel like myself and I want to stop fighting stupid battles and work on separating myself from my father. That means if we’re going to be around each other, things have to be different. We can’t repeat. We need to be completely open with each other so I can help you and your siblings.”

Michael opened his eyes, looking up at him with skepticism. He was always so skeptical of Alex unless they were fucking. What did that say about them as people?

“What if I don’t want your help?”

“Well, too bad. I’m doing it for more than just you. Which means I’m re-enlisting and I’m finding a space for you, Kyle, and Liz to use as a lab while working on whatever the hell Isobel is trying to do with Max that’ll be under military-grade protection,” Alex said honestly. Michael sat up so quick he almost fell off the couch. “But that being said, I would like your permission to look into your mother for just you.” 

“Alex, I can’t let you‒”

“I want to.”

They stared at each other for a moment, letting the words sink in. 

“Okay. Only if you want to,” Michael said, clearly still processing everything despite his words. Alex licked his lips and took a sip of his tea. 

“And I know that you kissed Maria the other day,” Alex said boldly. Michael’s eyes flickered back up to him, frozen like he expected that to be the moment he was kicked out. “We’re not together, so I can’t be mad. But I’m letting you know I know.”

Michael just stared at him, not knowing what to say. That felt good. No wonder Michael left him speechless all the damn time. The power that held made him feel like he had control for once in his damn life.

“You’re still welcome here,” Alex told him before saying his goodnight and letting him curl back up on the couch.

Because, as honest as Alex was feeling, he couldn’t tell him how much he needed him only a few feet away.

[heroofpenamstan]

WIP DAY #8

Tagged by the amazing @nightwingshero! 💖 ( was tempted to slap down your ask from last night but resisted. :""")) )

Going to tag: @abosaa, @risenlucifer, @faithchel, @ariestals, @lobanhart, @shallow-gravy, @spicevalleys, @mackie-hattwie, @strafethesesinners, @teamhawkeye, @trialandseed! Sharing is never obligatory, of course! But if anyone wants to share and pin the blame on someone—I'll be you gal. x

8. such a lovely place; such a lovely face—snippet of my Mary May/Michael oneshot for the smut prompts because I just have to set a mood. Also, sorry for the lack of line break; I'm on my phone at work so can't add a line break properly. :"")

"Thought the cleaners were supposed to do that for ya."

His voice tore through the empty bar like a grazing bullet, yet Mary May refuses to succumb to the sudden ring of it. The only indication of her perplexion resides in the thinning of her lips, the tightness of her hold on the worn-out mop; her knuckles white, teeth scrapping, tugging—Mary May attempts to catch her bearings.

"Yeah—well," she clears her throat, dragging at the bucket laying by her feet. "The last time I saw Frank, he was sittin' in a tinted reaping truck heading up to the Mountains, so—"

Mary May gives a final swipe across the beer-soaked wood before giving up and discarding her cleaning products altogether by the running jukebox.

She turns to him, then; drinks in the sight of the shearling jacket draped over an upturned barstool, the trail of mud flaking from his heavy boots and onto her ( just cleaned, fuck— ) floor. Mary May heaves a heavy sigh as her viridian gaze lands on the wide, sharp grin belonging to one Michael Scott Hughes.

"Just why are you her—what happened?" The sight of the darkened bruise upon his cheekbone is enough to cut her words off, to kick her brain into overdrive as she traverses the space between them in eight quick strides, gripping his chin to angle his jaw to face her better. Michael observes her beneath soot-colored lashes, mirth nearly spilling from his curled mouth at the lines of concern distorting Mary May's features. Her finger pad idly brushes across the discoloration of his skin, and Michael seldom flinches at the throbbing pain.

"Nothin' major, dollface," he positively purrs as he leans his bruised face into the warmth of her palm, pressing his cheek fully against her soft skin. As if seared by fire, Mary May retracts her touch, brows coming together in scowling warning. 

He's currently walking on eggshells, he knows, but when hasn't he when it concerned his childhood sweetheart? A year ago? Ten? He can't even recall a time she hasn't flinched from his playful touch or his comforting hand, no matter how light or welcomed, and that admission sets a bitter taste in his mouth he's grown uncomfortablely used to.

Still, Michael cracks her a slight smirk, seemingly amused by her apprehension as he comes behind the bar—much to Mary May's dismay.

"Was just setting an example for dear ol' John boy on how to be a good Samaritan for once. Not my fault he can't take a fuckin' joke." Mike's muffled voice rings out softly, words climbing over the soft lilt of Hotel California playing on the beat-down jukebox as he crouches down.

"Uh huh," Mary May watches him sharply as he rummages through the crate of pre-made molotovs stashed underneath her sink, wondering what the hell he is up to this time.

God, she just wants to sleep away the ever-present exhaustion that strung her back and invaded her mind with each radio taunt and threat and gunshot resounding in the distance. And Michael is, truly, the last thing she needs right now; he makes her tense for different reasons than the cult or John Seed do, begrudgingly enough. 

"And I suppose you comin' in here uninvited and going through my things is you being a 'good Samaritan'?" Her fingers curl into sarcastic quotation marks as Michael goes to hook his foot through the handle of the heavy-looking bag he has brought to drag it closer inside the bar with him.

"It's a bar, Mary dearest; I'm always invited."

"It's past midnight, Mickey."

Mary May can just make out the amused glint in his green eyes underneath the dim lights of the Spread Eagle as he stands back up to his full height, and the intensity of his sobering face makes her want to wrap her arms around herself for one reason or another.

"Precisely why I'm here," Michael mumbles as he slams the large bag on top of the wood before him. She looks on wordlessly as he unzips it, trying her best to appear disinterested at what Michael has cooked up for her today. 

"Annie and I," there's a slight pause at that, lasting only a hair's breath as the Deputy's endearing nickname tumbles from his mouth, and Mary May feels her forearms break into goosebumps; cold and tingly.

(  Must be the AC, she thinks begrudgingly, noting to check in on it in the morning. )

"—caught whiff of Johnny's plans for Fall's End in the upcoming weeks as a last measure, and it ain't no jokin' matter anymore, Mary."

Mary May opens her mouth to question him, to debunk  and rationalise with him—nothing John Seed throws at them can scare her at this point; not after the machine guns and planes and flamethrowers—but at the sight of the contents Michael produces from within his bag, her words die in her throat, unsaid and hollowed.

"Is that—"

"—yep," Michael tosses a gas mask at her, and Mary May can barely catch it in time, dazed as she is. "I'm not gonna lie; it's gonna be a real bitch gettin' rid of the smell afterwards, doll."

Mary May traces the edges of it in silent thought, grip tight, fingers pressing until they turn white from beneath her nails. Dread seeps into her pores and into her ringing ears, and the only thing that snaps her out of her anxious daze is the sound of a bottle being opened.

"Hey, put that back!" She barks unsteadily, seeing Michael bring out two tumblers from beneath the wooden bar, looking more at home than she would care to admit. There's long strands brushing across his cheeks, but Mary can still make out the tightness in his jaw, the too sharp too sudden spill of the malt Whiskey she had reserved only for him, for when he stumbles in, bruised and in need of nursing.

Just like now, apparently.

"Sit down." He points at the barstool brushing against her jeans, and Mary May realizes that he had placed it for her and not himself to recline upon. She chews on her bottom lip, teeth scraping at the flesh there, and Michael tuts at her. "I don't want no excuses from ya', sweetheart; lemme do this for you—it's the least I can do."

There's something in the way he says it, serious and unyielding, leaving no room for arguing that has her complacent. 

Mary May sits on the squeaking chair only with two complaints on her tongue, letting her shoulders drop as she leans her forearms on the bar. There's a hand at the base of her neck, then, and the only thing she can do is blink up at him as Michael releases her blonde locks from the bun she wears, his palm ruffling her crown, fingers sliding over to bop at her curved nose.

Michael counters her puffy cheeks with a tumbler full of whiskey, presenting the glass with more antics than necessary as Mary May sighs at his pompous gestures. Even when serious, Michael just has to display his grandiose signs of false chivalry and affection. 

In spite of it, she is unable to deny the flutter in her stomach his handling of her this way causes, nor the heat burning beneath her cheeks in the dim, dim light.

[hailing-stars]

new york’s santa 

for @ardenskyedarcy221b​ @frostysunflowers​ @seek-rest​ @blondsak​ I <3 you all, and are all some of the kindness people I know! hope your holiday season is wonderful and bright 

summary 

“Are you Santa?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You really think I have the time to be a glorified cosplayer?”

“I didn’t even think you knew what a cosplayer was…” said Peter, trailing off. He shook his head, refusing to let his mind wander from the topic. “Where do you keep the reindeer? Can I meet them?”  

OR

New York City has it's own Santa, and Peter discovers it's Tony Stark, because of course it is.

trope: holidays

read on ao3 or after the undercut 

New York City didn’t always have a Santa.

Peter remembered a time when he was too little to reach over the counters and steal cookies. That hadn’t stopped him, though, because even back before he was sticky, he had still liked to climb.

He worked hard, dragging the step stool in the bathroom, the one he stood on to brush his teeth and wash his hands, all the way into the kitchen, grinning the entire way. He pushed it in front of the counter, stepped up, and reached his hand out. The tips of his fingers brushed against the plate, before he was caught around the belly by his Uncle Ben’s arm, carried out of the kitchen and into the living room where he was tossed down on the couch.

He giggled as he landed on the cushions, near where his Aunt May sat reading a book.

“Be careful with him, Ben,” said May, as she turned a page of her book. Peter looked at her, upside-down, from his position on the couch.

“He’s tougher than you think,” said Ben. He plopped down on the couch between May and Peter.

“Yeah,” said Peter, jumping back up into a sitting position, his wild brown hair falling into his eyes as he did. He extended his arm out, like he’d seen his hero do many times on TV. “I’m tough, like Iron Man.”

“I think you’re much tougher than Iron Man,” said May. She shut her book and set it on the coffee table in front of them. “And much more sensible.”

“True,” said Ben, with a laugh, then his face grew more serious. “Which is why, me and your aunt both, think it’s time we told you the truth about Santa, Pete…”

That was the day Ben and May explained to him that Santa Claus was make-believe. He wasn’t real. There wasn’t a magical place called the North Pole, there weren’t any reindeer out flying around in the sky. They explained it was his job to keep the story alive for his friends and the other kids in class, who probably still believed.

Back then he hadn’t thought it was fair that he had to be the first to realize magic wasn’t real, but now, Peter understood. Ben and May, infinite in their love and their wisdom, hadn’t wanted Peter to think he’d done something wrong when he woke up and saw just a few presents under the trees, when his friends would come to school and talk about getting a whole store.

Families like the Parkers weren’t rich enough to believe in fairy tales.

He’d drifted off to sleep that Christmas Eve, after two kisses on his forehead, a little sad, but loved, and still excited for Christmas morning.

He’d been the first to wake, like always, and when he’d wondered out into the living room where the Christmas tree stood strong, his eyes went wide in shock. There were presents under the tree. A mountain of presents, piled high, covered in bright, shiny wrapping paper and topped with bows.

And there was a bike. The exact one he wrote to Santa about. It was red and gold and had never once had training wheels on it. It had a bow, too.

Peter’s mouth hung open, but it was approximately thirty seconds until he could get any words to come out.

“AUNT MAY! UNCLE BEN! YOU WERE WRONG ABOUT SANTA!”

They were rising up from under the covers just as Peter rounded the corner, bolted into their bedroom and leapt up between them on their bed. He scrambled to stand upright, then jumped up and down, completely forgetting the conversation May had with him just last week about jumping on the furniture.

“Come on! Come on! You have to come see,” said Peter. “Santa bought us lots of presents.”

May and Ben exchanged looks of concern.

“Peter, honey,” said May, taking his hand, while he kept jumping up and down. “We talked about this. Santa – ��

“-Just come on.”

Peter tugged his hand free, jumped off the bed, and ran out of the bedroom, giving his aunt and uncle no choice but to follow him into the living room.

“See? He is real.” Peter motioned at all the presents under the tree.

“Ben,” said May. “Who…? Someone broke into our apartment…”

Ben wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were fixed on a shiny envelope that had been placed on the tree. Gently, he pulled the envelope off and opened it, taking out a stack of twenties and a small notecard.

“… it’s signed Santa,” said Ben. He handed over the envelope with the money and notecard to May.

“This is enough for three months’ rent,” said May, shuffling through the stack of cash.

“Whoever it was, I hope they break in again.”

May smiled through her tears and elbowed her husband.

“Can I open these now or what?” asked Peter. He dove in only after giving his uncle’s okay in the form of a nod.

Peter got a lot of stuff that Christmas. Clothes, which his aunt and uncle were happy about, and toys, which he was happy about. His favorites included a chemistry set, a stack of Star Wars movies on DVD, his new bike and Legos. He loved the present he got from his aunt and uncle the most, an Iron Man action figure that shot blue bullets out of his hand.

He sat on the floor and played with it while Ben and May watched the news. As it turned out, all of New York City had received visits from Santa. A few people, who were out and about in the dead of night, got pictures of a sleigh with reindeer flying around in the sky.

“I wonder who it is…” said Ben, munching on Christmas cookies. “I wonder who’s doing all this.”

At the time, it’d seemed obvious to Peter. Santa, of course. But as the years passed by, Peter got too old to believe in magic, and he joined Ben in his speculation about the man underneath the Santa Hat. Christmas after Christmas, they wondered, they guessed, until Ben wasn’t around to do any wondering or guessing, and Peter and May were left to somehow survive Christmas without him, to wonder and guess without him and with the rest of the city, instead.  

All of New York City wanted to know Santa’s name, and the students at Midtown High were no exception.

“I’m going to set a trap,” said Flash, with clear venom and disgust in his voice, heard clearly even from a few tables over in the school cafeteria. “I’m going video him and expose him on my Instagram, then maybe the police or Spider-Man can put him in prison where he belongs.”  

Peter looked away from the table where Flash sat with a frown. It seemed odd, and a bit extreme, even for Flash, to have a personal vendetta against someone who just wanted to shower money and presents on the city.

“What’s Flash got against Santa?” he asked.

Michelle snorted from behind her book. “Last year he got a lump of coal and a book called Kindness for Dummies.”

Peter and Ned laughed, but quickly moved on to talking about their excitement about the new Star Wars movie. He didn’t be bothered with obsessing about who Santa was or wasn’t. It lost its charm once Ben died, and besides that, there was something in Peter that felt like he knew him already.

*

Peter stepped out of the elevator and into the common room of Avenger’s Tower, shaking snowflakes out of his hair and holding two cups of hot chocolate, one of which that was snatched out of his hand by an unregretful Sam Wilson.

“Thanks, Pete,” he told him. “I don’t care what Bucky says about you, you’re the best.”

“That’s not for you,” said Peter, carefully prying Sam’s claws off the cup and reclaiming it. “It’s for Mr. Stark.”

Peter took a glance around the common room. It was filled with Avengers, buzzing with Christmas music and chatter, but Mr. Stark was nowhere to be found.

“Where is he?”

“Might as well let me have it,” said Sam. “You won’t be seeing much of Tony this time of year.”

“He’s right, Peter. Tony hates Christmas,” said Steve, from where he stood with Bucky, the both of them with cue sticks in hand.

“What?” He tried not to choke on the laugh stuck in his throat.

The idea was so childish, like something a villain in a storybook might say. Peter knew not everyone loved and celebrated Christmas, that the holidays were tough for many people, but hate it? Hate Christmas? Mr. Stark? The same Mr. Stark who insisted on blasting classic rock covers of old Christmas songs in the workshop since Black Friday?

Peter didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. It was illogical.

“It’s the same every year,” said Nat, who was lounging on the couch, her phone in hand. “Isolates himself. Won’t even help us with missions.”

Peter stood on his tippy toes, trying to look her in the eyes over the back of the couch. Something didn’t seem quite right, something didn’t add up, either that, or it… it lined up perfectly, actually. It clicked, right then, inside Peter’s brain, something that seemed so obvious it had to be true.

“You guys don’t think?”

“Don’t think what?”

“Tony’s Santa,” said Peter. Every Avenger in the common room stopped what they were doing and looked at him like he was stupid or delusional. “Come on, guys, billionaire, tech genius, pretends to be all grinchy so he can be alone and work on… well, Santa stuff.”

“Tony isn’t Santa, Peter,” Nat told him.

“You said it yourself,” said Sam, pointing his finger at him, then starting to walk away. “He’s more like the Grinch.”

“On a good day,” Bucky finished.

Peter gave them each a look, wondering if they were being intentionally dim, or if they knew the truth and were attempting to hide it from him. He shifted his head, pointing it towards the ceiling.

“Friday, tell Mr. Stark I’m here, please.”

Just a few seconds ticked by before Friday’s voice came back over the intercom, telling him to take the elevator up to the Stark Suite. He left the other Avengers happily, and without a word, leaving them to stew in their ignorance and lies.

*

The cries of Morgan Stark, mid-tantrum, assaulted Peter’s ears before the elevator stopped or opened its doors. He couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face, one he had to hid once the doors did open and he caught sight of Pepper carrying her back to her room, as she kicked, screamed, her tiny fists pumping into the air.

“What’s going on?” asked Peter, stepping into the kitchen and looking around. Mashed potatoes, peas and cut up chicken bits were all over the floor. Some of the mashed potatoes had made it into Mr. Stark’s hair.

“She wanted to have a food fight,” said Mr. Stark. “Pepper spoiled our fun.”

Peter laughed and pressed one of the hot chocolates into Mr. Stark’s chest, until he accepted it and took a hesitant sip. He watched him drink, with a question on his lips, burning to be asked out loud.

“This is actually good,” said Tony, examining the cup. He took another drink, and Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you Santa?”

Tony spit out the hot chocolate, only contributing to his messy kitchen. “Am I what?”

“You know, the guy who dresses up in a red suit and has the reindeer and flies around, handing out bikes?”

“Kid – that’s the most ridiculous – “

“That isn’t a no,” said Peter, a grin splitting his face. He knew it was the truth, it made too much sense not to be true.

Tony rolled his eyes. “You really think I have the time to be a glorified cosplayer?”

“I didn’t even think you knew what a cosplayer was…” said Peter, trailing off. He shook his head, refusing to let his mind wander from the topic. “Where do you keep the reindeer? Can I meet them?”  

Tony sat the cup of hot chocolate down on the table, then gave him a hard look. Eventually the façade of stone crumbled, though, and he was letting out a sigh and wadding up his face and slinking off towards the elevator.

He slammed his thumb against the call button and turned his head back to look at Peter. “You coming or what?”

Peter yelped out in excitement, almost dropped his hot chocolate on the already messy kitchen floor. Instead, he put it down on the kitchen table with so much excitement, so much force, it toppled over and began slowly leaking out. Peter ignored it. The reindeer were waiting.

*

The elevator took them both to the depths of Avenger’s Tower, so far down, Peter expected they could into the Earth’s core any second. When, finally, the elevator came to a slow stop, and the doors slid open, Friday announced they were at the North Pole.

“Whoa,” said Peter, stepping off the elevator, and onto a shiny, sliver floor.

Looking around, Peter took it all in. He was standing in a warehouse, although it felt a little weird to call it that, as it was well decorated and filled with bright colors. Snowflakes fall from up above. They disappeared before they came anywhere close to hitting the floor, reminding Peter of the Great Hall in Harry Potter, and a giant Christmas tree stood tall, with a blue star shining bright on top of it.

Shelves filled with expertly wrapped presents stretched on and on, further than Peter could see with his eyes, and bots wearing elf hats scurried around on wheels, carrying stacks of gifts to their correct locations. There were other bots, also wearing elf hats, with four arms that moved quickly, wrapping boxes of toys with the precision only Tony Stark’s tech could pull off.

“This is amazing,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Stark. “I know.”

Peter continued scanning the room for the one thing he wanted to see the most. “Where’s the reindeer?”

Mr. Stark led him off to a side room where nine reindeer, nine reindeer bots, were playing. The entire room was designed to look as if it were a stable, and off to the side, sat a shiny, red sleigh, ready and waiting for Christmas Eve night. Mr. Stark gave a whistle, and the deer stopped what they were doing, looked, then stampeded towards them with the excitement of a puppy greeting you after a long day away from home.  

Within seconds, Peter was surrounded by all nine reindeer, all nudging at him with their noses, wanting some pets, all ignoring Mr. Stark in favor of Peter, the new person.

“You all are traitors,” he told them.

Rudolph stomped his foot and barked angrily at him, before giving Peter’s hand another nuzzle.

“See why I didn’t introduce you sooner?” said Mr. Stark, who stood alone, without any reindeer attention. “You’re always stealing my thunder. Why do my bots always like you more than me?”

“I dunno, I’m not that one who made them that way,” said Peter, with a shrug, before he continued petting the mechanical reindeer. “I still don’t understand, Mr. Stark. It doesn’t make any sense. How do you fit all those presents on the sleigh? Do you make multiple trips? How do you even have time to deliver to the whole city in one night? OH, do you – did you invent time travel?”

Peter stopped, took a deep breath, realizing he was doing his rambling thing. He was spitting off too many questions, and too fast, and most of the time people found that annoying, but the smirk on Mr. Stark’s face told him his mentor wasn’t most people.

“Presents don’t ever even go on the sleigh, kid,” said Mr. Stark, addressing his first question, and his first question only.

“Then how…?”

“The Wizards do their, yellow portally thing.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “So this is like an Avenger’s thing?”

“Yep, they’re my elves.”

Peter laughed at their expense. They deserved it, those liars.

“You go flying around on the sleigh just for fun?” asked Peter. He wouldn’t blame Tony if that were the case. The reindeer alone made it worth it.

“Gotta make it look convincing, don’t I?”

Mr. Stark explained the rest to him, while he further made friends with the reindeer. That the rest was computerized, ran with algorithm that collected, stored, and organized information scanned from the letters children (and in NYC, sometimes teens and adults) wrote to Santa. It automatically put in an online order from small retailers around the country, to both help local businesses and to keep people from tracing a bulk order from a giant retailer back to the Tower.

“Some families need a personal touch,” said Mr. Stark, talking about how sometimes he manually input information in the system. Flash’s book about kindness and his lump of coal came to Peter’s mind.

“You have to let me help out,” said Peter. “Please.”

“Will I survive the whining if I say no?”

“I doubt it,” said Peter. “Plus, the reindeer will never forgive you.”

Rudolph, Blitzen, and Prancer barked their agreements, Comet licked Peter’s face and Mr. Stark rolled his eyes.

“Fine you can help,” said Mr. Stark. He wagged his finger at Peter, before quickly withdrawing when Vixen tried to bite it off. “I expect you’re going to take this secret more seriously than you do your secret identity, got it? It’s a mystery to me how the city doesn’t know you’re Spider-Man yet.”

It was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes. He didn’t understand why Mr. Stark had so little faith in him. “Of course, Mr. Stark, I won’t tell anyone.”

*

Peter told May.

He didn’t mean to tell her. The words just sort of slipped out of his mouth, without any permission from his brain, but to be completely honest, he wasn’t sure it was his fault, exactly. What else was he meant to do on Christmas Eve evening? When he and May sat down with their hot chocolate and continued the tradition Ben started, taking guesses at who the man under the hat was?

“It’s Mr. Stark,” he blurted out.

May laughed. “What?”

“Mr. Stark is Santa,” said Peter.

“Oh he is?” asked May. She laughed harder when she saw Peter’s face was serious. “Sorry, kiddo, I’m not falling for it.”

“But he –“ Peter started, then shook his head in frustration and pulled on May’s hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Twenty minutes later the two of them were stepping off the elevator and into the North Pole, and about two seconds after that Peter was shouted at by Mr. Stark.

“Parker, what the hell?” asked Mr. Stark, his voice annoyed, but hard to take seriously. Mr. Stark was wearing the beginnings of his Santa suit, bright red, silky pants and a white t-shirt under a red, silky jacket.

“Holy shit, it’s true,” said May.

Mr. Stark zeroed in Peter, trying his best to look intimidating as he could with a Santa hat hanging off his head. “I told you to keep it a secret.”

“Honestly Tony, if you wanted to keep it quiet you shouldn’t have told Peter,” said May. “We all know Peter is terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad.”

“I hate to tell you this, Pete,” said Pepper, as she joined the group, with Morgan hanging off her hip. Morgan stretched her arms out towards Peter, wanting her big brother as soon as she knew he was in the room. “But you’re awful at keeping secrets, and relax, Tony, May isn’t going to tell anyone.”

Mr. Stark and Pepper have no way of knowing the wave of grief that went through Peter, and probably, he guessed, his aunt, too. The only other person they wanted to tell wasn’t around anymore to hear it.

“Hey, Mo,” said Peter, taking her from Pepper. “Wanna show Aunt May the reindeer?”

“Yeah!” Morgan shouted. She had one volume. Loud. She pointed to the stable room. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

The three of them left Pepper and Mr. Stark, the latter of which was still mumbling under his breath grumpily. Peter supposed the other Avengers were right, in a way. The closer it got to Christmas, the more stressed Mr. Stark became, because he wanted everything to be perfect. He wanted the city to be filled with magic and wonder, even if it was only for a day.

Peter looked back at him before disappearing into the stables. He was rambling with Pepper about something else, a serious scowl on his face. That was Mr. Stark, a grumpy Santa, with a heart two sizes too big.

*

They were playing fetch with reindeer, taking turns throwing a bright red ball, while the reindeer took turns retrieving, when Mr. Stark strode into the stable room, looking a lot more like Santa Claus than he did Tony Stark. His suit was complete, his hat was on straight, he had a white beard and half-moon glasses and a dad belly.

He gave a special whistle, and the reindeer galloped into formation immediately, the red ball bounced on the floor where Dasher had dropped it. They stood, with Rudolph in the front, and waited for Mr. Stark to fastened them into their harnesses.

Mr. Stark threw a green jacket at Peter, who caught it with both ease and confusion.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your jacket,” said Mr. Stark. “I thought you wanted to come along.”

Peter never remembered asking Mr. Stark to ride along in the sleigh specially, but he wasn’t about to open his mouth and bring that up at the moment. He put on the jacket quickly, noticing that despite its lightweight, it was warm. Too warm. Hot and stuffy, and making Peter wish he was already up in the sky and out in the cold.

Next Santa Stark threw a green hat with elf ears attached to the sides at him. Peter made no effort to catch, and it fell to the ground by his feet.

“I can’t wear that.”

“Uh, you have to wear that,” said Mr. Stark. “Unless you want pictures of yourself all over the news tomorrow, and headlines asking why Peter Parker from Queens is helping Santa Claus.”

Peter grumbled under his breath, snatched the ugly hat off the floor, then grumpily put it on, disgusted to find it was also a mask.

“Awww,” said May. “You’re so adorable as an elf.”

Before he could stop her, she snapped a picture of him with her phone, and Mr. Stark starting mumbling again. That time about how bad secret keeping must be a Parker trait as well as taking photos in a Top-Secret Avengers Facility. He snapped his jaw shut when May gave him that look, that look she often gave Peter to stop him from doing something stupid.

“Be careful,” said May, giving him a hug.

“Of course, May, I’m always careful.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but let Peter out of her hug, anyway, allowing him to help Mr. Stark put the harnesses around the reindeer. After that, they both climbed into the sleigh, and Mr. Stark took the reins.

“You really do look like Santa, Mr. Stark,” Peter told him, looking at him through the slits in the elf mask, tilting his head, examining every inch of the fluffy white beard. “You’re even starting to get some wrinkles.”

“Say that again,” said Mr. Stark. “And I’m tossing you off this sleigh when we fly over the Hudson.”

Peter chuckled under his elf mask, and Mr. Stark lifted the reins and brought them down, fast. The reindeer barked, and slowly, parts of the wall in front of the sleigh folded in on itself, revealing a tunnel with tracks and lights that slanted upwards.

“Friday, play the soundtrack,” said Mr. Stark.

Back in Black pumped through the built-in speaker, Mr. Stark lifted the reins once more, and then they were off, rushing forwards at a speed that made Peter’s back hit the metal behind him, made him grip the edges of the seat and wish he’d thought to bring his web-shooters.

*

*

*

Peter woke up, for the second time that Christmas morning, without being sure he’d ever fallen asleep.

His dreams were hadn’t felt like dreams, more like memories, his brain trying to relive over and over again slicing through the New York skyline in what could only be considered a deathtrap. If Mr. Stark hadn’t been controlling it, Peter might have been scared for his life, then again, if Mr. Stark hadn’t been controlling it, they probably wouldn’t have been blasting through the sky at terrifying speeds.

Mr. Stark knew how to put on a show.

He weaved through builds, dipped down low enough to wave to people on rooftops, people with cameras, and people who braved the cold just to catch a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh.

They disappeared from the city sometimes.

“I have to make it at least look like I’m going into homes,” Mr. Stark had told him, before directing the reindeer to fly over the ocean, where the stars in the sky were reflected down in the waves.

It’d been a great night, a memorable night, and not one Peter would ever forget. His dreams wouldn’t let him.

Peter sighed, and shifted around under his covers, turning over and taking a peak at the small mountain of presents next to his bed. The first time he woke up that morning was to open them, before promptly returning to his bedroom in Mr. Stark’s penthouse and drifting back off into a half-sleep, a world where he was still in the sky, on the sleigh, with Mr. Stark’s laughter in his ear.

He sat up, forced his feet on the floor, grabbed the throw blanket at the end of the bed, and put it around his shoulders like a cape, before leaving his room to see what the others were doing.

The penthouse was quiet. Not even Morgan wailed or shouted, and when Peter stepped into the living room, he found out why. She was fast asleep on the couch, still holding the favorite toy she’d unwrapped earlier that morning, a stuffed Spider-Man doll. Mr. Stark sat in a rocking chair by the fireplace, reading a book, and wearing a red plaid sweater.

Sure, he wasn’t dressed up as Santa anymore, but after seeing him in the suit and the beard, Peter didn’t know if he’d ever be able to separate the two again.

“Morning, Mr. Stark,” said Peter. He sat down on the couch gently, careful not to wake Morgan.

“Afternoon, actually,” Mr. Stark informed him. He closed his book and looked at Peter. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” said Peter, then laughed. “I just – I still can’t believe you’re really Santa.”

“Believe it, kid.”

“But why?” asked Peter. “You’re already so busy, you have Morgan, and you’ve saved this city thousands of times as Iron Man. It’s just – you sacrifice so much time into this.”

“Everyone should get to believe in something, Pete,” said Mr. Stark. “Even if it’s only for a day.”

Peter nodded, slowly, beginning to understand that the best part of Christmas wasn’t Santa bringing him a bike, but it was sitting at the table with May and Ben, having wild conversations and conspiracy theories about who was behind it all. Ben had come close once. He’d claimed it had to be an organization. Just never suspected it was the Avengers.

“You know,” said Peter. “The first year we had Santa, you got me this red and gold bike. It was my first without training wheels, and I fell off so many times, I had so many bruises, but Ben never gave up teaching me how to ride it.”

“Ben was a good man,” said Mr. Stark, and Peter was about to ask how he knew, some wild hope raising up inside him that maybe they had meet one day, but he didn’t need to speak his question out loud. Mr. Stark just knew. “I know because he raised a good man.”

Peter sniffed. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“I remember that bike. I remember seeing it before it got portaled away.”  

Peter laughed, hard and intentional, to chase the tears away. “No you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “I wish I did.”

“I bet May has some pictures.”

“I’m gonna have to see those, kid,” said Mr. Stark. He straightened out in the rocking chair and cleared his throat. Peter imagined he was trying to clear all the feelings away. “Hungry? I think May and Happy are making breakfast for lunch down in the common room.”

“Starving,” said Peter. “That sounds great.”

Mr. Stark collected Morgan off the couch, and they journeyed downstairs where the smell of pancakes and eggs and maple syrup hit Peter immediately. Most of the Avengers were milling around, Happy and May were laughing together in the kitchen, and Pepper was there to greet them off the elevator, taking Morgan from Mr. Stark so he could go get some food.

It was a grand breakfast for lunch, and Peter, at least he hoped, the start of a new tradition.

[fyexo]

200315 K-Pop Supergroup SuperM On Friendship, Fans And Fun Times

As the South Korean pop group embark on their first-ever world tour, we go backstage with band members Baekhyun, Taemin, Kai, Taeyong, Ten, Lucas and Mark to talk about their latest album.

There’s a cacophony coming from behind a door, backstage at their first world tour. SuperM are recording greetings for fans and media. “Hi, we are…” begins Baekhyun, the group’s unofficial-official leader. The six other members cheerfully join in… “SuperM!” The cadence isn’t quite right and Baekhyun’s cackle, as distinctive as his singing voice, rises above the boyish shouts of genial failure. They repeat the line so many times it seems plausible that if you ever woke one of them abruptly, they’d sit up and shout the phrase automatically.

SuperM are a bona fide K-pop supergroup, and like all supergroups, they’re not running to schedule. “We have to halve your time,” whispers a PR apologetically. SuperM’s greetings and gleaming smiles are casual and friendly, but little can distract from the extraordinary human wall of talent they present. Twenty-six-year-old Taemin, SHINee’s vocalist and legendary performer, sits between EXO’s Baekhyun, 27, and main dancer Kai, 26. Perched on a sofa behind them are members of SM Entertainment’s newer groups: WayV’s Ten, 24, and Lucas, 21, and NCT’s rappers Mark, 20, and Taeyong, 24.

From South Korea to the world

Last October, SuperM’s eponymous first EP entered the US album chart at number one, the cherry on top of a media blitz that included shutting down LA’s Vine Street to perform outside Capitol Records. They’re only the second South Korean group to have reached the top spot (BTS being the first), but that was always part of the goal — their record label, SM Entertainment, put the US in the crosshairs and SuperM was going to be its golden bullet. But although NCT 127 (an NCT sub-unit) have been promoting themselves in the US, it’s a first time for Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai.

“It felt like re-debuting,” Taemin says. “The fact that we’re targeting different audiences felt like a new challenge we were all taking on.” With bleached blond hair and a delicate build that belies a robust physical strength, it’s not just Taemin’s seniority as an artist in SuperM’s ranks that makes everyone listen intently — his manner is assertive without being overbearing, and his earnestness has you believe you’re not just one more addition to a blurry, months-long line of interviewers. “We’ve grown together, we’ve gained confidence and it gets easier as we see the fans’ reactions. It’s fun; it’s working.”

It’s no secret that, in part, SuperM had their work cut out for them. Their union had Twitter fan groups up in arms, with calls for SM Entertainment to allow the members to concentrate on their respective groups or solo careers. When a hazy, distorted sliver of their debut single leaked, naysayers predicted a flop.

The single, Jopping, Taemin points out, showcases the label’s SM Performance dance project and in its fully remixed, remastered glory, it was a swaggering, audacious and riff-heavy bop that took itself as seriously as it didn’t. It was there to be danced to and though much of it was in English, its titanium-strong hooks refused to pander to western trends. SuperM’s style recalls the years before intricate concepts (such as EXO’s alien superpower origins story) came to cradle much of current K-pop. The album might revel in its layers of production, but it’s refreshingly escapist, and shifted 164,000 physical copies in its first week.

Breaking the stage, one continent at a time

With all this in mind, it’s unsurprising that one of Baekhyun’s goals is “for people to say only good things about SuperM”. Their fans, who’ve filled arenas in the US, Mexico and Europe, are noisily adoring and with good reason — SuperM’s stage show is compelling. Theirs is a punishing schedule — mid-interview, Taeyong is unable to smother an enormous yawn — but on stage, their energy lights up the cavernous space.

Choreographed numbers, such as I Can’t Stand The Rain, are mighty and aggressive. With You (a loose, routine-less chance to interact with the audience) and No Manners, where they slither around a simple elevated set, seem easy to emulate, but are completely reliant on mesmerising presence and cohesion. “There are so many different stages and performances at a SuperM concert,” says Taeyong, more matter-of-fact than boastful. “You’ll never get to see this chemistry or these members performing together [anywhere else].” Taemin adds: “The fans have shown so much support, and it pushes me to want to perform to even bigger audiences on an even larger scale.”

K-pop is relentlessly accused of being manufactured, with its performers supposedly just going through the motions, but SuperM subvert this idea with a warm spontaneity and rakishness on and off stage. They’re each other’s most fervent cheerleaders and bearers of the most merciless roasts — the atmosphere is more akin to a lads’ holiday than a multimillion-dollar music project. “Thank you for noticing that,” laughs Baekhyun, who puts it down to a “natural chemistry. If you saw us [just hanging out] you would get even more of that feeling!”

Sailing pop’s high seas

Mark, who was born in Canada — funny, and wise beyond his years — likens SuperM to a ship. “When I practised with these guys, the energy I absorbed was actually very interesting,” he says. “The knowledge and experience is incomparable to anything we [younger members] have. It’s not a competition or anything — it’s something we learn from.

“Taemin would be the ship’s wheel,” he continues, happily developing his theme. “He knows the direction we want to go in. The EXO-hyungs [older males] have a lot of talent — they’d be the sail and that’s where we get the boost. NCT and WayV, we’re like the hull, holding the talent [together]. That’s a pretty cool ship,” Mark grins. SuperM’s concert visuals might well be having a subliminal effect on Mark: during Jopping, a pirate ship bobs across the huge screen behind them.

Thailand-born Ten, known for his quick wit, adds: “Taemin sees stuff very differently to us. [He thinks about] what kind of make-up or uniform [costume] we need to wear, and we’ve never thought about that before.”

The hyungs get a sense of vitality from their younger bandmates, although Taemin and Baekhyun scrunch their faces at the prospect of being old enough to need a top-up. “They’re the foundation for whenever we feel tired,” Baekhyun laughs.

Secret names

Off the back of touring, SuperM have developed a number of in-jokes and nicknames that, when asked about them, sets them off. “Lucas-tonkotsu?” mumbles Taemin with a sidelong smile, making Lucas — all long legs and big grin — double over. Mark slowly chants “B-A-E-K-hyung” which Baekhyun, the corners of his mouth curving upwards, tries to ignore. “There are secret names we like to call each other, but we want them to remain within the group,” he says. Mark nods, “Yeah, they’re just for us.”

Baekhyun raises his eyebrows and looks at his bandmates. “I love you!” he sing-songs with a smirk. Groans and laughter are the only replies.

SuperM — The 1st Mini Album is out now

source: Taylor Glasby @ Vogue

[helpinghanikan]

A little Help

Avengers (And Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Not everything can be done by one person; from saving a life to fixing a problem, we all need a hand sometimes. 

AN: Gonna be honest, the Thor one sucks but I didn’t want to leave him out. I’m sorry. 

Steve Rogers:

           Somebody was finally smart enough to shoot Captain America in the legs. Bullet cutting through skin but not strong enough to break through his bones. Instead two shots lodging themselves in the thick of his calf and behind his knee. Enough to take him out for the moment, but in a few days he’d be walking again.

           This wasn’t in a few days, though. This was the same moment, when your man screamed and there was no but you and an empty parking garage to hear.

           It’s actually pretty funny to think about how you institutionally moved. Taking up the dropped shield that was used as nothing more then a prop that day, holding it in front of you and telling your man to get back.

           It was just supposed to be a few poses to finish up those education videos Steve promised to do. By the time both of you got away it was late at night and both your stomachs were rumbling.

           “I can see their boots, that’s it.” Steve says behind you.

           You’ve taken shelter between two cars. Steve flat on his back, trying to look under the car. You, holding the shield up while crouching on untrained legs. The vault door to Steve that could probably be taken out by anyone with above average training.

           “There’s only one? Is he coming?” You whisper, legs starting to quiver from the strain.

           “Yes,” Steve is whispering now. It’s hard to hear everything that he is saying. “Stay down, it’ll be okay.”

           Steve was only a half decent liar. Had you been looking at him he would have smiled. Try and confirm that everything is going to be okay, even with blood going through his fingers, he’d try and lie. And you would lie right back. Smile at him, nod and then do what you are going to do anyway.

           It wasn’t until the dickhead was close enough that you heard her shoes on the concrete. In that woman’s point of view, she probably only heard Steve’s breathing. Imaging how you were going to scream after she put metal through the Captain’s eye.

           You only saw the woman’s face without blood for a brief second. Long enough for the shield to bash forward and up, slamming against her nose. Breaking the thing and practically snapping it back into her head. Another hit, this one aimed, and she falls backwards. Clutching her face and screaming profanity.

           Steve was on the phone with help, finally getting to act the part of a civilian doing their best. While you got to be the hero, kicking Dickhead’s gun away and starting a small wrestle to keep her down. She wasn’t a hired or professional assassin by any means, just an extremist who didn’t seem to really know what she was killing for.

           Nothing you couldn’t sit on and keep from hurting anyone.

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

Tony Stark:

         When you experiment on yourself you either become a brave idiot or the reason for a new safety manual. Somehow Tony has proven himself to be both. At least he has learned to have some sort of babysitter when he does these things.

           “You have life insurance right?” You ask over the intercom.

           “No one would accept me as a client,” Tony speaks through the experimental armor.

           His voice coming off as deeper, more static-y. Supposedly this was a going to be a special type of armor. Thick and tough enough that it would be used in the event of either going into the center of the earth, or into the sun. Consider all events that absolutely no one expects keep happening in this world, the idea wasn’t nearly as crazy as you’d think.

           He stands in the gray armor. Legs shoulder width apart, standing on a platform where five cannons of raw heat are waiting to be fired. All this was behind the thick booth you hid away in. Ready to turn the dial, colors ranging from yellow to red, and then green.

           “You ready, Babe?” Tony asks.

           “I’m not the one about to become an oven, just say the word.” You reply, hand on the dial.

           “Let’s start slow, get an even roast going.”

           The dial starts to slowly leave the green range. Watching his helmet tilt up, ready to take the flames that starts slowly, then burst out faster then water as it increases.

           It’s hard to see the armor while staring through the glass. What you were watching wasn’t even glass. It was a screen showing the feed from cameras outside the box. Positioned just enough so it seemed to be glass. It was safer this way, basically being in another room from the lava Tony calls flames.

           “How are you doing?” You have to practically yell.

           “Getting a little toasty, still looking good, though!” He yells back.

           That optimism only lasted for a few seconds before your ‘glass’ started to get wonky.

           “Still looking good?” You ask.

           There was no response, but there was static.

           “Tony?”

           More static.

           The dial was immediately dialed back to green. Even pushing harder as though that would cool it down faster. Unfortunately, there was no override code to get out of the box, you could leave but you could not enter the heat chamber, not until it cools enough.

           That didn’t stop you from pulling on the door. Like when your mom isn’t fast enough unlocking the car and your passive aggressively demanding to be let in. Only in this case you were yelling at the computer when it would respond with “please be patient while the chambers cools.”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please-,”

           “Shut the FUCK up!” you scream at the automated voice.

           Eventually the voice finally stopped, a little chirping beep and your were right into the chamber. Although cooled to acceptable degrees you were still slapped with the heat after only going in a few steps. “Hang on, hang on,” You’re yelling at nothing. Jerking your free hand away from the metal that was already messing with you just by being close. “Tony, hang on.”

           The helmet was the easiest part of the armor to remove. Your hands are singed by trying to grab it. Having to pull it quickly and tossing it just as fast across the chamber.

           How many could say that they know how a baked potato feels? Well, you can add Tony to that list. His entire face was flushed, a nice pink color. Between gasps and pants he looked up at you, nodding his head to your silent questions.

           He gave one thumbs down. The universal sign that the armor would need more work.

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

Thor:

           If Thor didn’t have glasses before he should think about getting checked out soon. Staring so close to the phone his nose was practically touching it. Your eyebrows matched his, knitted together in both confusion and annoyance.

           Looking to Bruce was no help.

           “Yeah, that’s your turn.” He says, going back to his magazine.

           There was no way you were going to be able to look over his shoulder. Instead standing next to him and trying to catch a glance.

            “What are you trying to do?” you asked after several seconds of seeing nothing.

           “Trying to return to the game Bruce showed me.” Thor turns the phone towards you. “I accidentally went out and cannot return.”

           You’re staring at the home screen of his phone. Taking it in for a few seconds and then exclaiming. “This is not English; did you do this on purpose?”

           Thor shakes his head. “It was an accident when I was trying to return to the game. I can still read it, I do not know how to change it back, though.”

           “You have to go through, like, four screens. How did you do this on accident?”

           In the end it seemed you had a bigger problem with the phone then Thor did.

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

Bucky Barnes:

         You sit with your legs spread on the living room floor. A black arm with gold lining resting between them, held up by one thigh so it’s hand is in the air.

           A mix of cleaning supplies sat on the coffee table next you. From glasses cleaner to car wax, you even dug around under the sink. This thing wasn’t like a pair of shoes that came with instructions on how to clean it. The only thing either you or Bucky knew for sure was “don’t put it in the washing machine,”. And even that was still up for discussion.

           “Thank you, for this.” Bucky says, a cool bottle gently nudging against your shoulder.

           He holds two ciders in his one hand. A small juggle when you take yours, but he had a handle on it. He wouldn’t be driving a car anytime soon, he still had the arm on most of the time, but he was getting the hang of it. This just meant any cleaning was up to other people. You being the only one who doesn’t want the story behind every little smudge on the thing.

           “I’m going to add this to my bill,” You say, poking at the very little gap between the plates dirt tends to find its way into. That it sometimes comes back as red you don’t think about it too much. “Minus a drink.”

           There’s a domestic bliss to this entire scene. Looking off to the side where Bucky sits in one of the living room chairs. His hair is finally short, his face shaven and his head tilted against his shoulder. There was something playing on the TV, but he wasn’t really watching it. Instead keeping his eyes quarter open to watch you.

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

Natasha Romanoff:

         It was a weird request but not weird enough to refuse. Rereading the text from the “unknown” number Nat insisted on being named in your phone.

           Do me a favor; get on the elevator, go down a floor.

           After a few seconds, not even long enough to get your shoes on, she sends another.

           Pretty please?

           You were on the second highest floor of your building. Walking out of it in the middle of the night, when you felt the need to tiptoe around your apartment.

           The walls were thankfully thick, but the doors were not. Through the wood you could hear TVs, talking, a few moans and one particular pair softly yelling. There had yet to be anything more then an argument from them, nothing that warranted intervention. When you walk past that door again you were likely to hear moans more then arguments.

           I got you. You sent back, hitting the elevator button and waiting.

           Natasha was a serious woman who cared about her friends and loved ones. She’s been on many, too many, missions and knows how to get in and out without being seen. The best way to get in and out without being noticed was to simply act like you belong. Although she is a very serious spy, she does like to have fun with her skills.

           You had to remind yourself of this when the top hatch of the elevator is popped open. First a pair of overpriced boots, then a beige jacket covered in black dirt and sludge, finally red hair and a smile without lipstick.

           You didn’t have to say or ask anything. Your face was enough for her to get the confusion.

           “I got stuck,” She says.

           “You got dirty. You know I can buzz you in, right?” You say, reaching past her, hitting your floor’s button. “Or I could open a window.”

           “Where’s the fun in that?” She asks, kissing your cheek and leaving a smudge.

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

T’challa:

         In so many ways T’challa is on the same level as Steve Rogers. He couldn’t hold back a helicopter, but he could lap the world as good as him. Less experienced in military strategies, but his abilities aren’t any indications of that. And while you can hear Rogers walk down the hallway, it’s amazing the amount of times T’challa has made people jump out of their skin but just appearing next to them.

           But alcohol was where T’challa had to throw the towel. Something he had yet to do.

           “Does this even do anything to you?” You ask holding up the empty bottle.

           Rogers just shrug with a smile. Drinking down his glass, taking all that’s left of whatever they had been drinking. “I was hoping it would’ve worn off from the forties, guess not.”

           In one of the rare moments T’challa was in the states you typically wouldn’t be able to see him until the next morning. Getting a message from Rogers about a change of plans was a pleasant surprise. Seeing your man face first into a table was less so.

           “Can we borrow a room?” You ask, checking T’challa’s pulse.

           “There’s a guest room down the hall,” Steve says.

           T’challa was thick mess of muscle and dead weight. Too heavy to carry, just wrapping around your arms around his front, pulling him out of the chair. Struggling to keep him up enough for his feet to do their damn job.

           He’s hasn’t made any noise the entire struggle. When he finally looks at you he smiles, “hi,” he says. Face pressing into your shoulder, legs threatening to give up.

           With one arm over your shoulder and the other over Rogers T’challa leaned hard on your side. In his drunken haze he probably thought he was giving you a regular, charming, kiss on the cheek. Rather then the actual slobbering he was giving your neck.

           “Did I win?” He asks.

           You have to give the man credit. Being able to know what language to speak in even when he was off his ass drunk.

           “Yes, Dear, you wiped the floor with him.” You say, ignoring the smile Steve still had.

           An alcohol smelled breath blew into your ear. “Yay,” he says, pushing harder against you. If it weren’t for Steve both T’challa and you would have slumped into the wall.

           “I got it from here,” You say over T’challa’s shoulder after reaching the bedroom door.

           It was probably a bad idea to let Rogers off the hook so quickly. As soon as the door opened you stepped backwards to keep with the momentum. Taking a few more steps until you could safely toss him onto the bed. He landing with a groan, reaching back for a pillow or something equally soft to replace your absents.

           “I’m coming for James Barnes next,” He slurs against the pillow.

           “I’ll be sure to warn him.” You say, pulling both his shoes off. Tucking them under the bed.

           He didn’t hear you, already muttering in his sleep.

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

Pietro Maximoff:

           Volunteers were gathered from every corner of S.H.I.E.L.D, those qualified or could even pretend to be qualified were grabbed and told to get on the ship. This was how you got pulled along with doctors and those who can lift over fifty pounds.

           ‘Do you know how to sew stitches?’

           ‘No…’

           ‘Do you know what gauze is?’

           ‘Yeah, I think so.’

           ‘Great, come on.’

           Although briefed on the ride in it was incredibly confusion after walking off. Essentially your job was to do what the people who knew what they were doing told you. You seemed to be the only one who made it more then a few steps before being grabbed. Left alone long enough to hear the somewhat-Russian-sounding language from the survivors and see the next ‘Life-boat’ returns with more survivors.  

           There are so many injured and panicked that you didn’t notice one being carried in. The agent carrying him had only to yell twice to get two doctors on him. One taking his shoulders the other his feet, setting him gently on the nearest bed.

           “Gauze and swabs, go.” One of the two doctors points at you while giving the order.

           Not being told how much was needed, you just grabbed an arm full of each from the shelves. Standing off the to the side, pretending to be a shelf to have it’s things taken from. A few arms even reached over your shoulder to grab what you were holding.

           The patient was a young man; his shirt cut open with surgical scissors, head tilted so far back it was almost off the table. His chest was hard to look at, with more craters then the moon, just a glance and your face was beginning to lose color. Luckily a shelf didn’t have to move, just stand still and stare. The moon moved with steady breathing. White turning red just by touching it’s surface that did next to nothing to change the color.

           The moon’s surface surged forward with a gasp. Silver hair fluffing with a hacking voice towards the ceiling of the ship.

           Neither of the doctors try to touch him. Whether it’s from their blood covered hands getting into his face, or that he could wreck what little sterile environment was made. Both pressing down on the wounds.

           “Now that he’s awake keep him that way.” The same doctor snapped. “Hey!”

           A little color has come back from being yelled at. Snapping your head towards her. Not saying that you understood but nodding when she jerks her head towards the patient.

           Another shelf took over your duties. Practically tossing the things onto it in passing, standing at the head of the table to look down at your patient.

           Just as the glance had told you, his hair was silver. Although you were right above him, he looked everywhere but you. Half-lidded eyes rolling back and forth across the room, his mouth moving but nothing coming out.

           “Hey, hi,” You whisper down to his.

           Your hands cup his head, now staring right up at you. The same wide-eyed look a cat has after being caught. He blinks just as slowly, only when you smile down at him.

           “Hey, you gotta stay awake. You gotta stay awake for me, okay?” You say.

           He now has a smile that matches yours. Staring up at you and beginning to talk softly, practically muttering with a dopey smile on his face. Even if you got closer and listened carefully you wouldn’t have been able to understand him. Resorting back to his mother language. You didn’t need to glance up to know that the happy drugs were just added.

           His arms are starting to move with his cheery talk. Just little wiggling that are stopped by the doctors. The man keeps trying to raise his head, trying to see what was keeping his hands down. Your hand gently pressing against his forehead, pushing it back down onto the bed. Now staring back up at you he speaks directly in his mother language.

           “Yeah, just stay awake. This will be fine,” You look down to the doctors. Now pulling stitching what could be done. “Everything is fine.”

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

Peter Parker:

           If it weren’t for May you would have stayed longer. The plan was to pray to your respected deity that May had to stay late work, long enough that you “accidentally” fall asleep on the couch. And since it’s so late May invites you to spend the night, with your parents permission, forbidding you from Peter for the rest of the night. She’d then go into her room and you and Peter can continue.

           Instead May came home on time. Unintentionally ruing the moment when she opens the door. Intentionally making it worse by not bringing it up but just smiling at you and looking away when you look back. You lost the psychological war fare by proclaiming how late it was getting and that it was time to go.  

           Usually you left Peter’s before sundown or spend your little saving for a car or taxi. It was only a handful of times that Peter walked you home. The excuse you always gave was “then who’s going to walk you home after?”.

           Nine out of ten times walking in numbers is enough to be safe. There is always an exception that makes the rule, though. This is especially true when your bodyguard is a high school teenager in a science graphic tee.

           Grip on your hair and flash of metal more annoyed then terrified. You’d never say it out loud, but Peter was to blame for the situation. Taking you by the hand, guiding the both of you through an alley he claims to take all the time. It had seemed to be empty, only passing by a smoker at the entry way you didn’t look twice at.

           Dickhead mugger was loudly whispering to Peter. Trying to be quiet but also making sure you knew he was serious. All it really did was fill your ear with spit.

           You were really only half aware that Peter was looking at you during the hostage taking. Just as aware that his hand reached out although too far away to do anything physically. No offense to Peter but you had to help yourself.

           Although not heroic it’s always smart to scream when you’re under attack. Screaming to fit the situation you reached back to his face, finding the side of his head. Thumbs pressing deep and hard into his eye socket. Even as Dickhead screamed you kept pressing, pressing until something gave and you were let go.

           It was your turn to grab Peter’s hand after that. Running straight out from the alley, dragging your boy along with you. Making it past the subway until Peter urged you to slow down.

           You weren’t nearly as panicked as you should have been. Peter making the deep breath gesture in the hopes you take the hint. Instead you make the mistake of looking down to your hands. A bloody red thumb making you really freak out.

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

Stephen Strange:

           Something was wrong before you ever entered the sanctum. It wasn’t the odd silence as the sanctum was never really silent. There was always some sort of whispering coming right out of the walls or a rattle from the artifacts although there was no wind.

           Walking through the building you pass by Wong at a next by a bookshelf. His head slowly rocks while reading, listening to his headphones. He makes a slight glance upwards as you pass, just to acknowledge you while you wave. Not bothering to stop and have a one-sided conversation until you touch something, and he makes you leave.

           If Stephen hadn’t called out to you when you first enter he was probably busy. Leaving you to walk through the sanctum, leaving your jacket on a chair and bag tossed on a chair passing by.

           It was a little past noon when you cross his bedroom’s doorway. Being greeted by the bare back of your man. At one point he was wearing his oddly average looking flannel robe, by now gravity had dragged it down from it’s place on his shoulders. Cloth gathering at the small of his back and wrists. If it weren’t for the ragged breathing and sweat he could have been a statue.

           “Working out for once?” You ask, bag and jacket tossed on the bed.

           No response.

           “Stephen? You there?” Usually he’d snap out of the meditation when you entered the room. Other times he’d take a few seconds into minutes to finish up and then return.

           Kneeling in front of him his breathing is still going crazy. His wrists are buried in the robe sleeves, so instead you reach towards his neck. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know how to find someone’s pulse.

           Before finding the bumping vein he catches your wrist. An iron made of ice grip that was probably making your bones crack under the skin. His eyes were open but there was nothing in them. No pupil or color just discolored white that still stared right into you.

           Although the first hand still holds like he’s trying to break your bones, the other is gentle. Resting above your wrist and sliding up your sleeve. Thumb gently touching the skin,

           “Stephen, stop.” You said.

           His gentle thumb dug into your skin. His nail cutting into your skin.

           “Stephen, no. Stephen.” His grip is too strong to pull away.

           In understandable self-defense your free hand pulls back. Slamming upward against his nose with the base of your hand. His head jerked backed with the break of his nose, but he gave no noise of being in pain. Head coming back to look at you with blood starting to dribble out of his nose and down his lip. Twist of your other hand and you’re free, scrambling back.

           “WONG! WONG HELP!” You yell getting to your feet as Stephen goes back into the lotus position.

           It takes a little more yelling before slamming feet come up the stairs. Wong stopping at the door way, giving you two seconds to explain before he would starting asking questions.

           “Something wrong, he’s not waking up and his eyes are fucked.” You rapid fire explain, pulling your sleeve up. Finding that Stephen did break the skin with his nail. “What’s happening?”

           Just like a regular medical emergency it’s best to get out of the way so those qualified can work. Taking a step back as Wong almost jumps over the gap between Stephen and bed, quickly sitting in front of him and closing his own eyes.

           It’s hard to watch an event when it’s happening on an entirely other plane of existence. Sitting on the end of the bed, looking between them as though you could catch a speck of what was going on. The only hint you got that anything was actually happening was how Wong was gathering sweat on his brow, mirroring the damaged wizard in front of him.

           In the end you lasted maybe two minutes imaging whatever battle or conversation was going on. Grabbing the bucket that was really nothing more than decorative and getting into the bathroom. It felt like forever before the thing was completely filled from the sink. Only made worse by the lack of noise, practically ruining the panic that was almost strangling anyone involved in this entire event.

           In the entire event the only yelling or anything close coming to a battle cry came from you in tossing the bucket’s contents. The entire room was soaked in your attempt to just hit Stephen. Drenching the back of Wong, destroying the bed sheets and any paper that was left out in the area.

           Both Wong and Stephen gasp and cough as through they had been drowning. Stephen, after holding his throat for a second, pulled his robe about himself. Looking to Wong and then up to you.

           He doesn’t say thank you, he only nods. Later on, both you and Wong would interrogate him, he’d try and explain it, but you’d really never understand. Just standing there, ready with your bucket.

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

Matt Murdock:

         It isn’t uncommon for those born and raised in a city to never learn how to swim. When you don’t live next to a large body of water or are willing to drag yourself to the closest pool, there was really no point.

           Matt was not one of those people. Being submerged completely in water was not the best situation to be in but he could swim enough to live. But that was Dare-Devil who could swim, not Matt Murdock. When freezing water rushed into his mouth and his glasses were gone into the water he really wished there weren’t as many witnesses, or that it was night time, at least.

           Hearing the crack of wood while walking around the docks wasn’t out of the ordinary. Hearing it so prominently under your girlfriend’s foot was. In the few seconds that sound gave him he grabbed you around the center, a small twirl and setting you on the other side. His stability giving out under his foot wasn’t unexpected. But the water was no less cold, and the fall was no less terrifying.

           It’s harder for him to hear through the water. Reaching towards the surface, pulling himself up just enough to not die. The water in his mouth keeping him safe from pulling the cliché line: “help me! I can’t swim!”

           In the end it didn’t matter that Matt had kept you from falling in. Right away knowing that the next weight hitting the water was his angel.

           “Matt, Matt you need to calm down. Please stop flailing.” You say, grabbing around his center to keep him from bashing into you.

           Swimming with clothes on is hard enough, even worse while pulling a man in equally heavy clothes. Dragging him through the water, guiding his hands to the ladder. He could pull himself up after that, pushing back to sit and wait for you to fret over him.

           Seconds after Matt has disappeared anyone official on the dock was gone. Nothing like the words “fall” and “lawyer” to get people moving.  

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

Carol Danvers:

           On one of the few “date nights” you sit side by side at the bar. Carol sitting with a hand on your knee, the other holding her glass. She uses it to gesture while talking about some story or another, telling you about how she learned the newest way of swearing from some alien language.

           The words seem to be unpronounceable to you, even Carol seemed to have a little difficulty. The more cranberry vodkas she drank, the less she was able to pronounce the words that consisted of a guttural sound and a whistle.

           By the third a real problem arose. Knocking back the last of the liquid, now consisting of melted ice, little bit of flavored vodka and the lime, her hand goes to her throat when the glass is empty. It was hard to think that such a powerful being could be brought to panic by a lime wedge.

           She tried to hide it at first, coughing into the corner of her elbow. When the coughing stopped she grabbed her throat, standing tall and knocking the stool to the floor. You didn’t bother asking if she was okay. Her grip on your forearm was all you needed to know something was really going wrong. Your own stool joining hers, slamming to ground as you went behind her.

           Choking wasn’t anything new to this bar. A sign showing the steps to the Heimlich maneuver was strategically placed among the other trash the owner called decoration.

           Wrapping your arms around her center from behind wasn’t anything new, either. One hand over the other, pulling back under her ribs with force, doing this again and again. Blonde hair, smelling like industrial shampoo, fluffs back into your face. Any small attempt at opening your mouth to try and soothe Carol was stopped by a mouthful of hair.

           Heimlich maneuver doesn’t always work. Leaning back from her back, one still around her center. The other pulling back and slapping open handed between her shoulder blades. In a crude explanation, it was like burping an adult.

           The lime doesn’t shoot out like in the movies. Just comes out with a few hearty coughs into Carol’s hand. She grabs the bar when you let her go, leaning forward against the edge. Still coughing while everyone was still just watching.

[dailyexo]

[INTERVIEW] Baekhyun, Kai - 200314 Vogue: “K-Pop Supergroup SuperM On Friendship, Fans And Fun Times”

"As the South Korean pop group embark on their first-ever world tour, we go backstage with band members Baekhyun, Taemin, Kai, Taeyong, Ten, Lucas and Mark to talk about their latest album.

There’s a cacophony coming from behind a door, backstage at their first world tour. SuperM are recording greetings for fans and media. “Hi, we are…” begins Baekhyun, the group’s unofficial-official leader. The six other members cheerfully join in… “SuperM!” The cadence isn’t quite right and Baekhyun’s cackle, as distinctive as his singing voice, rises above the boyish shouts of genial failure. They repeat the line so many times it seems plausible that if you ever woke one of them abruptly, they’d sit up and shout the phrase automatically.

SuperM are a bona fide K-pop supergroup, and like all supergroups, they’re not running to schedule. “We have to halve your time,” whispers a PR apologetically. SuperM’s greetings and gleaming smiles are casual and friendly, but little can distract from the extraordinary human wall of talent they present. Twenty-six-year-old Taemin, SHINee’s vocalist and legendary performer, sits between EXO’s Baekhyun, 27, and main dancer Kai, 26. Perched on a sofa behind them are members of SM Entertainment’s newer groups: WayV’s Ten, 24, and Lucas, 21, and NCT’s rappers Mark, 20, and Taeyong, 24.

From South Korea to the world

Last October, SuperM’s eponymous first EP entered the US album chart at number one, the cherry on top of a media blitz that included shutting down LA’s Vine Street to perform outside Capitol Records. They’re only the second South Korean group to have reached the top spot, but that was always part of the goal — their record label, SM Entertainment, put the US in the crosshairs and SuperM was going to be its golden bullet. But although NCT 127 (an NCT sub-unit) have been promoting themselves in the US, it’s the first time for Taemin, Baekhyun and Kai.

“It felt like re-debuting,” Taemin says. “The fact that we’re targeting different audiences felt like a new challenge we were all taking on.” With bleached blond hair and a delicate build that belies a robust physical strength, it’s not just Taemin’s seniority as an artist in SuperM’s ranks that makes everyone listen intently — his manner is assertive without being overbearing, and his earnestness has you believe you’re not just one more addition to a blurry, months-long line of interviewers. “We’ve grown together, we’ve gained confidence and it gets easier as we see the fans’ reactions. It’s fun; it’s working.”

It’s no secret that, in part, SuperM had their work cut out for them. Their union had Twitter fan groups up in arms, with calls for SM Entertainment to allow the members to concentrate on their respective groups or solo careers. When a hazy, distorted sliver of their debut single leaked, naysayers predicted a flop.

The single, Jopping, Taemin points out, showcases the label’s SM Performance dance project and in its fully remixed, remastered glory, it was a swaggering, audacious and riff-heavy bop that took itself as seriously as it didn’t. It was there to be danced to and though much of it was in English, its titanium-strong hooks refused to pander to western trends. SuperM’s style recalls the years before intricate concepts (such as EXO’s alien superpower origins story) came to cradle much of current K-pop. The album might revel in its layers of production, but it’s refreshingly escapist, and shifted 164,000 physical copies in its first week.

Breaking the stage, one continent at a time

With all this in mind, it’s unsurprising that one of Baekhyun’s goals is “for people to say only good things about SuperM”. Their fans, who’ve filled arenas in the US, Mexico and Europe, are noisily adoring and with good reason — SuperM’s stage show is compelling. Theirs is a punishing schedule — mid-interview, Taeyong is unable to smother an enormous yawn — but on stage, their energy lights up the cavernous space.

Choreographed numbers, such as I Can’t Stand The Rain, are mighty and aggressive. With You (a loose, routine-less chance to interact with the audience) and No Manners, where they slither around a simple elevated set, seem easy to emulate, but are completely reliant on mesmerising presence and cohesion. “There are so many different stages and performances at a SuperM concert,” says Taeyong, more matter-of-fact than boastful. “You’ll never get to see this chemistry or these members performing together [anywhere else].” Taemin adds: “The fans have shown so much support, and it pushes me to want to perform to even bigger audiences on an even larger scale.”

K-pop is relentlessly accused of being manufactured, with its performers supposedly just going through the motions, but SuperM subvert this idea with a warm spontaneity and rakishness on and off stage. They’re each other’s most fervent cheerleaders and bearers of the most merciless roasts — the atmosphere is more akin to a lads’ holiday than a multimillion-dollar music project. “Thank you for noticing that,” laughs Baekhyun, who puts it down to a “natural chemistry. If you saw us [just hanging out] you would get even more of that feeling!”"

Sailing pop’s high seas

Mark, who was born in Canada — funny, and wise beyond his years — likens SuperM to a ship. “When I practised with these guys, the energy I absorbed was actually very interesting,” he says. “The knowledge and experience is incomparable to anything we [younger members] have. It’s not a competition or anything — it’s something we learn from.

“Taemin would be the ship’s wheel,” he continues, happily developing his theme. “He knows the direction we want to go in. The EXO-hyungs [older males] have a lot of talent — they’d be the sail and that’s where we get the boost. NCT and WayV, we’re like the hull, holding the talent [together]. That’s a pretty cool ship,” Mark grins. SuperM’s concert visuals might well be having a subliminal effect on Mark: during Jopping, a pirate ship bobs across the huge screen behind them.

Thailand-born Ten, known for his quick wit, adds: “Taemin sees stuff very differently to us. [He thinks about] what kind of make-up or uniform [costume] we need to wear, and we’ve never thought about that before.”

The hyungs get a sense of vitality from their younger bandmates, although Taemin and Baekhyun scrunch their faces at the prospect of being old enough to need a top-up. “They’re the foundation for whenever we feel tired,” Baekhyun laughs.

Secret names

Off the back of touring, SuperM have developed a number of in-jokes and nicknames that, when asked about them, sets them off. “Lucas-tonkotsu?” mumbles Taemin with a sidelong smile, making Lucas — all long legs and big grin — double over. Mark slowly chants “B-A-E-K-hyung” which Baekhyun, the corners of his mouth curving upwards, tries to ignore. “There are secret names we like to call each other, but we want them to remain within the group,” he says. Mark nods, “Yeah, they’re just for us.”

Baekhyun raises his eyebrows and looks at his bandmates. “I love you!” he sing-songs with a smirk. Groans and laughter are the only replies.

Photo links: 1, 2, 3

Credit: Vogue.

[thorman-barnes]

Unexpected || Part 4

pairing: stucky x reader

requests: yes?

prompts: none

summary: Y/N and Steve briefly talk about it

warnings: none?

Masterlist || Series Masterlist

Steve sat across from Y/N at the desk of the old, run down motel. Their vehicle had broken down from all the bullets it had taken and they had to ditch it on the side of the road and walk a couple of miles until they ran into this sketchy motel with their gear and luggage on hand.

Y/N’s feet ached by the time they got to the motel and she refused to get up from the bed until the pizza they had ordered had arrived and they set it on the desk because the table looked just about close to collapsing.

The pizza wasn’t that good but it was the closest thing they have had to food in the past two days and neither complained. They lost connection with the gang a few days ago and they have been on their own ever since. Natasha was on the other line giving them directions while she healed from a broken leg but when they in the middle of the fight, their connection gave out and they have been running loose.

“You think she got our message?” You asked quietly as you sipped on your water that Steve bought for you at the liquor store across the street.

“Yeah, if not, our pictures would be all over the news asking for information on our whereabouts,” he commented and bit into a slice of pizza. He just hoped Bucky wasn’t worrying his ass off about his safety. He hasn’t called in the past few days when he had promised he would check in every twenty four hours and has failed to do so.

“How long do you think until they know our exact location?”

Steve shrugged and looked up to see you staring at the pizza - trying to decide which slice you want to eat next. “A few days maybe? We’re a few hours away from where we last had contact with them. It shouldn’t take long but they have to be quiet about it so no else finds us before they do.”

You nodded slowly and pulled at a slice until it was free from the other slices and took a big bite, your stomach growling even after already eating three slices of pizza. “Can I ask you something, Steven?”

He chuckled at his name but nodded anyway thinking you were going to ask about the mission or something related to your current situation.

After a few seconds, he choked on his soda when you asked him what he and Bucky thought about your offer. It was a few minutes before he even responded. Truth is, he and Bucky thought a lot about your offer. They made a pros and cons list, they daydreamed about it, they avoided you for a week because they couldn’t look you in the eye as they thought about your offer. The thought of getting you pregnant so her and Bucky can have a child was both exciting and scary at the same time.

You thought that his silence meant the didn’t want to talk about it and went back to focusing your energy on the pizza before you so then you can move onto the chips you had made Steve buy you as well.

Sighing, he caught your attention. “We’ve been talking about it.”

You looked up and slowly chewed on your food as he talked while not making eye contact. You figured he was going to by shy about it but if this was something they wanted, you had to talk about it no matter how embarrassing and awkward it would be.

“If we do this. . . what’s in it for you?” He asked and his eyes flickered up to you and landed back on the window beside you both and tried to act as normal as he possibly could.

One thing he learned quickly was that talking about this was a lot easier with Bucky than it was with you. Because at least with Bucky, he could speak his mind without judgement and with you, he wasn’t sure where he stood. 

“Nothing,” you shrugged like it was no big deal - like you hadn’t talked to Wanda about this just the other day before you went on your mission. She made some valid points about why you shouldn’t do this but you ignored her. “I just want you both to be happy is all.”

“You know this will ruin us if you change your mind last minute, right? We won’t be friends if you decide you want the baby - we can’t go through that again especially Bucky,” Steve stated in a firm voice as walls began to build up to protect his own heart and his husband’s. The pain they had from when the woman decided she couldn’t give the baby up was starting to find its way back to him and the last thing he needed was to have a break down in front of you but when you spoke up again, he was thankful for it.

“I know that,” you nodded once and studied his features. He was trying hard not to make eye contact and although his features were firm if he looked you in the eye, he might just break. “But I wouldn’t have offered if I had some doubts. Steve, listen, you and Bucky deserve happiness and a chance at a family. And I want to give you that.”

“He wants to move away, you know that?” he turned to look at you and sucked in a deep breath as his voice wavered. He wasn’t sure if he can have this discussion because he still wasn’t okay from what happened last time and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. “If we have a baby, he wants to retire and buy a house somewhere on the outskirts of New York or California or anywhere really. He wants to live a quiet life and be a stay at home dad and I’d do the occasional missions. . . He talked about family road trips, family movie nights, all that kind of stuf-”

“He’d be a great dad,” you commented as Steve was getting lost in the possibility of having everything he and Bucky ever wanted. But hearing Steve talk about a future with Bucky, a weird feeling erupted within you and you weren’t sure what it was. “But what do you want, Steve?”

He sighed and chewed on his lower lip as his heart pounded in his chest and it was all he was feeling at the moment. He was anxious and he wasn’t sure for what. He was just talking to you and you were one of his best friends and it shouldn’t be awkward at all. But it was. Because you guys were talking about the possibility of either him or Bucky sleeping with you so they can have a baby and start a family.

“I just want to be happy. For Bucky to be happy. I want to have start a family and have a life” he gestured to the room - to the mission you were in the middle of- “out of all this crazy. Too many bad things happening around us and I just want one good thing, you know?” When you nodded, he offered you a shy smile.

It was quiet for a moment before a thought hit you. They wanted to move away. That meant you’d hardly ever see them. Maybe it’d be for the best. They were married and as Wanda has often pointed out - having a crush on two married men was messy. And add having a baby for them into the mix? It’d be all sorts of complicated.

“Seems like you know what you want,” you commented and cleaned your fingers on a piece of napkin. 

He shrugged, “We talk about it a lot.”

You raised a brow and leaned back, arms crossed over your chest. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

The corners of his lips twitched and were inching towards a smile as he got lost in his own thoughts of wonders and joy. “Like - Like we’d get a place with a big yard. You know, like huge. Maybe with a white picket fence too. Probably have a dog. . .”

He had a vision in his dream as he spoke to you that he had forgotten he has never told Bucky this because of the fear of getting his hopes to high. He can see himself and Bucky having a baby girl. He wanted to spoil their daughter rotten. Buy her all the pretty dresses she wanted, all the stuffed animals that could possibly fit in her small bed, hold her when she was sick, learn to do different hairstyles each morning before their day officially began. . . 

“You want a daughter?” You smiled and it only grew wider when you noticed his cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

“I just always saw myself having a daughter,” he admitted and it was the first time you saw him smile in a while. It held hope and it held longing as well. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so close to having his dreams come true.

“So then let me do this for you,” you reached across the table and rested your hand on top of his, giving his hand a soft squeeze. Setting your feelings aside, you wanted them to be happy whether you were part of that happiness or not. “Think about it, Steve, in just nine months you can have the life you and Bucky have been dreaming of.”

Cautiously, he looked between your connected hands then into your eyes. He was trying to read for something but he wasn’t sure what. He knew this was too good to be true but his emotions were overwhelming and he couldn’t think straight when he was so close to getting everything he wants. Suddenly, he felt like Bucky - full of hope and joy and it was uncontained.

Tag List:

@iamalphanow @my-marvelside-bl0g @m-a-t-91 @hoewkeye @im-just-another-monster @scarsout @mcuwillbethedeathofme @wonderlandfandomkingdom @ssaaraw

Bucky Barnes Tag List:

@hour-to-hourglass

Stucky x Reader Tag List:

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Series Tag List:

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[sparklycitrus]

Cellophane 6

Cellophane Bond/Vesper, Bond & Camille friendship, eventual 00Q

Blurb, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

They worked well, he and L. The comm chats were short and to the point; L’s knack for reading and responding to volatile situations was almost as good as his own, plus she had access to the entirety of Q-branch at her disposal. His gadgets were nondescript but wholly reliable. Sometimes he’d try to sweet-talk some fresh technician to add a bit of flare to his arsenal. The result varied, depending on whether L and her uncanny hunch of what he was up to stopped it in time. He usually still managed to cajole the poor techie to his bed. L would then give him a stern dress-down and turn in a report to the Quartermaster to allot said techie some time with Psych. James, rather than offended, found it oddly endearing.

A full year flew by before he ventured to ask L out for a cup of coffee. She looked at him with thorough suspicion, a refusal on her lips but he cut her off before it was uttered. “Just to chat,” he clarified, holding his hands up in a facsimile of surrender. “Nothing more.”

“Why?”

“Can’t an agent just want to know his handler better?”

“Not with us, no,” she said, meaning him. Not with him.

“Fine,” he acquiesced. “Then how about I just buy you a cuppa on the way? You’ve been here since last night. A little pick-me-up before you have to brave the Tubes.”

He was right. There was a major incident with Agent 2’s mission and Q-branch was in all-hands-on-deck mode for two days straight. James was on his mandatory downtime, and rather than puttering around in his empty flat he stayed in the bullpen, alternating between giving tactical advice and fetching sustenance for the staff when needed. Things finally calmed down in the early morning. L was on her way out when he stopped by her meticulously organized desk.

She gave him one more dubious look before giving in. “Alright, Mr. Bond. There’s a place I like to go just a few blocks north.”

“We’ve been partnered for a year, Camille, you can call me James.”

“No, thank you,” L replied. “I like my coffee on the sweet side. No milk or cream, and get the largest size they offer.”

James smiled. It had been a long time he asked anyone for anything outside missions. It was like he had forgotten how to socialize for its own sake, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the exchange felt nice. Exhilarating, even, and although they had a long way to go before even approaching friends territory, this small step made him feel semi-human again.

He bought her a large cup of black coffee and went their separate ways. The week after they went to a different café, and despite what L said of her preferences she still stole half of his latte when she gulped down her own in less than five minutes. It became a sort of ritual thereafter. Different places, depending on the time and weather, and the take-out became actual sitting down unless they were saddled with missions.

She still didn’t call him James, but didn’t corrected him of the use of her own name in public. “A letter sounds outlandish in normal conversation,” she said between sips of Americano at one of their usual haunts. “Aren’t spies supposed to be experts at blending in with their surroundings?”

“Good-looking people like us never blend in anywhere,” his retort was full of cheek. “In fact, we would actually fit in better if we do more than sitting so far from each other and drinking coffee.”

L leaned over their small shared table. James could smell her perfume, bright and flowery, a perfect accompaniment to her cream-colored dress embroidered with birds-of-paradise. “Are you propositioning me, Mr. Bond?”

“Am I?”

“I sincerely hope not. M would surely reassign me otherwise, and I’ve become quite attached to the weekly free caffeine.”

James sobered at the mention of M. “Would she really?” he asked. “Reassign you just because we happen to sleep together one night?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s a miracle she hasn’t done so already, judging from the cost of your last mission.”

“Our last mission.”

“An abysmal display of utter lack in both finesse and subterfuge. I wouldn’t be surprised if they dock my pay to make up for Q-branch’s budget.”

“It was one radio and two handguns.”

“It was one radio capable of sending signals in the midst of the Himalayas and two handguns equipped with bullets powerful enough to penetrate a foot of steel and concrete. The techs spent no less than a month on each component. I told them not to bother – they knew it was going to you before they started.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Then they only have themselves to blame.”

She stuck her tongue out at him instead of replying. James laughed. It surprised him, the ease of it. The way it felt bubbling from his chest and spreading through his core. They were two co-workers griping about office politics and budgets on a break from work. The world was not on fire at the moment and the only injury he had leftover from his last mission was a line of bruises along his side, not even worth a drugstore painkiller. For the moment, everything was perfectly mundane.

“What do you say to a dinner date with me some time?” he asked her. Had to push a little; he was James Bond, after all.

“No, Mr. Bond,” L shook her head, but her smile was warm like the sun.

tbc

[scripted-dalliances]

Rest In Peace: Chapter Two

Title: Rest In Peace

Chapter: 2

Summary: A part of Faithless Fairy Tale, a more in depth look at how they brought Laura back to life. Appearance of old faces, creation of new ones and if you’re looking for canon, it left a long, long time ago. If you squint you might be able to see some pieces from the book.

                                                 “Ut Vidi, Ut Perii”

                     “When I saw you, how I perished.” -Virgil, Eclogue VIII

Oh.

Laura doesn’t know what to say to that. She had presumed his reason was about her being dead. Of the possible rancid taste or scent of her…she had planned to tease it out of him but ultimately pop a mint before the big move. She had even expected it was due to him being awkward about Shadow being so near.

She did not expect this.

“Got a crush, asshole?”

Sweeney sniffs indignantly, “Fuck off, cunt.” Then later adds, “Maybe.”

She laughs at that, she really does.

“I am, in your constant -and loud- opinion, a dead bitch.” She leans up, placing her small hands on his chest for support as she does. Under her palms she feels his heart, quick paced but daunting with every assured beat. “I have kicked you through walls, nearly popped your balls from the sack and oh yeah, a walking corpse because you killed me but you still caught feels? You are one sick puppy.” The nickname slips out without too much thought, but honestly she isn't surprised that it pisses him off. Unlike Shadow, he doesn't take it like a cutesy nickname, unlike her ex-husband, he knows an insult when he hears one.

“Ain't no fucking puppy.”

Laura, still perched on him with all the grace and dignity of a queen on a throne, nods. “Yeah. No. Puppies are more enjoyable. You're more like a tick, one with like, the plague or some shit.”

“Oh, yeah keep whispering sweet nothings, dead wife.”

-and just like that, he is giving her that insufferable smirk, all teasing and delighted despite or maybe even because of her un-creative insult.

“I'd never thought I would have to kink shame a leprechaun, but here I am. Don't get a boner about me insulting you, weirdo.”

Mad Sweeney chuckles darkly to himself, all low and twisted, and if she was alive she thinks she might even like it. “Ain't your half assed insults, love. And I ain't a corpse fucker, as pretty and pleasant as you are with half your guts on display.”

Laura doesn’t even bother hiding her confusion. In her vast knowledge of the workings of men, their actions tended to really boil down to two things. Their dicks and pride, and everything else derived from those.

Even love. 

Shadow had loved her because of what he thought she was, what he could build for her (never mind that she was bored and borderline suicidal) and she had even enjoyed that to a point. Playing a role, hoping he would break it. Help her become someone better and new.

Just as she had hoped he could bring her back to life.

She is not unaware of the bitter irony that is her shitty afterlife.

“Then what is it?” She finds herself demanding. Curious despite him being an insufferable prick with a matching smile about it. Like it's cute that she can't imagine the reasons.

She can't. She has nothing to offer a man, she is dead. She was broken long before that. She has no warmth, no heart or softness; she never has, she has lied and tricked her way into people's affections. Like the gods of death painting and sewing her up to look like a real girl.

Truth was, she has only ever been this: a bitch, bored and cruel, who only ever felt anything when it hurt. Who did more in death than she ever did with life. Laura was empty and cold, even before they scooped out her insides and buried her six feet under.

“A girl cuts the head off an ancient and powerful god to save a boy, and that boy might get some ideas.”

Laura huffs in laughter and rolls off him. Joining the idiot on the floor, who looks over as she makes herself comfortable. Hands resting on her stomach, legs down and out. She feels her death more now than ever, in this position with the growing silence and stillness. So she breaks it.

"Don't get any ideas then, idiot."

"Oh, why not? Go about slayin' gods often do ya?" Sweeney counters, tone false and sweet as if he was flirting badly and knew it. She suddenly wants to twist his flesh between her fingers just to make him stop, but just as easily, she lets the urge slip out of her. She's growing tired of this. Of only feeling alive when she's tormenting him. Or when he's doing the same to her.

It's a toxic game, forged by two people who are broken in the same way. Like fucked up puzzle pieces that have lost their original shape and now only fit to each other and nothing else. They exchange barbs, crass truths and hard hands, and to anyone else it's impossible to stand. Anyone else, and they would hurt, and flinch away from that pain.

Sweeney and Laura are just two insufferable kids, pressing their thumbs into each others bruises to get that ache and reaction, because no one else wants to play that fucked up game.

For a second she feels alive, he gets his earned punishment, and in any other relationship this kink would only happen behind closed doors and probably involve a safe word or two. And a ball gag.

(Laura's brain supplies x-rated images of herself bent over his lap, his hand covering her whole ass, each smack hard enough to leave her pale flesh red with soon to be bruises, just as easily as she can picture herself in mile high heels walking across his back as he curses her out.)

She is well aware of their twisted natures, their shared broken edges and only kind of exhausted at pretending she isn't. He is her killer, she his victim, but it is not roles they fit or play well for long.

After all she 'stole his coin' and is holding it hostage until she gets what she wants. He calls her a cunt and she breaks his hand and then calls him a dickhead. Both of them are total assholes to each other, and so neither can stand too tall on the moral high ground for long.

Worst yet, neither of them are willing to walk away from this. Not without a fight.

He has tied himself to her just as much as she has to him. For better or worse, it's his hand she's got a fucking death grip on because like hell she's letting him go.

(She refuses to do this alone.)

But there's a price, with never letting go and it's paid in revelations.

At all times she is exposed, from her bitter mouth to her rancid guts. The worst of her is unwillingly on display, and he doesn't ignore it. He complains, pisses and moans and laughs at her but she does the same back.

How could she not?

This is without a doubt, his lowest. He is without luck, weak and hides not an ounce of how much that ruins him. Everything about him that would shine, is buried in her like a bullet and she isn’t giving it back any time soon. Just like her, he's missing a vital piece of himself and the world tears them asunder, for daring to be without it. Just as unrelenting and vicious as a hungry vulture would rotted meat.

How dare you be less than what you have always been. How dare you stand and be without faith or luck.

Better souls would forgive each other, learn and heal.  Better people would want to rid themselves of such poisonous actions and words, that got them screwed in the first place. To let death take her, to ask for forgiveness, to let go of the past.

-but that's not who they are.

As much as she hates to admit it, they are matching pair in that regard.  

They will never forgive, they will never fully recover and they don't want to.

They would rather let this pain become gangrenous, let it twist and boil, let it dig in like a parasite and replace the pieces of themselves they've lost. It's this pain that fuels them, to push on and keep going because fuck the world, fuck the blood they've unwillingly spilled to earn their place in it. 

They will not bend just for the spite and salt of it.

She wants her life back, but she doesn't want to do it with false promises. She doesn't want to be tricked and conned into some life long affair of faith, to surrender herself, heart or soul. She doesn’t want to sacrifice some other innocent idiot, or shove some different magical relic into herself in hopes no one down the line wants it back. Laura wants what is her's. Nothing more, nothing less.  

-and she isn't stupid. She knows she only got this chance because of a magical coin accidentally given to her by a man who didn't want her back. That without it, she'd be nothing but road kill…

The image of the ice cream truck, on it's side. Window busted through and how she awoke on warm pavement with Sweeney above her flashes through her mind.

Holy shit

"You gave me the coin back."

Sweeney doesn't answer, and she continues. Tilting her head just enough to catch his expression. Haunted hazel eyes that are glued to the ceiling like it holds the lucky lotto numbers.

"When the truck flipped, and I went through the front. I was a mess, like...splat." Laura uses hand gestures to further her point, "-and I remember that, but not hitting the ground. Which wouldn't be weird, if I wasn't already not alive, and it's not like I got brain damage or something. So. From my perspective, I crash, I tumble out and then blank. Come to your ugly face above mine touching my tits."

"I did not touch your tits!"

She smirks, "Bet you wanted to."

"Fuck off."

"It's okay to admit it. I mean, I've got a decent rack, right?" Dead or not, she did.

"For the last bloody time, I did not even look!"

"Ah, but you did put that coin back, didn't you?" Silence again is the answer she's looking for, because he's never silent unless she's right. "So. You gave me a second...maybe third chance I didn't deserve and still tried to get Ostara to help me.”

Sweeney grunts in response. He is mad, she can tell, that she has figured this out. His dirty little secret.

“Then, for whatever reasons I haven't figured out just yet, totally stepped up to Odin to defend me...for like half a second before he kicked your ass, but I'm choosing to ignore that bit." Laura positions herself onto her side, “I’m starting to think you liked me before I slayed a god to save your skinny ass.”

He still refuses to even look at her so she takes her time looking at him instead.

There hasn't been much want to check him out, in the start of their adventure. All she knew was from what she noticed first. That he was tall -stupidly so- and ginger. With a smart mouth that pissed her off and hands that could wrap around her throat.

Now, she adds that he's also got freckles everywhere (and she wants to count them, connect them…probably into a shape of a dick), a wide chest with matching shoulders, that probably makes other women swoon with lust. That he weirdly smells like cloves and the best kind of beer -despite knowing that he hasn't showered in days- all with a jaw line that makes her want to trace with her fingertips because it looks sharp enough to cut her.

Everything about him seems like an exaggeration of a man; his height, his build and his hair. Large and not in charge, but that's only when he opens his mouth and then it becomes pretty obvious under all the flash and very nicely built body, is a rotten fucking attitude. Just like her.

Laura smirks to herself, aiming to poke a bruise she knows is a mile wide. This is who she is after all. "What is it really. Guilt because you killed me? Need someone to spank you, while you confess your sins and tug one out?"

Sweeney's expression hardens, and his lips form a mulish pout. "Ain't that."

"–because I'm well aware that it wasn't you. I mean it was. But I'm gonna go and firmly place the blame on Odin. Hey, speaking of, do gods have a hell? Like for themselves?"

He sighs, "No, cause if there was, it be here. Listening to you go on."

"Don't make me kick you in the balls.”

He gives her a manly snort in reply, one that seemingly comes from deep within his chest as he sits up and fishes out a crumpled up cigarette packet from his pocket.

He offers one to her, more out of habit than anything, that she takes and lights with her lighter (that she stole from him) and hands it over. Watching as he mirrors her actions, and slips the stolen piece back in his pocket.

She is mentally making plans to steal it back when he starts talking again.

“Its not guilt. Not really. Not what…what I think it means to your lot.”

“And the giving me the coin back part?”

He inhales and exhales. Buying a bit of time.

“Part of it, I suppose, but ain't all of it.”

Laura rolls her eyes, “Way to explain fuck all, Gingerbread.”

Quick as wild fire, he becomes furious. Suddenly standing and glaring down at her like he wants to burn her down to ash with just his eyes and nothing else. It’s powerful and violent enough of a reaction that even she takes pause.

“What the fuck do you want me to say? My life ain't some easy by the by poem you read on the back of a bleedin' cereal box. I was a king. I was a bird, and a mad man. I was all of these things and more, but saying them to you, do they have any meaning to them? Do you understand or even believe them? No.” He sneers, and she frowns deeply. Thinking about her reaction in the ice cream truck and knowing he's right.

Hating that she can't defend herself.

“Just as reading all these damned books is fuckin’ useless. You could read them all but it doesn't make a lick of difference to your state of being. You have a limited scope of understanding. By nature of what and who you are. Even dead and crawling out of your own grave hasn't changed that. You'll feel no heart beat from me like your lover boy, kiss or no kiss, Laura Moon. So don't even bother trying to test ya little half baked theory.”

He has called her cunt and bitch a thousand times over, but never before has he insulted her to this level.  With so much truth and venom. Never has it been so painful to hear. Laura likes to pretend she isn't affected, but she is.

For a long, drawn out moment they merely look at each other, poised at the edge of some great cavern of suffering. His. The one that is fathoms deep with age and unknown truths that as he so rightly stated, she can not understand. It seemingly grows wider in their combined silence.

Slowly, the massive angry fire in his hazel eyes fades and he turns his back. Stalking from the room, from her without another word.

Laura remains, lost in thought.

>

[sunlitroom]

Gotham – s5e03 – Penguin, Our Hero

As I watched it, and some random observations here and there.

Previously on Gotham:

Selina can walk again. She’s also part cat, thanks to the whole ‘medication may release the darker angels of your true self’ side-effect. Big-eyed orphans flocked to Jim. Tabitha ran into Oswald’s knife. Lots of gangleaders want to kill Jim. Barbara rescued him because she needs his help killing Oswald, because no-one else in interested, because Tabitha was easily one of the most dislikeable people in town. Seriously, Barbara. Have you noticed that Sirens isn’t exactly swamped in floral tributes?  Haven exists in soft focus.  Ed and Tank got rough.  Some very lazy graffiti implicated Oswald in the killing of several gang members.

As always, long post will be long.  There are likely to be rambling digressions. Gobblepot might appear (although I welcome all shippers and non-shippers alike :)).  There will be naked favouritism and naked not-favouritism.  Broader comments at the end on plotlines and parallels and general direction.

Oswald opens what I’m assuming is his bedroom door, or a door to his private rooms. He hears a choir singing a song of praise and smiles beatifically.

(An aside.  This is really dumb and I hate it - I'm not wasting wrist strength on it.  Also - it's really offensive.  Really really offensive)

In summary, Penn gives Oswald good news about production.  The writers feel the need to really hammer home that totalitarian regimes are bad, like we may be somehow unaware of this.  We also learn that people are ‘defecting’ to Haven, and that people love Jim Gordon.  Oswald pitches a hissy fit that’s interrupted when a bunch of bikers break in, looking for revenge for Oswald’s apparent attack.  He explains to the leader exactly how and why he’s stupid, and orders him to be interrogated.

In her hospital bed, Selina dreams about being shot by Jeremiah.  This will be a recurring theme in this episode – Selina has flashbacks later - and I think it’s a good thing that we get to see someone actually dealing with the aftermath of trauma.  I hope they don’t try to attribute this to the nasty seed thing later.

Waking with a start, she gets up and dressed and heads out onto the roof. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she leaps off the side, like she used to do.

At Haven, Harvey is warning about coping with the growth of new arrivals - word spreading like bad case of clap.  He also warns that the gangs will come looking for the slave labour they’ve lost.

Jim seems unconcerned. Let 'em

Harvey says they hardly have any ammo or food to deal with either issue– but Jim still refuses to turn people away.

Harvey then eyes Jim, and asks him when he slept – he’s been going full-tilt for months.  Jim tells him he’s OK – but does seem a little flat as he says this.

They enter a makeshift canteen, where Bruce is working.  They ask him for some good news, and Bruce tells them something about a water purification system that’s small-scale, but still an improvement.

As they’re talking, a fight breaks out over rations.  Jim breaks it up, and then realises people are staring expectantly, and delivers a speech. He tells the new arrivals that they’re all welcome, but they need to leave the fighting outside.  The government thinks they don’t need help, and they need to prove otherwise.  The gangs outside can tear each other apart – but they need to help each other survive.

Harvey is the voice of cynicism – pointing out that Jim’s speech worked now, but that it’s not going to be pretty when they find out that the government has abandoned them.

Bruce tells Jim that he’s holding this place together, and giving everyone hope – but he has more to add to his plate.  Will, the big-eyed orphan, is having nightmares and broke his arm falling from his bed.  Could Jim talk to him?

(An aside.  I get that they’re building up Jim as a more uncomplicated protagonist and father figure.  This is also to emphasise how emotionally invested Jim is in Haven, so that the explosion at the end will have added impact.  However.  It is treacly to the point of becoming sickening.  Maybe it’s setting up another of Jim’s dark paths – where he’ll side with his old army pal over tried and tested allies in Gotham, and have a one night stand with Barbara – but even then, it’s just all felt a little heavy-handed)

In the dormitory, Jim sits down next to Will.  Bruce tells him that they can’t imagine what he’s been through, but that he’s safe now. Jim underlines this by telling him that he’ll never let anyone hurt him again.

(An aside.  Jim, no.  You can’t promise that.  You can promise to do your best – but you can’t promise to keep someone safe like that. Bruce is young enough to have an excuse. You know better.)

Jim offers the boy a treat before he leaves.

I’ve got something for you: pineapple from my rations.  Hang in there – I’ll check on you later

He and Bruce walk away

(An aside – the obvious parallel here is between Jim and Oswald as leaders. Oswald – on an ego-trip, serving himself an elaborate breakfast, literally enjoying hearing his praises sung, slowly leaking followers. Jim – giving his rations away, working himself exhausted for his people, with people endlessly arriving at Haven.

And I suspect that’s how we’re supposed to view it – but, and I know I’m probably overcomplicating, it’s not quite so black and white.  It’s not as nakedly motivated by ego as Oswald’s actions, but there’s no way that this isn’t gratifying for Jim)

Selina shows up in the dormitory. An alarmed Bruce tells her she’s supposed to be resting- but a cocky Selina asks him if she looks like she needs it.  She’s never felt better, and she wants to find the freak who shot me.

Bruce says he’s been looking for Jeremiah, but never found anything.  Selina points out that there’s been an influx of refugees from all over the city – someone must know something.

Bruce says he wants to find him as much as Selina – but he’s had months to fortify, and they need to be careful.  Selina looks askance at him, and asks him if he’s scared.  Bruce replies that of course he is, Jeremiah

Shot you to get to me

He tells her he can’t lose her

Selina tells him she’s not his to lose.  He can’t stop her, but she does want his help.  Bruce stares for a moment, and says that if they’re going to take him down, they’ll do it right.  They’ll bring him back here and he’ll stand trial

(An aside.  Honestly, Bruce?  I don’t see any judges hanging around.  A makeshift court consisting of you, Jim and Harvey isn’t exactly doing it right.  On top of that, do you really want to bring Jeremiah into close proximity with defenceless civilians?)

Selina smiles fondly at Bruce’s naivete.  Reaching up, she touches his face and kisses him.

I was hoping I could count on you

Further in the dormitory, a man sitting on a bed says he heard rumours in dark zone – which is apparently a place of chaos - ruled by those who lost their minds when the bridges went down

(An aside.  Sigh, Gotham.  So the mentally ill are scary again.)

Jeremiah is there, gathering followers.  Selina makes to leave immediately, but the man remonstrates, telling her

You can’t go there: you’ll die!  Jeremiah is the least of your worries.  Everyone there is insane.  Look what they did to my friend

He pulls the cover down, and we can see the man in the bed has had stuff carved into his torso.

Oswald opens his bedroom door, in a snit, clad in underwear this time.  He’s wearing a tight black top and shorts under his white cotton garment. I’m guessing the white thing was possibly a little too see through, and they decided to just let the black underwear show rather than get a headache trying to hide it.

Penn! Where the f…..

His choir is gone, and there’s only Olga singing alone

(An aside – I know it’s not the biggest point in the world: but if people like Olga and Eyepatch Guy consistently come back to work for Oswald, then he’s not as uniformly loathsome as the show likes to paint him)

Oswald interrupts her – asking where his staff and Mr Penn are.  She informs them that they all defected to Haven.  He fulminates before panicking, looking for his dog.

He turns to Olga, teary-eyed

They took my dog?

She looks blandly at him

Rumour say pup went willingly

(An aside – I know Oswald’s scenes are more or less comic relief at points, but I still do get irritated when he takes more of a kicking than any other character in terms of sheer humiliation and being told he’s unlovable.)

He screams in rage and grabs the biker chained to the wall

You're in luck.  Our interests are now aligned – and you may live

He tells him to contact the other deeply irritating petty gangs, and to gather men, vehicles and petrol. He has bullets.  They’re going to pay a visit to Haven.

After he’s dressed, that is.

 At GCPD/Haven, Harvey – accompanied by Alvarez - tells Jim Oswald has made it through the barricade with gangs.

Jim tells them to load up. Harvey points out they’re low on ammo. Jim sends him to someone he hopes with be friendly.

(An aside here.  How much time has passed since last episode? Barbara made clear to Jim when she saved him that this was essentially conditional on him agreeing to plot Oswald’s death with her. Jim said he’d table that for later.  Is she still waiting for this to happen?  Has she just assumed he’s not going to do it? When are we, exactly?  If he’s really just never got back in touch, why assume that she’s going to be willing to help – other than the fact that he has no other options, and Jim has a track record of expecting help from people – no matter whether he’s recently jerked them around.)

Down the tree-lined street where Ivy and Selina once wandered – and which is now the dark zone. Selina cracks a joke about calling it the dull zone, and Bruce gazes at her – telling her he’s glad she seems herself again

Selina says she’s been here before – it’s the posh part of town. Bruce says people with money got out. She points out that he didn’t, and he tells her seriously that he had a reason to stay.

(An aside.  Oh Selina – and it wasn’t staying with you.  Bruce wanted Alfred to evacuate with Selina.  He was going to stay and hunt Jeremiah down.  Does Selina know this?)

A man with a bomb strapped to him runs towards them, frantically asking for help, before the bomb explodes.  We hear laughter and gunshot, as a band of God knows what approaches. Actually.  There was a version of Phantom of the Opera set in a disco in the 70s - called Phantom of the Paradise. They remind me of this, crossed with the slightly naff cenobites from Hellraiser III

Anyway

They turn to run, and collide with a hulking guy who’s not exactly friendly

Selina says they’re looking for Jeremiah

Kill you. Kill Jeremiah

Selina decides the best course of action is to find the schoolyard’s biggest bully and take him down

They all start fighting.

Haven, where Mr Penn is still conducting the choir - who now do hymns instead. We hear the sound of bikes approaching.  Penn nervously asks Jim what’s going on.

It’s Oswald.  Jim tells his men to hold their fire

Oswald gets out of his car – lividly angry.

Well. If it isn’t my old friend Mr Penn, and the Gertrud Kapelput Memorial Choir.  How nice to see some familiar faces!

Jim tells Oswald that he shouldn’t have come to Haven.  Oswald responds angrily that he stole his people and his dog.  

Jim says that the people came here of their own free will.  Oswald ignores him to call on his dog, who doesn’t respond to him

Jim raises his eyebrows at him triumphantly when the dog refuses to come when called.

Oswald reiterates that Jim is to return his people and his dog – and also apologise.  

Jim says no.

Oswald tells him he knows his ammo is used up – he’s bluffing.  

On Jim’s signal – some of his men take down some of the bikers.  Oswald pulls a face, and Jim says his men need some target practice.

Back with Selina and Bruce. The hulking guy tells her that she looks soft – while she tells him he looks 300lbs of ugly.  

Selina gets the man on the ground and starts clawing at his face with her new metal claws – demanding that he tell her where Jeremiah is.

The man protests that they don't mess with him – but then tells her he’s at Hotel North.

Selina’s still going, though, clawing at his face.  Bruce tells her he’s had enough.  She says it’s enough when she says so, and he restrains her.  

He looks at her, troubled, and tells her she won.  It’s over.

Selina blithely replies that it was easy, and strolls off.  Bruce stares after her unhappily.

Back at Haven, an irate Oswald tells the bikers that Jim is bluffing.  The leader asks how he knows.

I know Jim Gordon

Oswald says if they require a demonstration – they should march forward.  The biker says they have guns – Oswald retorts that he does too, and his are loaded.

They march.  As they approach, Jim tells his men to make ‘em count.

They shoot – but run out of bullets, leaving one man standing.

Oswald gloats that Jim is out of ammo, and points out that he doesn’t want his men to die.  

On the count of three, GCPD lower their weapons.

Bruce and Selina head to the church – Selina deftly climbing over cars.  Bruce is not happy at how she handled the big guy earlier, but Selina disagrees – asking whose side he’s on?

Yours. Always

As they approach the church, they see a shrine to Jeremiah.  Selina says she’ll tear his throat out.  They follow some other people up the stairs to the church and enter the building.

A woman in a mask welcomes them to the Church of Jeremiah, where the faithful will become their best selves – after a demonstration of faith.

They’re very oddly dressed. Shirt and tie – and one guy in a kilt (which tends really to be formal wear)

They walk further in. The masked woman stops Selina – and points out she doesn’t look like a worshipper.  Selina insincerely says she witnessed his work first hand, and she’ll never forget it.

She is permitted to pass, and follows the adherents upstairs.  The masked woman whispers in the ear of another guard before removing her mask.  It’s Ecco, in some dilapidated makeup.

Bruce slips away

(An aside - Where are the clean and well-dressed devotees coming from?  I thought the Dark Zone was a terrifying bedlam?  How did they get there without being attacked? Why are they so clean and well-presented?)

Oswald leads Jim to a cage/cell.  Jim tells him he’s going to regret this.  Oswald gloats that those are strong words for someone out of options.  He’s going to have Jim watch while they destroy Haven, and then shoot him and leave him for dead like did to Oswald

(An aside – Oswald – no you’re not.  We both know this.  Jim knows this.  That one-episode biker leader knows this.  Tank knows this.  Those weird English peasants at Ivy’s know this.   Give. It. Up)

Jim tells him when the government finds out what he’s done, he’ll be at the top of the wanted list. Jim – Jeremiah created this whole crisis.  Jonathan is crucifying people.  The government will not share your pigtail-pulling fascination with Oswald.

Oswald tells Jim the only law in Gotham is power.  Jim tells him they have children and families here.  What will happen when the gangs take them back? Oswald blithely says they’ll go back to being slaves.  His people will go back to their lives: bellies full of gruel, with him as their protector.

Jim tells him to take revenge on him – but leave the refugees alone.  Oswald tells him it’s almost tempting – before leaving

(An aside – and here, again, we have the problem with this storyline.  If you can tug on anyone’s heartstrings, it’s Oswald’s.  It’s stupid enough that they have him genuinely believing his people enjoy their life.  The additional notion that he wouldn’t actually care about children and families is stupid.  Let’s not forget – when Oswald was piloting the blimp, the worst outcome he could imagine was the death of thousands of innocent citizens.  It was Jim who felt the need to further incentivise him by appealing to his ambition.  Seriously, now.  It wasn’t that long ago.  I’ve said it several times before – but if your plot demands that the characters are ooc in order to facilitate it, your plot isn’t good)

Outside, Penn is being chained up.  Oswald’s not happy at this, and steps in

Stop - that one belongs to me

He manages to unchain Mr Penn – who smiles happily  - at being rescued, but also maybe at the indication that Oswald actually appreciates him.

One of the annoying bikers grumbles that Oswald sacrificed one of his guys. While Oswald is untying Mr Penn, who’s thanking him all the while – the biker shoots Penn in the gut.  

Penn drops to the floor. Oswald tries to stem the bleeding but it’s no good.  

You should have stayed with me!  Why did you leave?

Penn looks up at him and, without malice, simply tells him

Everyone hated you

Oswald looks down, his face blanched.  

One of the bikers tells him they’ll take everything.  An enraged Oswald says he’ll pay for this, before the biker wallops him hard in the face.

(An aside – sorry, but no. Oswald is cleverer than this. He’s adept at reading other people’s needs and wants.  The notion that he honestly would have no idea of how he was perceived is just silly.

Also – I know there apparently wasn’t time to develop Penn as the Ventriloquist, but I don’t think they had to kill him off.  It feels really unnecessary.  Given that this ‘revelation’ was only needed because they made Oswald temporarily stupid, it’s particularly bitter.  On top of that, if I feel he’s been jettisoned to help make room for the compulsory indigestible lump of Os/Ed interaction we’ve to dutifully swallow later this season, I am going to feel rather cross.)

Oswald is taken to the cage, struggling and protesting.

Let me go, we had a deal!

As he’s shoved in, Jim watches him calmly from the corner.

I take it that didn’t work out like you planned?

Harvey is at Sirens, calling for Barbara.  She sneaks up behind him, puts a knife to his throat and tells him there no men in Sirens past midnight – making it surely a very inconvenient brothel.

She adds that perhaps it’s time golden boy learned to save himself. She asks Harvey if he’s tired of playing sidekick.

Harvey tells her he doesn’t see it that way.  They’re friends fighting for same thing.

Barbara says she remembers when Jim was the idealistic rookie and Harvey was the cynical veteran. Harvey cuts in that she was sane back then.  Barbara snidely says that now Harvey carries Jim’s laundry.

Don’t you wonder what your life would have been like if you never met Jim Gordon?

(An aside - Barbara.  Yes – you have ample cause to deeply resent Jim.  He compartmentalised the bejesus out of his life when he was engaged to you, he moved on indecently fast, and his default facial expression when he’s encountered you since has been a curled lip and a sneer.  You turned to him after your release from Arkham and asked for him simply to recognise you as a person, and he wouldn’t do it.

However, laying the blame at everyone else’s door for your current situation has become tedious. You were placed in horrible situations, but you have also had agency.  Decisions were made.  Paths were taken.  For the actual love of God, stop whining. I’m so bored.)

Harvey replies that he’d be dead, or wishing he was.

(Another aside.  The spectre of Death has hung over Harvey since day one.  I do hope he makes it to the end)

Barbara sneers that he’s delusional – like the saps who expect the government to help.

Harvey tries again – commenting that he knows they’ve had their differences, before mentioning that Oswald has turned up…

Barbara’s tune changes, and she tells him he should have opened with that.

Let’s move

Back in the cell, Jim is trying to cut his bindings.  Oswald is ranting.  Jim’s taken everything from him.  Jim tells him to keep his voice down.  Oswald keeps talking.  His people should have loved him, he kept them safe.  What so special about Haven?

Jim pulls a face at him, and says it’s special because it’s far away from him. Oswald pulls a face of his own

That's rich

People are coming, and Jim hisses at Oswald to be quiet.  We see the head biker and a couple of children come in looking for supplies – one of whom is big-eyed orphan boy, who glances quickly at Jim.  Jim tells Oswald to just act normal, adding

I know it's a stretch

The boy slides a piece of metal under the cage, which Oswald covers with his foot.  The bikers find he booze they were looking for, and leave.

Oswald laughs manically. When they get out – he is going to tear this place to the ground.  He starts to rant – but Jim interrupts him.  That won’t solve the problem.  They need to take the gangs out – right here, right now.

They look down at the piece of metal.  Oswald asks how they pick it up.

They eye each other, and – honestly – the fact that they both wordlessly come to the same impractical solution points to how bizarrely close they are.

They turn back to back and – leaning against each other – lower themselves slowly to the floor, with Jim making some of the best facial expressions ever seen.

(An aside.  OK.  Fair enough, Oswald can’t really pick that up: I don’t think his leg would allow him. But Jim.  Jimothy.  JimJam.  Jimbalaya. I ran a test.  It’s easy to lower down to the ground with your hands behind your back, pick something up, and then stand again.  You saw a chance for some body contact and you took it.  Naughty.)

Bruce creeping about at Jeremiah's lair. He encounters a corridor strewn with the corpses of pilgrims, all with gunshot wounds to the head.

Meanwhile, Selina joins Ecco and the others in an empty swimming pool. Essentially, they play a group game of Russian roulette.  Ecco is very theatrical and Harley Quinn-ish about all this.  Selina scoffs – but, on Ecco implying she’s a coward, places the bullet in the chamber and spins the barrel.

Ecco counts them down – again, slightly aggravating on the quirky preciousness front.  We go quickly back to Bruce, whose head turns sharply when he hears the gunshots.

Ecco strolls round, announcing that she’s disappointed in those who didn’t participate.  Selina says she’s

Just not a mindless idiot willing to get shot in the head for nothing

Ecco glares.  She comments that Curls is here to judge all of us.  She goes on, though, indulging in some wittering about Jeremiah and his methods and how it looks like madness but it’s really liberation, blah blah blah

She then tells them all to leave now – she needs to have a word with Selina. They all got straight ‘As’ and can proceed and be reborn.

Elsewhere, Bruce follows two guards before beating them.  He ascends further up the staircase.

Selina faces off with Ecco. Ecco says she doesn’t want to meet Jeremiah, but Selina insists she does – only she’s not willing to play that psychotic game

Ecco does some more quirky stuff

But baby – it’s so fun!

Selina asks why Ecco doesn’t play.  Ecco tells her she doesn’t get it.  Lifting her hair, she displays a scar at the base of her skull, near her ear.

The bullet’s still inside.  I hear it.  Ping ping ping.  Boy do I feel it when the nights get cold

She pulls the trigger, but there’s no bullet.  She seems to be getting off a little on it.

Selina tells her she’s insane – but she’s indignant at this, saying she was willing to look death in the face and allow the old her to die.  This is the gift Jerome gave Jeremiah – and now it’s the gift he’s giving them

(An aside – interestingly, Jeremiah seems to have rather retconned his past with Jerome again.  The gas wouldn’t have killed Jeremiah – there was no potentially fatal option, as with his gun method)

Ecco smiles

We want you to experience that gift….Selina

Selina’s eyes widen

You know me

Ecco smiles

There’s not a single part of Bruce's life we don’t know about. His joys, his fears, his desires

(An aside.  Wow.  That sounds a like a fun couple activity.)

She adds that Bruce wasn’t ready for Jeremiah’s gift, and nor was Selina.  

Selina grimaces as Ecco points the gun at her face

One thing Jeremiah did teach me.  I hate a gun pointed at my face.

She hisses angrily, and they start to fight.

Oh puddin’.  Aren't you delicious?

(An aside.  I suppose you can’t really blame Ecco for flirting with Selina.  It sounds like most of her evenings with Jeremiah are spent working on the big Bruce scrapbook.)

Ecco says she knew she had it in her – all it took was a kick in the pants.  

Bruce appears.  Ecco sneers that her boyfriend is worried about her.

Selina flashes back to her shooting.  She manages to turn the gun on Ecco – but Bruce yells stop, and Ecco escapes, stabbing Selina in the leg as she goes. Selina screams in rage and makes after her – but Bruce stops her, telling her that she’s bleeding.

Selina cuffs him to the gate.  Bruce protests, but Selina says they’ve done things his way.  Not it’s her turn.  Bruce is left yelling after her as Selina drags herself off after Ecco.

Back at Haven, the bikers eyeing up cops and discussing who might be best for fights.  Jim strolls up

How about this?

He points his gun

The biker says he’s bluffing

I’m afraid not

Oswald appears at the other end of the room

Neither am I

Oswald shoots the gang members.  Jim calls on the cops to come out.  Jim and Oswald face each other across the room.  We hear a whimper, and Oswald’s dog approaches him.  He fusses over him, and reassures him that he killed the bad men.

The crowd behind him overhear this and mutter agreement – he did shoot the bad men.  They start to chant his name.

Oswald smiles gleefully. In many ways, he’s the world's simplest creature.

 Back at Haven, people are arguing both with and about Jim

You promised safety!

He saved us!

Oh boy.  Time for another speech.

It was a hard day - but we won.  

He points out that they’ve got Oswald's guns and ammo now, and that they survived.  Hope survived too – and he thinks that’s worth fighting for.

So do I

It’s the winsome orphan who rescued him

(An aside.   Mercy, Gotham. I can’t take much more of this treacle.)

Jim blinks in response to this support.  He goes on. Now there’s work to be done, wounded to be cared for.

Tomorrow's another day

Jim’s Scarlett O'Hara now.

A cop appears to tell Jim that Oswald is outside.  

Before he heads out, Jim tells the winsome orphan that he did a brave thing, and that they wouldn’t have escaped if not for him.  The boy replies that Jim helped him, so he wanted to reciprocate.  He hands the boy his badge, and tells him he needs deputies. He smiles and thanks him – especially since he’s allergic to pineapple.

 Jim walks towards Oswald, who is fussing over the dog.  He straightens up as Jim approaches, and asks him if the cops are really necessary: after all, he just saved hundreds of people.

Jim adds that he endangered them to start with, so he can be forgiven for wanting to play it safe.  

Oswald looks up at him, his face more sincere

Still - I do hope there’s no hard feelings?

Jim steps closer and looks at him like he’s recently been caught stealing apples, as opposed to putting a bounty on his head and then breaking through the barricade with a gang of bikers.

You did the right thing today, Oswald.  You’re free to go.  Don’t make me regret it.

They stand close and – even with my shipper glasses off, there’s really no other way to describe this – stare at each other fondly, smiles on their faces.

(An aside, before Barbara comes in waving the plot point no-one cares about.

I ship this like crazy. I like writing fic for it. One thing that’s blocked me for ages is how readily Oswald can forgive the worst of behaviour from Jim, and how Jim readily heads back to him for help each time no matter where their relationship has been. But actually seeing this helped me get it.  Oswald thinks he’s capable of doing great things for the city and its people.  Jim also believes this of himself: Jim Gordon, hero of Gotham.  They also both know they are capable of terrible, terrible things.  

To have someone who is not only seemingly willing to forgive you anything, but who also has a seemingly endless capacity to believe in you? That’s about as a big a deal as you can get.  No wonder they keep gravitating towards each other. Who wouldn’t?)  

Harvey hurries in, shouting a Jim in warning.  He’s swiftly followed by Barbara.

Hi Pengy.  Bye Pengy

Wide-eyed, Oswald holds his hands out in front of him, falling back on what he always falls back on in dire straits

Jim!

Jim hurriedly gets in front of him, and faces Barbara down

Barbara, no

Barbara tells him to get out of her way or he’ll get her first bullet.

Jim insists that he’s not moving

We don’t get to see what Barbara does next, because there’s an explosion that knocks everyone to the ground.  Oswald, Barbara and Harvey are unconscious, but Jim stands and looks around to see Haven up in flames.  There’s no scream of rage – just resignation, and weariness.

(An aside - So, I’m guessing that the explosion was Jeremiah’s doing – given that it just so happened to coincide with Bruce not being anywhere near the building?)

 General Observations

A couple of themes here.

The obvious parallel is between Jim and Oswald as leaders.  Jim is the ‘good’ leader, Oswald the ‘bad’ leader.  I don’t think we’re supposed to read more into it – but, as I said, I think you can really dig into a little more.  Barbara comments offhand that Jim wants to be a hero.  They both get emotional gratification from what they’re doing.

Oswald has already been chastened by Mr Penn’s death.  How Jim copes with what has happened remains to be seen.  

There was a little bit of crossover between storylines, if you squint, in the notion of proving yourself under pressure.  Oswald eventually did the right thing.  Oswald and Jim came together when it counted.  On the darker side, Ecco seemed insistent that Selina could step up to the challenge she posed after a kick in the pants.

Given that it lasted a whole two episodes – the Oswald as dictator thing was dumb.  Oswald’s whole thing is his ability to read motivations and needs and exploit those.  He can’t just fall back on a family name, or use brawn to succeed. But suddenly he actually hadn’t realised that people hated him? Really?  Equally – the bit later about him not understanding why people would resent the situation he offered: safety and stability – Oswald’s whole first season is him rejecting the notion of ‘knowing his place’ in favour of clawing his way up, risking his neck repeatedly.

Sorry – but this storyline has been dependent on both ooc-ness and Flanderizing his character.

Hmmm.  See – here’s the thing.  I liked Jeremiah last season – pre and post-gas.  He was different and had his own quirks and complexities.  He simmered icily – a contrast to Jerome’s all-out mayhem.  But I find the whole Cult of Joker thing tiresome – with all the witless, biddable acolytes wittering on about how he’ll open your mind.  It feels even more marked with Jeremiah, who essentially displays almost total contempt to anyone who isn’t Bruce.  I’m guessing part of the reason he stays secluded is that he can barely tolerate them.

I wonder if we’ll ever find out why Ecco was so devoted to Jeremiah.  Because she was – back last season – before all the gas stuff. Fiercely devoted.  It didn’t feel like a romantic thing – and I was curious to find out what it was.  Had he helped her out of a bad situation?  Did his working set-up meet her needs and personality in some particular way?

Thoughts?

[allenmendezsr]

Italian Ice Carts

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Italian Ice Carts

 Buy Now    

Want to earn Full Time Money while working Part Time Hours? Now you can with your very own Italian Ice Push Cart! Its easier to get started than you think!

First, lets rewind back to a few years ago when I was working as a tired and lonely construction worker earning only enough income to “get by”.

My job seemed meaningless and my life was at a dead end. After all, I was working in the hot sun 8 hours a day. I was very miserable, and I’ll be honest, most of that misery came from the fact that I was working all day just so that my boss could go on a paradise vacation every month.

Add on the fact that the construction business was going down the drain with the economy, and things really were not looking good for me. I was tired of waking up in the morning wondering if I would still have a job. So here’s the question:

Is your ability to earn income resting in the hands of someone else?

Well, mine was everyday. I felt like I was playing the lottery with my life and hoping I still had a job the next morning. Those paradise vacations my boss was taking… I wanted one. I needed one. In fact, I needed my very own paradise. NOT ANYMORE.

One sizzling hot afternoon, I felt like my body was drying up in the heat. I needed a refreshment. Something that could replenish my body and get me going again. On the way back from my lunch break, I stopped by a local Italian Ice Cart for a quick cool snack. While downing the icey, I spoke with the owner about his cart business and found out that he had made over $70,000 working only 8 months out of the year and on his own schedule. Disclaimer: These are not typical consumer results. Results may vary. You may earn more or less depending on several factors.

I was SHOCKED! As soon as I got home, I started researching about italian ice carts.

A push cart business like this can do a complete 360 to your life. It can literally transform your personal finances and give you a whole new lifestyle. In just a short time you can increase your income and finally begin to enjoy life. Plus, an Italian Ice Cart business is extremely fast and easy to get started with.

To really put the business in perspective, most days you can profit from $200 to $600, or more, and that is working only during lunch hours in the afternoon. Disclaimer: These are not typical consumer results. Results may vary. You may earn more or less depending on several factors.

Italian Ice Cart owners don’t work nearly as much as the average person, so this means their hourly pay is actually much higher than other professions that require a college degree or similar schooling. If you have a great location and you are more than willing to work then owning an Italian Ice Cart can pay off big time! You will make more cash the first day of selling Italian Ice than you will at your current job. Plus, its an all cash business.

Because of all this, I decided that owning my own Italian Ice Cart Business and being my own boss was exactly what I wanted in life. At that very moment, I told myself I would never depend on another boss to give me a pay check ever again.

Plus, the Italian Ice you’ll be selling is a very affordable product, which makes this a bullet proof and recession proof business. With the economy down, this is the perfect small snack to sell to the general public. Its delicious and just a few dollars!

Most Italian Ice Push Cart owners only work on the weekends, and many only work on specific days such as special events. With this business, its all about how much work you want to put into it.

I can hardly think of another job that will allow you to make your own hours, let alone your own entire schedule. But the Italian Ice business is one of them.

One very successful Italian Ice Stand I know serves their product in the middle of the night in busy downtown. Its very different, but tons of people enjoy it. There are millions of ways to make your Italian Ice Cart unique and different so that you stand out from other cart owners.

I started my cart business outside of a popular baseball field where rent was FREE! Yes, the rent was 100% Free! In fact, I’ll tell you in my book how you too can get sites rented for free! Oh, and I only worked the afternoon from 11am to 2pm.

Like lightning, word started spreading about my Italian Ice Cart and before I knew it, the stand become very popular. In fact, it become so popular that they asked us to move our cart farther down the field. The reason why? Our line of customers was creating a traffic jam at the entrance of the field! Within 6 months of starting, I built my own permanent Italian Ice Cart stand for less than $1400. I’ll show you how you can do it too.

I didn’t plan on building a permanent stand, it just kind of happened and then ballooned into something bigger. And this is just an option, you don’t have to be a permanent stand to be successful. You can own just one push cart and still earn fantastic income day after day, week after week.

With that said, there are pros and cons to both of the methods that I will explain in the book. The point is, your business will grow very fast before you know it!

Heck, it was only a matter of time until I began to get offers to buy my business. I loved selling Italian Ice and had no intention of selling the stand… Well, that is until the day I received an offer I could not refuse. I made more money than I ever imagined from selling the entire operating business.

To get to the point of making the amount of money I did, it took a lot of time and effort. By the time I sold the business, I knew as much as you possibly could about the business! I will share with you everything I know about it, exactly how I did it, and how you can do the same. This book will help you step by step with your Italian Ice Business so you can avoid the common mistakes that others make.

You Don’t Have To Learn The Hard Way!!!

By getting the book, you can skip the hassle of failing. I will tell you all the tricks, tips, and secrets that make the difference between success and failure… And these are secrets that you may never discover on your own!

How to start the business with as little money as possible.

How to comply with your state health department regulations.

How to keep your cart business legal and inline.

Where to shop for all of your ice and supplies.

How to advertise your cart business.

And much, much more.

Finally, you can be your own Boss!

Make your own hours and work when you want.

Work at Big Money Events – Parades, Games, Fairs and Special Events.

I will teach you everything you need to make your business a success.

You can work partime to supplement your normal income.

This is an all cash business where you can make $500 a day.

There is almost no overhead with this push cart business.

Each Italian Ice you serve costs you an average of only $0.25.

And the normal retail price you sell it for is $2.50!

I’ll share with you why its normal to sell Italian Ice 5 days a week!

When people start to see you make money with your Italian Ice Cart business they are going to want to help you out. And this reverts back to the fact that you are your own boss. You get to decide who works for you, around you, and who doesn’t. After all, you’re the BOSS.

The Italian Ice business will also help provide you with leads to bigger and better things. I had the opportunity to meet some great folks in the catering business and soon began to help them on the side. In this type of business you will meet people everyday that you can network with to expand your business and grow your revenue stream even more! The potential here is limitless!

Ok, so you may be thinking if its so easy then why do I need this book. Why? Because the Italian Ice Cart business is a very competitive business and there are a ton of mistakes you can make if you don’t know what your doing.

And in this business, one of the only ways you can get yourself in deep trouble is by making all those mistakes. Because remember, your largest competitor is going to be YOU!

I love the Italian Ice Carts business because it has allowed me to own and run and my very own business while enjoying it. I am able to meet amazing people day after day that enjoy me being there, and it gives me a great sense of pride in the fact that I started and grew it all from the ground up.

If you don’t already own your own business, then you need to start NOW. The feeling of not having a boss or not having someone stand over has to be one of the best feelings in the world. And you too can have that feeling.

I could never let my friends, or anyone for that matter, start an Italian Ice Cart business without having the information I provide in this book. At one point I owned 3 separate Italian Ice carts making a total of about $1500 per day… Yet, I didn’t have to pay a dime for anything! Its those secrets you need to know so you don’t get left out in the cold. I want you to be as successful as I was with my business.

I have a few lawyer friends who clear $100K per year, but I make even more than them! I am fortunate for my success and the fact that I am able to make up to a quarter of a million dollars per year selling Italian Ice. In my free time I finally can go on those paradise vacations, get invited to private parties, and I drive a brand new BMW M6. I live in a high rise condo on the 45th floor in downtown, and every single person I come across wonders how I can afford it. I am constantly asked the same question, “What is it that you do for a living to buy everything you have?”

And when I tell them I’m an Italian Ice Cart vendor, they don’t believe me. They see how young I am, the nice things I own, and they think I’m some kind of crazy drug dealer. BUT NOT ME!

The truth is simple. I own and operate several Italian Ice Carts that gross over 6 figures a year. Although, no one ever believes that is what I really do! But hey, I have gotten use to it over the past couple years, having wads of cash, and being able to do what I want and when I want. But after all is said and done your still probably wondering why I’m selling this book, right?

In general, I just don’t like to see people get ripped off by other sellers who think they have the true knowledge of running a successful Italian Ice Push Cart business, when they have never even served a cup in their life! And buying Italian Ice from the store or making it in your kitchen does not count!

In this book you will find all the information you will ever need to start you own Italian Ice business and to make a living just like I am able to do. To some of you, $300 per day may not seem like a lot of money, but this is a very expandable business. Plus, keep in mind that $300 per day is a lot of money if you only worked a few hours to earn it!

Even more so, there is more than just selling Italian Ice and making money. You can finally free your mind of stress, forget your money woes, and finally be able to enjoy life like it was meant to live. Living positively will help open up your mind to new ideas and help you find ways to expand your cart business. You will never be able to do that if you have someone breathing down your neck all day. Finally, be your own boss and get started right now!

” We are excited to say that we finally received our italian ice cart today and want you to know we are thankful for everything you taught us. We can’t wait to get started and to see the results that can be achieved from this easy to start cart business.“

—

Dan Knowling, FL

“Just a heads up! After reading your book I can say without doubt that you cannot put a price on that information. You should charge more for this type of valuable info. We are currently in the process of getting a location and are excited to launch our new business. I will keep you posted. Thank you again for your help!“

—

Bill Evans, NY

To express how positive I am that you will benefit from my book, I am offering a 60 day money back guarantee. My book as all the information you will ever need, it’s just a matter of finally getting off of your butt and doing it!

I look forward to knowing that there a ton of people who are going to take this information, put it to great use, and are going to go out there and make huge bucks!

But for others who are too lazy to get the book or think it doesn’t make for a great investment… well you are wrong and will be missing out. I hate to say congratulations to only the people who actually get the book, but those are the ones will will own their own successful business. And I look forward to hearing more from all of you new Italian Ice Cart owners!

But I am so positive you can benefit from my Italian Ice book that I offer the full money back guarantee. That is how confident I am that you can learn from my experience and use it to start your very own vending business. Get out there now!

All payments at ItalianIceCarts.com are processed over a safe and secure server. ***This is an E-book and can be viewed and printed directly from your computer*** After successful payment, you will be directed to a download page to INSTANTLY download the product.

It is easier than you think to get started in the Italian Ice Carts Business once you know how to do it. Use our book and be in business the very same day! After all, you do want to become your own boss and start making money right now? Well get up there and order the book so you can get started!

Finally, Be Your Own Boss! What Are You Waiting For?

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