#it just illuminated the fact that nobody gives a shit about anyone else

[laurelwinchester]

my grandmother finally seems to be recovering from covid but my grandfather is still in the hospital. he's on oxygen and he thinks it's 1994. i hate this.

[happy-tori-friends]

fate (khloe aliapoh ffxiv and rng) has decreed that i must post a preview of that self indulgent crossover with my silly omegaverse original work. one may notice some similarities to rwby (team names being acronyms, kemonomimis being called creatura (which are just bootleg faunus). this is because it was very heavily inspired by rwby (well an rp that was a crossover with rwby and something else). really, is it an original work if it's a bunch of things i went 'wow cool. im gonna take inspiration from this' and then. made a patchwork quilt. this is only a fraction of what is planned. before the story there will be some notes that may help you to understand

here is information about bloody war (fun fact: this title is stupid. i dont even know if there will be a war) that may be helpful for this section.

everyone has two blood colors - a main and a secondary, which is marble into it. this gives them cool powers.

the guardians of blood are this cool organization that defeats teros (aka bootleg grimm). you must be 13 or older to enroll in one four academies, but the most common age range is 17-20 (minors also need their guardians permission). usually, training takes two years but ti can take longer if one fails exams. once you have graduated, you are free to move to base on sanguine island (it comes with free housing.) for some reason you can then become a professor and teach shit (i didn't think this through tbh)

frost's guidance is in kaldsne, forest's illumination is in luctis, sea's sanctuary is on the gemsea isles, and night's shadow is in kagayatsuki. there are more countries than that but those are the four with training academies (the others got destroyed).

yes there's a white fang rip off it's called the ichor of the wild it might not come into play at all but... i really wasn't original at fucking all lmao.

theres also maiden rip offs. their the seasonal monarchs. their secondary color is a type of gold. but they dont come into play here right now. (except for the fact that miaki and hibiki are the fall princess and fall guardian. but they are only mentioned. whats a guardian. wait and see. why is princess and not queen. dont ask questions past me is stupid)

omegaverse but i make my own rules (i did Not mention it at all in this part tho). this was supposed to be fucking smut guys. it was supposed to be smut and then my stupid idiot dumb ass decided 'WaHt iF I WeNt tHrOuGh eVeRyThInG FrOm fIrSt mEeTiNg tO PoSt-gRaDuAtIoN WhEn tHe pOrN TaKeS PlAcE' like a moron and now here i am. still haven't written anything nsfw. the entire point of this bullshit.

@guardians-of-blood is the account for bloody war. it is on ao3 on my main pseud (AnemoVictorious)

splendont's from the gemsea isles. lifty and shifty were from luctis but stowed away on a ship to kagayatsuki and got taken in by a farmer.

team sfre = sapphire

this is stupid really stupid but it's my self indulgent heathen bullshit

okay i think that's good enough.

Two years ago, Splendid decided to attend Frost's Guidance Academy, where he became one of two leaders of Team SFRE, the other being his future boyfriend, Flippy Blair. At that point, Splendont was content with where he was and, though his abilities could be useful in combat, he didn't really think it was for him.

And yet here he was, a new student at Night's Shadow Academy. Older than most of the other new recruits at 23 years old, but he didn't really care about that. It wasn't even a big epiphany he had that made him decide to do it, he just wanted a  change of pace and scenery.

Kagayatsuki was nice enough - the weather was more mild compared to the hot summers of the Gemsea Isles, and despite being in the capital city of Yoruhoshi, the light pollution was surprisingly not that bad. He'd looked at them through the window, but tonight he wasn't all too tired. If he snuck out at night back home, his parents would scold him even if he was a grown man, but here nobody really cared.

There wasn't likely to be anyone else out this late at night either, so he made his way to the rooftop, the lighter and pack of cigarettes within his pocket just begging to be used. He didn't do it often, especially because his parents and Splendid frowned upon it, but sometimes he would smoke, just to have something to do. He didn't have an addiction by any means, it was usually only one or two every few months but it was sort of comforting to do something considered taboo.

He opened the door, already grabbing one cigarette and the lighter from his pocket as he left the building and saw the expanse of the sky over the rooftop. 

“Shit!” He heard a voice say. “I told you we should get off campus.”

“If we go off campus, we're more likely to get ID'd,” another, very similar voice, responded. Maybe a bit higher pitched. “Does it matter though? You forgot the lighter.”

“How'd we get ‘em in the first place? That's right. Fake IDs. Believable enough to get us cigarettes.” The first voice responded, clearly a bit agitated.

Once again his super-hearing caused him to hear things he didn't intend to. If only power limiters could limit specific aspects of one's ability, but alas. They limited everything. No getting around it if he wanted to use other aspects of his blood's ability.

It seemed these two were underaged and trying to smoke. Splendont didn't care - he, too, had done such things in the past, and had gotten caught. He turned towards the voices, and found two raccoon creatura  with messy green hair. One wore a hoodie, and the other a fedora and a bomber jacket. They both had similar shoes and ripped jeans, and the fedora-wearing one seemed to be irritated. From the back, they looked to be basically identical, save for clothing. Twins, maybe?

Well, it wasn't hurting anyone other than them, was it? Splendont approached, lighting his own cigarette as he did so. He then held out the lighter to them. “Here. I'm feeling nice right now, I'll let you borrow this for a second.”

The two turned to face him, and he saw their faces were basically identical too. Definitely twins. Their eyes were a brilliant golden color, which widened, and then narrowed, though the one with the fedora took it, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it before tossing it to his brother, who barely caught it and did the same, before gingerly handing it back to Splendont, though hesitating slightly.

“Thanks,” the hatless one, the second voice he'd heard, muttered, and Splendont nodded, taking a drag of his own cigarette and walking away, settling not that far from them.

Maybe he was curious about what they had to say, and maybe his super-hearing had a use when he wanted gossip or something like that. He tried to seem like he wasn't listening in, at least for a while, curious about what they'd say.

“You could've pocketed that,” the voice belonging to the fedora-wearing man spoke.

“Why bother? It's just a lighter. And we promised we'd try and stop.” The other responded, and Splendont raised an eyebrow, looking over at them

The fedora wearing one let out a snort. “Hah! Lifty, do you really think that Miaki and Hibiki would know, let alone their dad?”

So it seemed the hatless one was Lifty. Considering the weird names in his family, including Splendid's boyfriend, he wasn't too surprised at the oddity of the name. He did recognize the two that were mentioned - members of the first team formed in the year. They had different last names though. Maybe divorced parents.

“Shifty, he's staring. I think he can hear us,” Lifty murmured, giving Splendont another name.

Whoops. Oh well.

The redhead snorted, deciding to pipe in now that they were aware. “Duh. I gave you a lighter when you were whispering about needing one. It was kind of obvious, wasn't it?” he hummed, making his way closer to the two. “Not that I care what you do, though. I got grounded and chewed out for doing something similar, but I'm not going to pass on that pain to you.” He approached the one with the hat - Shifty, and extended a hand and offered an introduction. “Splendont Astra. You could say I'm a little late to the Guardians party ‘cause I'm 23, but I don't regret it.”

The other's eyes were narrowed as he took the hand and shook it, and they remained staring at him even as he did the some for his brother. “Shifty Steele. That's my stupid brother Lifty.”

“Hey!” Lifty protested as he pulled his hand away, punching Shifty in the shoulder before taking a drag of his cigarette. He seemed much more open than the other, but distrust was still evident on his face. “So… do you need something?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Splendid took in another puff smoke. “Eh. Figured I'd talk to some kindred souls. Smoke together awhile. Better than doing it alone. And if anyone comes up here, I'll take the fall.”

“Cool. A scapegoat,” Shifty murmured, “Can't really say no to that.” It was clear he wasn't all too interested, but was allowing it nonetheless.

His brother, however, looked him up and down a few times before offering a hesitant smile. “Well, we were told we should make friends,” he let out a sheepish laugh before turning to his brother. “And before you say ‘how are they going to know’, if we just keep trailing behind them or hanging out by ourselves, Miaki and Hibiki are going to realize we haven't made a single friend besides them yet.”

“I'm fine playing the part of someone you befriended,” Splendont chuckled, breathing in the nicotine. “Makes me look better than some guy that always keeps to himself too. You get to fool those two and get a scapegoat for smoking and stuff. Win-win situation.”

Lifty let out another laugh, tail swishing beside him. “Yeah! C'mon, Shifts, don't be a stick in the mud. Splendont seems kinda cool! Maybe… maybe we won't even have to lie to them, and we'll have a real friend.”

“Ugh, you're so annoying. Fine,” Shifty scoffed, shaking his head. “You're such a people pleaser.”

Their conversation continued for a while - mostly talking about how things had been since they arrived at Night's Shadow - how Lifty and Shifty were expecting to be on a team with their friends and got surprised at the first assembly, how their courses were going, and some rumors they'd heard passed around. Eventually, the two could barely keep their eyes open, and Splendont walked them back to the dorms. He made sure to snag their numbers first though.

As Splendont found himself back in bed once more, he couldn't help but smile slightly. Considering that they were likely underaged and he could infer from what he'd overheard that they liked stealing, Splendid would hate these two. He'd just have to leave out details when he told his brother that he'd made some friends.

[amortentiaparker]

be enough ⇒ p. parker

“Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?”

summary: peter tries to break it off when spiderman gets in between your relationship.

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: just one f bomb and a few swear swords sprinkled in

A/N: my first peter oneshot <3 likes and reblogs are appreciated! also, please do not repost anywhere— even if you’ll give credit.

inspired by peace - taylor swift

High school is finally over and New York was surprisingly good to you. The weather reflects the warmth in your heart whenever you think about the days of freedom ahead. You weren’t worrying too much about college, in fact you were excited for the new journey that you were going to take. With Peter attending MIT, thanks to Tony Stark’s so called pull, and you attending Boston University in the fall, you two agreed to make the most out of New York during the summer; despite already having grown up in the city.

Today, you two were set to go to Coney Island. You and Peter prided in the fact that you were New York locals, knowing every nook and cranny of the often romanticized city.

But after watching a certain Olsen twins movie during the time when he forgot his Star Wars DVDs, you two decided that it would be fun to go exploring New York through the eyes of tourists. Just last week, he purchased matching I love NYC shirts for you and him from a vendor across Delmar’s, which earned him odd looks since the residents knew that he was definitely a kid of the city. 

The sky was clear and you couldn’t help but close your eyes, smile to yourself, and bask in the sunshine. You were waiting for Peter by your fire escape, knowing that he will still climb up even without his Spiderman suit. But you knew that he had it on him, no matter where he is or who he was with. 

You found out about his secret identity during junior year, even when you two weren’t together yet. You felt bad that you found out accidentally, through Ned who accidentally showed you a selfie of him and Peter wearing the suit sans the mask. You remembered how red Peter’s face turned and how Ned gave him a sheepish, apologetic smile. Turns out, Peter let it slip to his best friend that he was starting to develop feelings for you which lead to Ned playing wingman.

You felt bad that the discovery happened without it going according to Peter’s terms. His shocked face and stuttering left you wanting to pinch his adorable cheeks and assure him that nothing will change. But of course things did change- but for the better.

The two of you got even closer than before during junior year. By the end of the school year, you were sure that something was definitely there, so it was disheartening when you learned that you were off to some Mediterranean country for the first month of summer break. 

But even after everything, you treasured the summer time because it was when you came back from vacation with your family that Peter asked you to go on a date with him. 

And now here you were, nearly a year later, wearing a blue sundress similar to the one you wore on your first date with your favorite brown-eyed boy. The window to your bedroom was open, ABBA playing softly in the background, and the summer breeze gently blowing your hair to the side. It was serene. 

A ping! rang through the air.

Peter <3: you ready, pretty girl???

And within a second later, your boyfriend was already standing at your fire escape. You smiled at him and Peter returned the loving gaze. His eyes scanned you up and down which made heat rush to your cheeks. 

After grabbing your belongings from a nearby desk chair, you double checked if everything in your room was in place before taking Peter’s outstretched hand to help you out the window. When you two got off the stairs, you took it as the time to check Peter out, just as he did to you.

He looked very handsome in his white button up shirt, levi’s, and blue satin jacket. You smirked when it was his turn to blush and you tugged at his jacket to give him a small kiss on the lips. You intentionally opted to leave your jacket behind so he can give you his for when the summer night breeze settles in later. Peter nudged his nose with yours once your lips have separated. 

“You wore that on purpose.” You whispered teasingly as you tugged at the sleeve of his jacket; the shade similar to your dress.

“You wore that on purpose.” Peter repeated as his hand slightly pushed up the hem of your dress with the palm of his hand. 

You felt that familiar heat on your face return, so you decided to place your head against the crook of his neck and left a kiss by his sweet spot. Giggling, you pulled away when he groaned. 

“We’re gonna be late, pretty boy.” You grabbed his hand and proceeded to tug him along as you skipped down the pavement. 

Luckily, it was a weekday, meaning that even though it was a nice summer day, there weren’t many children around to wreak havoc on the amusement area. There were old couples, but there were also teenagers hanging out with their friends. You and Peter giggled to each other like children when you two recognized some younger students in Midtown that were obviously on their awkward first date.

“Ice cream or cotton candy?” He asks as he snakes an arm around your waist and places a chaste kiss on your shoulder. 

The two of you eventually got some ice cream on waffle cones, but that was after you spent your energy playing games and riding the attractions. You argued that Peter might throw up if you two got the ice cream right before getting on the cyclone. 

The sun has set by now, and the night sky is illuminated by the stars up above. Bright lights overpower the darkness, creating a glow on everybody’s faces. And as you expected, Peter’s jacket was now around your shoulders. It didn’t take a lot of convincing anyways, his heightened senses immediately noticing the goosebumps that littered your skin. 

You two walked hand in hand by the boardwalk, with his thumb occasionally rubbing circles on your knuckles- which the butterflies in your stomach went frantic for.

You two shared a giddy smile, as if an unspoken inside joke had just occurred, but you knew it was just Peter sensing the flips your heart is currently doing. In the back of your mind, there was a voice saying that he’d still know either way if he didn’t have his spidey senses. You found yourself giggling out loud at how adorably ridiculous “spidey senses” sounded. 

“Whatcha laughing at?” Peter playfully squinted his eyes at you. 

“Nothing.” You laughed even harder which caused your boyfriend to tug you closer to him. 

Peter raised his ice cream closer to your face and you squealed and tried to get free from his grasp. He was eating triple chocolate for god's sake! 

“Tell me,” He chuckled and brought the cone closer. “Or else.”

“Is that a threat, Spiderman?” You whispered the last bit. 

The grin on your boyfriend’s face widened and next thing you knew, you felt the cold touch your cheek. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. All you wanted was to listen to Peter’s contagious laugh forever.

The laughter died down, but a look of content washed over both your faces, a faint smile still painted on your mouth. 

Peter brought a thumb to wipe away the ice cream smudge on your cheek. It was as if time slowed down and he was the only thing on your mind.

He has consumed your thoughts and there’s not a day that goes by in which you don’t think about him. You can see that his hand still hovered over the side of your face and his eyes held a sparkle that not even the fireworks that were bound to go off later could match. I’m so in love with Peter, you thought to yourself. 

Pink blossomed across Peter’s freckled face and you knew that you had accidentally broadcasted your thoughts aloud. 

“I’m so in love with you too.” He said, voice soft- but you could hear it clearly above all the noise.

“We should go to the park.” You suggested. Peter knew exactly what you were referring to as he admired the dreamy gaze on your face. 

He nodded and laced your hands together once more. He placed a kiss on your forehead and you sighed in contentment. Life was good, peaceful even. 

The walk was filled with laughter and stories exchanged between you two. Whether it was a memory already told or one that was dug up from the back of your minds.

You quickly spotted the familiar wooden bench and the two of you made your way towards it. It was perched next to a tree which gave the perfect amount of shade, not that you needed it tonight though. 

You ran your fingers over the wood and smiled wistfully, “This is where you first kissed me.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded before chuckling. “I was so nervous.”

“I know,” You teased. “But you’re big, ol’ strong Spiderman.”

“Spiderman doesn’t kiss,” Peter rolled his eyes playfully. “But so did I, so I didn’t know what to do.”

You couldn’t help but smile at your boyfriend’s sudden shyness. Looking around, you noticed that the park was mostly empty save for the vendors and a few women in business attire. But nevertheless, nobody was paying attention to each other.

You swung your legs over Peter’s, you sitting on his lap as you faced him. His arms found place on your hips on instinct and for a moment, the two of you sat there, eyes flickering from the other’s eyes and lips. 

You only got one kiss in when Peter gently pushed you away from him and he stood up from the bench, alertness and caution evident on his face. 

“I’m so sorry, baby.” He pleaded, guilt dripping from his voice.

“What-”

He quickly pulled you to the side and unzipped his backpack. A frown settled on your face as you saw the teddy bear he had won you earlier next to the familiar spandex suit. Settling behind the large tree, Peter started to undress and got into his suit, frantically looking around to see if anyone was watching. You did the same and made sure there was no onlooker. 

As you were about to express your concern, a sudden explosion filled your ears, causing you to scream. 

“Shit!” Peter exclaimed. His gloved hands pulled you to him. “Are you okay?”

All you could do was nod as the two of you looked over to where black smoke was rising into the already polluted air. An orange glow started to show, but it was not calming like the one back in the amusement park. Unable to speak, you listened to Peter and heard him talking to Karen about the commotion. 

“Y/N,” He pulled you from your thoughts. “Stay here, okay? Don’t go anywhere, not until I’m back.” 

“But, Pete--”

“Baby, please,” You could hear the desperation in your boyfriend’s voice. “Karen already predicts it won’t spread here so just stay, please.”

“Okay,” You frantically nodded. “I love you, be safe. Please, please be safe.”

Tears were starting to blur your vision and the last thing you could properly comprehend was Peter slightly lifting his mask to press a kiss to your forehead before he swung away with his webs. 

An hour has passed, and you were still shaking in fear by the bench. You had clutched Peter’s backpack to your chest and tried to calm yourself down by taking in his scent that lingered on the jacket. A faint scent of smoke filled your nostrils, but you clung to the smell of cinnamon mixed with fresh linen.

You received multiple texts from friends and family, but only gave them a short reply reassuring them that you’re fine. Physically, you were, but your mind was going into dark places. Your thoughts couldn’t stop from conjuring up negative ones. As much as you wanted to check on Peter, you knew that it would not benefit anybody because it would distract him from doing his job. 

“We gotta go!” Peter suddenly appeared in front of you. He didn’t wait for an answer before he pulled you into him, right arm secured around your torso.

You squealed as you two ascended into the New York skyline. You just hoped that your nails weren’t digging holes into Peter’s suit because of how hard you were clinging onto him.

“Peter!” You cried out. You heard him mutter an apology under his breath as he continued to shoot webs from building to building.

You kept your head tucked under his neck throughout the entire journey. You didn’t even know where you two were going but the fear mixing in with the adrenaline held you back from asking questions.

You felt Peter’s momentum slow down and you noticed that it was brighter and louder now. Honks from taxi cabs clashed with sirens from fire trucks. He helped you settle on your feet, and kept you steady when your legs went all wobbly.

You were at your fire escape.

Taking a few deep breaths, your heartbeat eventually calmed down and you took in Peter’s shaking form. You heard him let out a sob and panic rose in your chest again.

“Baby, hey, what’s wrong?” You asked with a soft tone, and started to gently lift up the bottom part of his mask.

His breathing was frantic and you continued to completely take off the mask that clung to his skin. Peter wasn’t meeting your eye and you knew that his senses were still going haywire. You cupped his face in your hands.

“Hey, Pete..” You cooed. “Breathe with me, yeah?”

You two started to synchronize your breathing pattern and you felt his jaw starting to relax underneath your touch. He finally looked you in the eyes and the tears forming in his waterline broke your heart.

“Are you hurt?” You asked, starting to open your bedroom window with one hand while the other remained on his cheek.

“I—” Peter started but eventually let out a sigh. He started helping you lift up the window and helped you crawl inside your room.

You were confused when Peter was still by the stairs and wasn’t budging.

“Come on in, it’s okay.” You reassured him. You knew by the look on his face that he was blaming himself for how your night turned from peaceful to one involving you inhaling in smoke.

“Come here, it’s okay,” You stretched out your arms and started to pull him into your room. You knew that he was complying since you wouldn’t be able to move him by an inch if he wasn’t.

Your arms didn’t let go, but rather tightened around Peter’s figure when he set foot into your bedroom. You rested your head against his chest and let the faint sound of his heartbeat calm you down. A small smile crept on your face his hand rested on your waist and the other started caressing your hair softly.

“I’m sorry.” He let out. You only hummed in return, letting him know that you were genuinely fine with the events of tonight. “We should—”

You kept quiet, waiting for him to finish his sentence. You pulled away when he didn’t.

“We should what, Pete?” You whispered as your hand came up to cup his cheek again. To be honest, you didn’t know why the two of you were whispering. The apartment was empty and you wouldn’t be bothering anyone.

“We should..” Peter trailed off once again. You could hear him swallow because of how quiet it was in your room. “We should break up.”

You immediately retracted your hand, “What?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Tears were fully streaming down his face now. “But it’s for the best.”

You could not comprehend what he was saying. Something definitely happened earlier by the fire that was causing him to say such things. You never pushed Peter to tell you about things going on with his life as a superhero.

Of course, you ask him to share fun stories and what it’s like, but never have you pushed him to share the horrors that he has seen. You know Peter well enough that he will tell you about it whenever he was ready. And you respect that. But this time was different.

“Peter, what happened?” You asked firmly.

“It’s– it’s me, okay? You being with me is dangerous and I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

“Peter, what happened?” You repeated, crossing your arms. “At the fire. You know that I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”

He lets out a frustrated groan and buries his face in his hands, “I know that! Don’t you think I know that? But.. but out there, there are seriously messed up people that won’t go down from a pepper spray to the face.”

You softly gasped as he started to raise his voice, but you stood your ground, “Peter, what—”

“He said your name!”

The room was quiet now. Silence between you and Peter had always been comfortable, the kind that only two people that truly understood each other rejoiced in. But you didn’t like the silence that followed after Peter’s words. His eyes bloodshot, and the lips you absolutely adored wobbling.

“He said your name, Y/N..” Peter continued with his shaky voice. “Said he knew you.. that you were my weakness.. and then I was filled with so much rage I lost control and he still got away.”

“Oh, Peter.” You cried. Tears were now falling down your face too as you cradled Peter in your arms. He was bigger than you, but right now, a scared boy shivered in your embrace.

You could never be mad at him. Not truly. And you understood where he was coming from. You would find yourself doing the same thing if you two switched places.

The two of you continued to hug each other in the dark, with silent tears running down your faces. But by the time you felt each other’s breathing to calm down, you two got up from the carpeted floor and you helped Peter get dressed.

It was quiet when you helped him out of his suit that smelled like smoke and into some fresh pairs of sweatpants and corny graphic t-shirt that he left by your place.

Eventually, you two settled on your bed, with Peter resting his head on your chest and you running your fingers through his chocolate curls. The silence was better this time around. But still, words need to be said and this was not some argument you two could just set aside for another day.

“Please don’t leave me.” You whispered and you felt Peter tense up.

“Never.” He found himself saying. But it was true. Peter could never leave you, no matter the circumstance.

“I love you so much, Pete..” You started. “And the guy from earlier was probably just some lowlife loser who starts fires with cheap hardware store gas.”

Peter’s contagious laugh rang softly in your ears and you continued your little speech. “So who the fuck cares about what he says? You’re a goddamn Avenger.”

Peter lifted his head and rested his chin by your stomach, “Yeah, but..”

“No buts, Parker,” You tutted. “I can kick some ass myself, ya know?”

Your boyfriend laughed once again and Peter found himself hovering over you. He placed a kiss on your nose as he laced one of your hands together.

“And I can teach you some sweet Spiderman moves.” Peter smiled against your lips and you found yourself mirroring his expression.

“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot for trying to break up with you.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Pete.” You reassured him, squeezing his hand that was holding yours for extra measure.

You two fell asleep in each other’s arms after mindless talking and soft lingering kisses on each other’s lips. It was a cold summer night but Peter was right there, keeping your brittle heart warm.

[jar-of-ectoplasm]

Reverse Demon Slayer AU

a/n: a demon slayer au my friend and i were talking abt a bunch last week and i wanted to share it with you guys :))

like literally the au is just the demon slayers are the demons and the demons are the demon slayers it's prob been done before but still here it is besties (the hashiras turn into the 12 kizuki, the trainers are like the ex-kizuki members [like kyogai])

Genre/Warnings: Demon shit, body horror, just kinda creepy stuff cause the demons in Demon Slayer look busted most of the time, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of violence/death, religious stuff (gyomei)

~Giyuu Tomioka~

-Stays in the forest near a lake

-His voice echoes, kinda like how a siren's would. Since his voice is very calming and can go pretty far out, it lures a lot of people into his lake

-Blood Demon Art: Can create "reflections" of the demon slayers he's fighting out of the water in his lake. Every hit they land on Giyuu's version of them just goes straight through it since it's made of water but it's able to actually hurt the slayer (basically giyuu just makes little water minion to do his bidding)

-Would be very attached to the demon who turned him (which is Urokodaki) and would be absolutely livid if anyone managed to kill him

-After your encounter with an ex-kizuki member, you started hearing a strange voice echoing through the forest in front of you. Mistaking the man's calls as cries for help, you venture further into the forest not knowing you were walking into your death.

~Shinobu Kocho~

-Her eyes look just like a fly's, but instead of red they're purple

-Has pincers on the sides of her face

-Blood Demon Art: Can spit acid up to 5 feet (like an assassin bug) and if she manages to bite you, she can inject venom into your bloodstream with her freak ass bug tongue (like an ant)

~Sanemi Shinazugawa~

-The top half of his outfit would be tied around his waist (like how Susamaru had hers)

-The scars on his body would become mouths, and each mouth also has a voice so whenever Sanemi speaks it's like there are several voices speaking at the same time

-Blood Demon Art: Can literally take the their from a person's lungs and suffocate them. A demon slayer can't use their breathing technique if they can't breathe, right?

-Doesn't wash the blood off his clothes and he keeps the swords of the slayers he kills as trophies

~Tengen Uzui~

-Each dot on his face tattoo would become more eyes

-His three wives would change every so often because they're kidnapped female demon slayers

-Blood Demon Art: If he gets even the tiniest cut anywhere on his body, he'll be able to emit an incredibly high pitched sound to disorient his opponent

~Muichiro Tokito~

-Blood Demon Art: Creates a mist that, when inhaled, fogs the person's memory; making them forget what they were doing completely so he can easily attack them

-Honestly, he thinks killing the Hashiras Muzan sends after him is a chore, so he usually stays in the Infinite Fortress

-When he does go out though, he doesn't stay in one place for too long so he can avoid the demon slayers as much as possible. He doesn't want to waste energy on killing low level children

~Obanai Iguro~

-Pretty much a naga, the bottom half of his body is a serpent's tail

-Can unhinge his jaw to take some big ass fucking bites out of people

-His eyes can look in two different directions at the same time, making it hard for slayers to land a good hit on him

~Mitsuri Kanroji~

-Main territory is the red light district, she lures men into her little place and eats them

-Blood Demon Art: Similar to how Tamayo can force someone to tell the truth using her demon art, Mitsuri is able to attract people to her. No one wants to hurt the person they're attracted to, so it would make it easy for her to kill them.

-The prettiest demon Hashira by far, pretty much everyone else looks like some horrible grotesque creature

-She always tries to keep the clothes of the men she kills clean so she can give them to the girls in her house. Even if they are human, she still cares for them greatly

-Is the cleanest demon Hashira as well. She doesn't like making a mess of her room just to clean it up right after

-Mitsuri also likes to try different recipes with the men she eats. Having them raw just isn't as fun as cooking them herself

~Kyojuro Rengoku~

-Blood Demon Art: Similar to Esidisi from JJBA, he can make his blood boil. When the slayer manages to get a hit on him, his blood would splash on them and burn through anything it touched. The temperature of his blood is on par with lava

-Looks the most human out of pretty much all the demons, but something just seems very off about him

-When you're fighting him, he's stone faced until he gets bored of you. His smile just looks way too big for his face, and the amount of teeth in his mouth are far beyond what it should be

-Doesn't have eyelids so he literally never blinks

~Gyomei Himejima~

-Would be dressed as a traditional Buddhist priest/monk

-He kills demon slayers to "help them atone for their sins"

-Main method of killing would be using his rosary to choke them out, sometimes since he doesn't really know his own strength their heads pop off

-He cries blood instead of tears

-Blood Demon Art: Can make his blood as hard as diamond so the demon slayer would be unable to cut him on the first try, so he would be able to take advantage of their shock and kill them

~Tanjiro Kamado~

-Blood Demon Art: Just the same as Nezuko's, since they're siblings and all that

-He had come from a family of demon slayers, and after getting turned into one himself they all tried to kill him (except for Nezuko)

-Wears a muzzle only when Nezuko is around other demon slayers. They have to keep up a charade, but it's so hard to control himself sometimes and that's when the muzzle really helps

-His favorite part of the body is the heart. When he was human, everyone always saw him as kind and innocent but when he was turned he was seen as the complete opposite. He hopes that consuming the hearts of other people will return his old kind-hearted personality

~Nezuko Kamado~

-Nezuko followed in her parent's footsteps by joining the demon slayer corps, but instead of trying to find a cure for her brother she gets information and passes it to Tanjiro and the demon Hashiras.

-Nezuko ended up taking Tanjiro away from the bloody ruins of their home, and on their way down the mountain they ran into Giyuu who instructed them to go to Urokodaki so Tanjiro would be safe

-Has killed demon slayers who have seen her interacting with the demon Hashiras. She has to keep her record clean to climb the ranks and to help Tanjiro at the same time

~Zenitsu Agatsuma~

-Would lure people into a trap by guilt tripping them into being alone with him

-"Could you please help me? I lost my gramps, but I can't see him anywhere. Will you help me find him?" and then they'd get bodied

-Always avoids killing innocent people or new demon slayers. He feels so bad for taking their lives away from them, but sometimes he just can't help it

-He'll style the female demon slayers hair after he kills them so they can be just as pretty as they were in life when they get to Heaven

~Inosuke Hashibira~

-The boar mask would become his actual head

-Instead of duel wielding swords, they would be some big ass fangs that he swings around to impale demon slayers

-Inosuke fights dirty. He'll snap his jaws at you and laugh hysterically when he manages to take a chunk out of your arm

-Actively seeks out demon slayers to kill. He never kills regular people because they don't put up a good enough fight for him

-Eats every part of the body, including the bones

~Misc Characters~

-Kanae was a spider-esque demon and cocooned people in her webs to feed a young Shinobu and Kanao until she was killed

-Kanao was human-turned-demon by the sisters

-Urokodaki is an ex-kizuki member and all of his trainees are now the demons in the Final Selection

-the Fox Children, led by Urokodaki, are merciless to any wannabe slayer that comes into their forest looking to make it out alive. Most of the demon slayers that make it out are nearly dead or had ran straight through, not even trying to get a kill

-the Fox Children wear the masks because their faces are incredibly fox-like (think like, mid transition animorphs cover)

-Nobody knows what Urokodaki's face looks like, but based on his mask that's for the best

~General Stuff~

-In this au, the demons actually stick together and the demon slayers work alone which makes the Hashira Kizuki way fucking scarier than they already were

-And because these demons work together, they're all going to hold grudges against certain demon slayers

-When Kanae was killed, the demon Hashira went apeshit, especially Gyomei. Pairing his strength and horrible blinding rage at the fact his coven lost a very important member, every slayer he kills within the first year of Kanae's death die in horrible ways.

-Imagine following the directions your dove gave you to an old, overgrown sanctuary secluded in the mountains. The moonlight does little to illuminate your surroundings, but one thing you do see is the mangled body of your fellow demon slayer hanging from a tree. The only thing keeping them together is their spinal cord, and the impossibly large hand holding their head to a branch.

-The Hashiras are all extremely savage and violent, rarely ever sparing a human life. (sometimes Shinobu or Kanao might feel bad and spare a small child or elderly person, but other than that nobody is safe)

-Crows would service the demons, and doves would service the demon slayers. Everyone is always wary around crows because nobody knows whether that particular one belongs to a demon or not

[gohyuck]

my someone

pairing: jeong yunho x reader

genre: angst to fluff, f2l

warnings: n/a

word count: 1.5k

“you’ve been out here all night.”

you startle, not expecting yunho to come up beside you. he’s smiling at you when you turn to the side, one of his hands wrapped around the balcony railing in front of him. the fairy lights strung up overhead bathe him in light, reflecting off of his all-white suit. your best friend looks almost angelic, and the soft, inquiring gaze he has completes the picture.

“for someone so big, you have, like, crazy light footsteps,” you respond, a corner of your lips pulling up as you turn to face him. “didn’t hear you at all.”

“you’re dodging the question.” yunho slides the hand on the railing towards you slightly, and you can’t help but let your breath hitch once you feel the knuckle of his thumb against the thin cloth of your formalwear. you know he’s just being kind, being genuine as he gets closer to you. perhaps he thinks it’s his duty as your date. maybe he counts it as his duty as your best friend.

“you haven’t even asked a question.” you’re still grinning as you meet his eyes, though you’re sure the ache in your chest is easily seen in your expression, no matter how hard you try to hide it. you don’t even know why you’re indulging yunho right now: he’s always read you so easily. it’s doubly bad now, considering that he’s the reason you’ve spent half your prom night out at the balcony of the hotel floor the school had rented.

he’d seemed so happy, so content talking and laughing with the rest of your friends. yunho’d helped one girl with her hair, pulled another guy closer by the waist as they’d both lost it over a joke mingi’d made about jongho and beating the ever-loving shit out of a watermelon in the name of sport. sure, he’d asked you to be his date (“best friend privileges, am i right?” “whatever. you’re buying me a corsage.”), but he could’ve asked anyone and they would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.

you aren’t special.

“figured the question was implied,” he’s smirking now, though his eyes remain ever-so-slightly concerned. once you don’t respond, only continue to smile detachedly at him, he sighs before wrapping his arms around you entirely and pulling your body into his.

“what’s wrong, moonshine?” yunho murmurs his nickname into your hair, and you can’t help but let a quiet, airy laugh out at it. he’d taken to calling you ‘sunshine’ back in sixth grade until you’d had your emo/alt not-a-phase phase in seventh and told him the name made you feel too nice, and that you weren’t nice, you were edgy, among other things. he’d laughed directly in your face before switching to ‘moonshine’, asking you if that was an edgy enough name.

it’d stuck ever since. he’s stuck ever since. his hand rubs up and down your back now as if to soothe you, and you know he’s aware of how tight your muscles are pulled.

your heart aches. you can’t do this anymore: it’s been years upon years of having yunho as your best friend and nothing more, and you think it’s finally, finally taken a toll on you. the ache is intensified by how sure you are of the fact that he doesn’t love you back: you’ve never had another person to call your own, and yunho’s had plenty. He’s cycled through boyfriend, girlfriend, partner after partner since high school had started, never keeping someone for more than a few months. you’d always watched his relationships fall apart like movie scenes you couldn’t tear your eyes away from. you’d always held him in the aftermath, ever the epitome of a good friend.

“i’ll never find love, will i?” you voice the thought aloud, meeting yunho’s gaze with a strength you’d previously been unaware of. it’s as if your question is a challenge, one he can either meet or deny. maybe you still have a bit of hope left in you.

yunho stares back, albeit more confused - and a little saddened - than he had been seconds prior. he says nothing, and the ray of hope piercing your heart breaks in half, like an arrow being pulled unceremoniously out of a dead warrior.

you’ve had enough. you look away. your head hangs.

it’s only when you can’t see him, can only see the white of his suit that you let all of your thoughts fall out, finally convinced that it - whatever it is - is done.

“i just - i… i’ve never had someone of my own. i mean i know that it’s only senior year, and that i have my life ahead of me, but sometimes it feels like i - it feels like the one person i’ve always loved will never love me back.” you pause in your rambling to take a breath, and yunho mistakes you for finished. he opens his mouth to speak, but you raise a hand to silence him, narrowly missing hitting his nose. you don’t care. you forge on. “he’s always with someone or the other - i mean i guess he isn’t with someone now, or whatever, but - god you won’t get it, because you’re like that, you always have someone. he’s always with everyone but me and it sucks because i love you so fucking much that it physically hurts.”

there’s silence, only your muted breathing, and then, as you register what you’ve said - i love you, instead of i love him - there are tears. he knows. all these years, and now he knows.

you turn away to look over the balcony, suddenly having to work hard to keep yourself from gasping for breath. the ache has not dulled, not in the slightest, but at least the pressure is off your chest. at least its made way for a new kind of weight.

before you can mull over - re: cry over - what’s just happened, a warm hand comes up to cup the side of your face closest to it, a thumb swipes one of your tears away. you can’t help but glance at yunho, expecting to see him crestfallen at the ruination of your friendship.

he’s smiling the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.

“i’ve always had someone, yeah, but that someone’s always been you,” he says, words rushed because he doesn’t want you to cry any harder. “it’s always been you. nobody else has ever stayed because none of them have ever compared to you. i thought - i thought you didn’t want me, so i never even tried.”

his other hand rests gingerly against your waist for a moment before he deems it too awkward, instead sliding his arm around your middle fully before pulling you into him again. yunho’s words are still taking root in your heart, still being processed in your mind, and it’s a moment before you’re crying twice as hard in realization. it’s you for him just as it’s him for you?

“i love you, moonshine, always have.” he cements it before you can ask him too many questions, the words mumbled against your hair as he holds you close. yunho is all around you, enveloping you, and your whirlwind of emotions ends in you feeling very, very safe.

you pull away to take a good look at his smiling face, and he brushes all of your tears away before they can stain your face. his mouth is quirked into a smirk, though it’s softened by how kind his eyes and actions are. you can’t help but give him a watery smile of your own, though you can hardly believe what’s happening.

“i think,” you say, words wavering. his gaze is soft, encouraging, and he waits for you to continue. “i think we should talk it over properly in the car.”

“sure,” your best friend (soon to be boyfriend) replies, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours. it feels right. “we can talk all night long. hell, we might have to talk all night long. for now, though, you owe me a dance, yeah?”

as if the universe is listening, the dance pop song in the background fades out just as yunho finishes his question, transitioning to a slower r&b song. you watch as people filter off the dance floor, only a number of couples remaining as they start slow dancing. yunho steps away from you and holds a hand out, and you don’t hesitate in taking it, eyes dried and smile big as your love pulls you from the balcony and leads you to the dance floor.

you have your first kiss with yunho at prom, colored lights illuminating your faces and smooth rhythms backing crooning vocals as a soundtrack, his arms looped around your waist and your own thrown over his shoulders, his mouths slotting perfectly against yours, and it’s magical. it’s as if everything you’ve never said is behind that kiss, every moment the two of you’ve missed before. it’s beautiful, and wonderful, and, more than anything, it’s truly, truly magical.

it’s magical enough for him to mention it in his wedding vows to you, years upon years later.

[fruitcoops]

since your Possessive!Remus thing was literal perfection, would you consider writing Possessive!Sirius? I feel like Loops would get hit on by a lot of guys who see it as some sort of challenge to steal him away from Cap and I wanna see Cap react... strongly to that 👀😂

Ohohoho, I like the way your mind works! Hope you enjoy! The possessive!Remus fic is called Hey, Jealousy and is linked here if anyone would like to read it.

TW for implied sexual content and heavy flirting, attempted groping/ the inability to understand a simple ‘no’.

Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, as always!

The music was loud enough that Remus’ head hurt if he paid too much attention to it—luckily, he was a little preoccupied dancing with his fiancé. Their cheeks brushed every few seconds, and if Remus glanced up slightly he knew he would see Sirius’ face illuminated in the vibrant club lights that flashed in a thousand different colors.

Sweat made his hair stick to his forehead and he pushed it out of his eyes; he felt it on the back of Sirius’ neck as well, as if he had just played a hard shift on the ice. He couldn’t even remember which of the guys had suggested going to a club in the first place, but they had come along to let loose and get out of the house for a change. It was a Friday night, after all—why shouldn’t they have some fun?

He tapped the back of Sirius’ neck and tilted his head toward the bar, shouting “water!” as clearly as he could. Sirius smiled and kissed his forehead before letting go of his waist. People jostled him on all sides and he thanked whatever higher power existed that nobody spilled their drinks—or anything else—on him.

“Two waters, please,” he panted to the bartender, wiping his forehead off with the shoulder of his shirt. The woman nodded and headed back for clean glasses.

“This one’s on me,” a deep voice said as someone sidled up to his right with a smirk. “Hey, sexy. I’m Cal.”

Remus smiled politely. “Thanks for the offer, Cal, but I think water’s free.”

“Then I’d be happy to get you something else. What’s your name, cutie?”

“I’m not really in the habit of talking to strangers,” he said. God, this place was so fucking loud. “Coincidentally, neither is the person I came here with. Have a good one.”

Cal squinted at him in the low light and his smile broadened into a challenge. Shit. “Where’s your boyfriend, mystery guy?”

It’s not a mystery that I don’t want to fucking talk to you. Remus rolled his eyes and leaned on the bar counter, searching the crowd for Sirius; he was hanging out by the back wall, laughing with Kuny as Remus pointed to him. “There. The one with the backwards hat.”

“That guy?” Cal shook his head with a laugh and Remus bit the inside of his cheek. “I saw him dancing earlier, he has no rhythm.” He turned what was probably supposed to be a smolder on Remus. “Dancing with me would be a lot more fun, I can promise you that.”

He snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure, dude. Sadly, I don’t have any rhythm either.”

“I could teach you.” Cal was leaning closer and Remus could smell his overdone cologne.

“I’ll pass.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” Movement caught the corner of his eye and he reached down, hauling Cal’s hand upward by the wrist.

He made direct eye contact with him. Blood thundered in his ears. “I said no. Touch my ass and we’re going to have a real problem.”

“Hey, chill out.” Cal pulled his wrist away and held his hands up in surrender. “Can we talk about it outside or something?”

Remus almost laughed. “Fucking hell, you’re persistent. What part of I am in a relationship are you failing to understand with the two braincells left in your goddamn head? That updo might be sharp enough to cut glass, but apparently all the hairspray has rendered you incapable of understanding simple words. Should I say it again or do you want me to get a whiteboard?”

“Look, man, I just don’t think you actually have a boyfriend,” Cal said defensively.

“He doesn’t.” Remus recognized that low voice, as well as the warm arm draping over his shoulders. Sirius reached a hand out and his ring glinted in the light. “I’m his fiancé. Who the hell are you again?”

Call didn’t take it; he just stared at them. “Sirius, this is Cal.” Remus kissed his cheek. “Apparently, he thinks you have no rhythm.”

“It was just a joke, man—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Sirius laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You’re right. I don’t. Neither does the man I’m marrying in a few months, but that hasn’t stopped us yet.”

“Sirius,” Remus warned under his breath.

“Cal, I’m sure you’re plenty nice when there’s not music blasting at a hundred decibels and you can actually see someone more than two feet in front of you.”

“Thanks, man.”

“I’m not finished.” Sirius’ tone became hard and unrelenting. “But as nice as you might be then, that doesn’t change the fact that you tried to grope my fiancé. I’m giving you five seconds to get lost.”

Cal straightened up indignantly, though Sirius still loomed over him. “What are you going to do, call the bouncer?”

“No.” Sirius made no outward threat and did not elaborate. Cal vanished into the crowd in half the time given to him, but Remus didn’t feel him relax. “Are you okay, mon coeur?”

“Irritated, but fine. You can take a breath now.” He ran his thumb along Sirius’ cheekbone and smiled up at him. “Not that it was fun, but that was kinda hot.”

Sirius’ eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Yeah. You got all growly.” He knocked their hips together with a smirk and pressed a water glass into his hand, taking a sip of his own.

“He tried to grab your ass.”

“He did indeed. It’s a good thing I’ve got sharp reflexes.”

“And a sharper tongue.” Sirius grinned around the rim of his glass. “Oh, yeah, I heard what you said.”

“Was the whiteboard bit too much?”

“Nah. It really drove the point home.” They set their glasses down at the same time and Sirius inclined his head toward the dance floor. “Care for some more no-rhythm dancing, sweetheart?”

Remus grabbed him by the hand and dragged him back into the crowd, where he turned and wrapped his arms around Sirius’ neck as they swayed. Sirius’ hands were tighter on his hips than before; it sent a thrill through his veins and he pressed back into him a little more.

“Re.”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Clubs are overrated, especially when you’re rumbly like this.” He ground back again and Sirius let out a harsh exhale. “What do you think?”

“I think we should go home before I make an absolute fool out of myself over you.” There was a smile in his voice and Remus leaned up to pull him into a kiss.

“I always make a fool out of myself around you,” he murmured into Sirius’ lips, biting the bottom one just enough to make him whine. “Take me home?”

[whenisitenoughtrees]

a slow voice on a wave of phase

Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

Roman has seen colors in sounds for as long as he can remember, and Logan's voice paints the night sky across his vision. It's no wonder that he falls in love with him, though it is surprising that he took this long to realize it.

(Wherein Roman pines, Remus' input is surprisingly helpful, and Logan has a lot more feelings than anyone is giving him credit for.)

Content Warnings: Remus-typical inappropriateness, mild Roman-typical insecurity

Word Count: 5,629

Pairings: Logince, platonic Creativitwins, brief mention of Dukeceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The idea comes to him suddenly, and by ‘suddenly,’ he means ‘with the force of a giant shark crashing through the wall of his bedroom at ninety miles per hour,’ because that is how Remus makes his entrance: half-naked, dripping wet, and straddling the back of a two-and-a-half ton great white.

“Tada!” Remus crows, sliding onto the floor. “You bet I couldn’t do it!” The shark, presumably irritated either by the lack of water dooming it to slow asphyxiation or by the loud, annoying man yelling in its face, flops around on the floor helplessly. Roman watches it through half-lidded eyes, and briefly considers getting up to deal with it before it starts knocking things over.

“But the proof’s in the pudding!” his brother continues, slapping the shark with a wink. Who the wink is directed at, Roman has no idea. Hopefully not the shark, though he wouldn’t put it past him. “Or in the big-ass shark! It only ate me three times before I got to ride it!” At this, he makes a disgusting motion with his hips, calling attention to the fact that his swimming trunks really do not cover enough, and Roman wonders just what, exactly, he did to deserve this treatment.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Or at least, he means to demand; it comes out sounding more like an exhausted sigh, and he supposes that he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Lying in bed in pajamas is not a position from which one can demand much of anything, even if that one happens to be a prince with an incredible amount of creative power at his fingertips.

Not that he’s feeling much creative power at the moment.

Remus finally seems to register his tone and position. He stalks forward, his nose wrinkling, and Roman is greeted with a close-up view of his brother’s bare chest, which is just about par the course. It could be worse, he supposes. At least he’s shirtless and not pantsless. Mostly.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Remus asks. “Ooh, was it a spider, like, the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout, except the waterspout’s your--”

“Oh my god,” he says, and finally works up the willpower to sit up and shove his brother away. “Can you stop?”

“Can’t stop won’t stop!” Remus trills gleefully, but Roman ignores him in favor of standing to inspect the shark in the middle of his bedroom floor. It is, he has to admit, a bit impressive, and all those teeth are equal parts cool and terrifying. He would likely be more impressed if it wasn’t expiring on his carpet, or if there wasn’t a shark-sized hole in his wall leading to parts unknown. He frowns, focusing and waving a hand, and both the shark and the damage disappear. Unfortunately, the water all over the floor does not.

“Wow,” Remus says. “You are no fun.”

“If you think I’m leaving an open path to your side of the Imagination in my room, you’re…” Remus grins at him, propping his head up in his hands and waggling his eyebrows expectantly. “... nevermind.”

“I never do mind,” Remus agrees, and takes the initiative to flop down onto his bed, thus getting water all over his bedsheets, because he’s an inconsiderate jerk. “So, what’s got you all down in the dumps? Usually, I crash a shark through your wall and you get all pissy about it, but you’re being boring. What gives?”

Roman glares, and seriously considers trying to remove him too. There was a time when he would have been able to do so easily, a time when he knew for a fact that he belonged in the light and Remus belonged in the dark, with all of the other things that ooze and crawl. But things aren’t so black and white these days, and now that Thomas has begun to tentatively ask for Remus’ input every now and again, it’s harder than ever to make him leave when he gets it in his head that he wants to be somewhere. He is, in that way, a bit like a pimple, or a particularly persistent mold. Neither of which he can actually call him to his face, because he’ll just take it as a compliment, but the fact remains that once he grows on, it is incredibly difficult to scrape him off.

“What gives is that I want you out of my room,” he tries, crossing his arms, but Remus makes a tsking sound.

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s why you were lying there all sad and shit? You looked like someone that decided that their idea of fun is to lie down in the middle of the street and see what happens.” He pauses. “Actually, do you think Thomas would--”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He pouts. “Boo,” he says. “You never let me do anything. But I mean, really Ro Ro, it can’t be a creative block. I’ve seen you in one of those, and you get all whiny and sick and then you start acting like you’re a poet in the 18oos and you’ve got consumption.” He lays a hand across his brow. “Oh me oh my, if only I could write one last poem before I cough my whole lungs out of my body. Ooh, could you imagine what that would look like? Your lungs, just sliding out of your mouth like big grey sacks?”

“First of all, no, gross,” Roman says. “Also, I didn’t know poets dying of consumption sounded like congested Southern belles.”

Remus waves a hand. “Eh, not the point,” he says. “And maybe the poets didn’t, but you sure do.”

“Hey--”

“But my point,” he continues, “is that it can’t be that, ‘cause Thomas has got a backlog of weeks’ worth of ideas to peruse if he actually wants to do something, which means that’s not your issue.” He rolls over on his side, so as better to make eye contact. “So what is your deal?”

Roman opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. Honestly, if this were about anything else, he might consider telling him. As annoying as he is, he feels closer to Remus now than he has in years, perhaps to the point where he could feel comfortable sharing something personal. Sure, Remus will probably laugh or make fun, or twist it into something weird or a horrible innuendo, but at least it would be out there, in the open, and someone else would know of it. At least there would be proof of its existence outside of his own mind. 

But this? Can he share this?

Because the deal isn’t a messed up audition or a troublesome idea. It isn’t even one of his usual personal issues, like the self-doubt that creeps into his mind in the small hours of the morning, the whispered thought that none of his ideas are worthy of use, that he himself is failing in his purpose, a mere facsimile of the prince that he is supposed to be.

No. For once, it’s not that, and he refuses to fall down that rabbit hole.

The deal is that Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

-----

It took a while for either of them to notice that none of the others experience the world the way they do. They never thought to question it; Roman saw colors in sound, and Remus heard music in images, and that was just the way it was. It wasn’t until they were a bit older that they figured out that the weird looks they garnered when they brought it up, when Roman mentioned a teacher with a corn-yellow drawl or when Remus talked about a picture in 3/4 time, weren’t just disapproval directed at the way the Creativities saw the world, but instead a genuine lack of understanding.

They stopped talking about it, eventually. Or rather, Roman stopped talking about it, and Remus accepted that nobody would pay attention to his eccentricities as long as he presented them in a certain way.

So really, it’s not that Roman is hiding it. It’s just never come up.

Remus’ voice is like an oil spill, black and thick and oozing, but with flashes of lime green running through it, the color of slime and radioactive waste. Patton’s is pink, yellow, and blue all swirled together, like a field of flowers, or every flavor of cotton candy all at once. Virgil’s voice is more difficult to pin down; once, he thought it was a black, swirling smoke, but as the years have passed, Roman has realized that the smoke is not black, but dark purple, only showing its true color when light is shined through it. Janus’ is similarly difficult to interpret, but lately, he has likened it to a still, quiet forest, all dark green and brown, secrets lurking just under the surface.

But Logan’s has always been his favorite. Because Logan’s voice sounds like space itself, a backdrop of black peppered with millions of shining, twinkling lights, mixed with bright galaxies and spinning nebulae, vast and beautiful and incomprehensible. At his calmest, it is a void, the light of the stars distant and cold, but when he gets excited, when he begins to ramble about a topic, the stars increase in number and illuminate his whole face, swirling in his eyes and hair, and Roman could listen to him for days.

He’s always known that he has a bit of a crush. But he’s always thought that a crush was all it was, and if it was a bit longer-lasting than crushes are meant to be, well, it’s not as if there are a lot of other options. The mindscape proper only has seven inhabitants, and it would feel wrong to try to date someone from the Imagination, considering that he controls the place. So, he’s been content to linger on his feelings for Logan, never pushing for anything more than he would be willing to give, because another thing that he’s always known is that never in a million years would his feelings be returned.

Logan, as he has said himself so many times, does not do feelings. And even though Roman knows very well that Logan is not nearly as unfeeling as he would like to pretend to be, that does not mean that he would be comfortable with, or even open to the idea of a relationship. And even if he were, he would not choose to be with him, would not choose the embodiment of dreams and fantasies, everything that logic attempts to deny. So it’s a hopeless crush, a one-sided romance for the ages, the type of story that Roman would be captivated with if he weren’t at the center of it, if thinking about it didn’t make his chest tight and his eyes sting.

But this morning--

Oh, gods of Olympus, this morning--

He has no idea what prompted the epiphany. By all rights, this morning was like any other morning: Patton at the pancake griddle, Virgil slumped and half-awake at the table, Logan sipping at his coffee. Roman made his usual stunning and gorgeous entrance, ready to tackle the day’s challenges like a true knight would, and traded his usual morning barbs with Virgil. But before he could even sit down, Logan looked up at him, smiled slightly, and said, “Good morning, Roman,” a galaxy glittering around him, and Roman took a brief moment to think about how much he loves him.

And then stopped up short. Because, what? Love? No?

Except, yes.

These feelings have been bursting in his chest for so long, fireworks setting off whenever Logan speaks, whenever Logan so much as looks his way. And he thought they were a crush, no more than that, if not ignorable then at least possible to work around. But that’s not right, has never been right, and in this instant, years’ worth of suppositions came crashing down around his ears.

So, his mind racing, the silence stretching too long, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“I, uh, forgot a thing,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, ignoring the way Patton called after him. Upon closing the door behind him, he changed back into his pajamas and collapsed back on his bed, his mind whirling, intent on not facing anybody else until he has to.

Because he loves Logan. Is in love with Logan. Has been in love with Logan for years and years now, has been pining away without even understanding that that was what he was doing.

Frankly, he’s not sure he can think of a worse position to be in.

-----

Which brings him here: his floor wet, his arms crossed, and Remus staring expectantly at him, waiting for an explanation. And Remus isn’t one to back down easily, which leaves Roman in a predicament.

He could try lying. But he’s not sure he could lie well enough about this, and frankly, he doesn’t want to risk Janus getting himself involved. But the only other option is the truth, and he’s not sure he wants Remus to know the truth, not sure he trusts Remus not to hold it over his head, to mock him or to stick his fingers in an open wound that he himself has only just discovered.

Because Remus would definitely do that. Both literally and figuratively.

“Bro,” Remus says, looking amused, “whatever it is, I’m almost positive it’s not that deep. You know what is deep?”

“What?” Roman replies, hoping beyond hope for a change of topic.

“My butt!” Remus says, and then cackles.

Roman buries his face in his hands, and Remus’ laughter stretches on and on and on, filling the room with slick oil, painting the walls with slime and noxious fumes, and green squiggles worm their way onto the backs of his eyelids, and he absolutely cannot do this right now.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he mumbles into his hands, and the laughter cuts off abruptly.

“You’re what?” Remus asks, and Roman looks up from his hands. Remus has sat up in his bed, and is staring at him with a peculiarly intent expression.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he repeats, firmer this time. He holds Remus’ gaze, daring him to say something, so of course, Remus does, erupting into laughter once again.

“You can’t be serious,” he says in between giggles. “Really? Logan? He’s such a stick in the mud. A stick in the mud with a stick up his butt. It’s like a flag, except, instead of a flag it’s Logan, because the stick is both in the mud and up his butt.” He pauses, and Roman’s face must be doing something, because Remus sobers just a bit, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re actually serious.”

He groans, plopping down in the middle of the floor, ignoring the way the dampness of the carpet seeps into his pants. “I don’t know what to do,” he moans, more to air his grievance than to accomplish anything else. It’s not as if he’s expecting Remus to have any useful suggestions for him.

But Remus shifts on the bed so he can face him completely. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain this one to me, because I don’t get it,” he says. “Whenever I look at Logan, I get robot noises and video game music on full blast.” He breaks off, humming a few bars, and Roman has to admit that it’s not an unpleasant tune, though not one he would think to associate with Logan. “Plus,” Remus continues, “he’s so boring. Sure, he’s fun to wind up, but he’s all about the rules and being logical and no, Thomas can’t do that, he’ll get acid burns, so why don’t we watch a documentary instead?” He says the last in an almost perfect imitation of Logan’s voice, his face darkening. Oddly, when Remus does it, Roman doesn’t connect the sound with space at all, hearing only the same oily splatters that his brother’s voice usually consists of. “I don’t want to watch documentaries. I want to do shit.”

Roman shakes his head. “You don’t hear what his voice actually sounds like,” he insists. “It’s… gods above, he talks, and it’s like he brings all the stars down to earth. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in my life.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “And sometimes he smiles and says something smart, and I’m just, wow, I would die for you. Do you know how pretty his smile is? And he’s so frickin’ smart.”

Remus’ expression has frozen halfway between awe and disgust. “You’ve got it bad,” he says, and Roman groans.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “I just don’t know what to do about it!” He sighs. “Theoretically, I know all about romance and wooing. I’m the romance guy! But when I think about wooing Logan, my stomach gets all twisted up in knots. Like a sad pretzel. I mean, grand gestures and gifts are the way to go, right? But what even could I give him that he would like? He hates things that are ‘frivolous and unrealistic,’ but that’s my whole thing!”

Remus cocks his head. “Bones,” he says sagely.

He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give him some bones,” Remus says, nodding, like this makes perfect sense. “Like, two, maybe three bones. Boys like bones.”

“... Where am I getting these bones?”

Remus’ face brightens. “I’ve got a few extra!” he proclaims. “Wanna see?”

“I-- no,” he says. “Stop. I’m not giving him bones. Why do you--” No, best not to question. “Nevermind. Is that how you got Janus to date you?”

Remus grins. “Nah,” he says. “I mean, maybe that helped. I think what really did it was that I wrote him our song.”

“You wrote him a song?”

“No, stupid, our song,” he says. “Like, how I look at him and I hear a song. And then I’ve got a song, too. So I figured out a way to mash them together. And then I gave it to him.” He sighs, almost dreamily, if Remus has a dreamy setting. Roman would like to never hear that again, thank you, because frankly, he doesn’t much want to hear about whatever weird relationship his brother has with Deceit, and he sort of regrets bringing it up in the first place. “He really, really liked it. Said it was the best thing he’d ever heard.” Remus pauses, an odd light entering his eyes. “He said something about it being from the heart. I tried giving him my actual heart, but then he said that wasn’t what he meant.”

“From the heart,” he mutters, considering. So, something heartfelt, personal. Remus literally gave Deceit something that showed how he perceived him, everything that he felt. But how can he do the same and make sure that it’s something Logan likes? Logan likes science, likes math and numbers, likes facts, and Roman doesn’t know anything about any of those things. All he knows is how Logan makes him feel and the way his voice shines like starlight in his mind’s eye, and he’s not sure how to translate that into something Logan would appreciate, or even understand.

And then it comes: the idea.

“Holy shit,” he says, spine straightening, the burst of inspiration setting his mind to whirring. For an instant, he sees it dancing before him, an image of perfection, within his reach if only he can replicate exactly what he envisions. “Remus, you’re a genius!”

Remus gawks. “I am?” he asks, and his face brightens. “I already knew that, but fuck yeah!”

Roman laughs, bright and free, clambering to his feet. “Okay, okay, I know what I’m doing,” he says. “So I need you to get out, but god, thank you so much.”

Remus hops off the bed without protest. “Anytime, bro bro,” he says, sauntering toward the door. “Remember to put in a good word with Tommy-boy for me. And if you end up fucking, put a sock on the door.”

“You’re gross,” Roman says, pushing him out. The words carry no bite, and the last thing he sees before closing the door in his face is Remus grinning at him, an expression of pure delight.

-----

In the end, it takes him a week. A week holed up in his room, only occasionally emerging to grab food, and he knows he’s making everyone else worry, but he can’t stop himself, doesn’t dare stop until what he sees in his mind has been set to paper, exactly how he wants it. It has been so long since an idea has gripped him like this, since he has been so inspired to create, since he has been so sure in his ability to make something beautiful, and he feels as though he could subsist on his exhilaration alone.

When it is done, he steps back, admires his handiwork, and proceeds to sleep for twenty-two hours straight.

On the eighth day, he steps out into the hallway, canvas tucked securely under his arm, and makes his way down the hall to Logan’s room.

He takes a deep breath before knocking, hoping to steady his nerves. He hasn’t had much time, these past few days, to worry about whether or not Logan would like it, but now, he’s wondering if this was a mistake, if this is something that would be better kept to himself. He can wave off the others’ concern by pretending he was working on hypothetical ideas, or that a quest in the Imagination ran over-long. He doesn’t actually have to give this to Logan at all, doesn’t have to bare himself like this, doesn’t have to risk his scorn and judgement.

But what else is love, in the end, if not a risk worth taking?

He knocks, and moments later, hears footsteps from inside. He barely has time to check that there is a smile on his face before Logan opens the door, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Roman,” he greets, and though nothing outwardly changes, Roman’s brain insists that a shooting star streaks across his vision. “We haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Ah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “right, sorry. I just got caught up in the creative process, you know how it is.”

“I do not,” Logan says. “Nevertheless, I am glad to see you well.” He pauses. “I was… somewhat concerned after your hasty exit the last time I saw you. I wanted to ensure that I did not do something to offend you.”

Oh, shit. He’s been so busy that he hadn’t bothered to think about how that moment might have been interpreted. And there is an odd note in Logan’s tone that implies that this is actually something that’s been troubling him, and Roman feels like kicking himself for letting him worry about it.

“No, no, not at all!” he says, gesturing with his free hand. “I just got struck with inspiration in that very moment, so of course, I needed to retreat before the idea was lost.” He winces internally as the words leave his mouth. It is a lie, but only just; it certainly wasn’t inspiration that he was struck with. That came later.

“I see,” Logan says, and Roman hopes that he isn’t imagining the way his shoulders relax, if only slightly. “That is good to hear. In that case, was there something you needed from me?”

“I--” He breaks off, swallowing hard. This is the moment of truth, the last second in which he could turn back. He is, essentially, offering up all of his emotions on a silver platter, even if Logan likely won’t recognize that fact. Still, rejection at this point would hurt worse than any failed audition, worse than any mistake he has ever made, and he has made so many.

But he has spent so long on this. He wants it to be seen by its object.

“This is for you,” he blurts out, and shoves the canvas out in front of him like a shield. Logan takes it, startled, and Roman watches as his eyes flicker across the painting, widening ever so slightly. 

After a week’s worth of work, he knows exactly what Logan is seeing. A painting of blacks and dark blues and purples, pinpricks of whites and yellows and reds, a display of the cosmos swirling on a backdrop of the void. Everything that Roman sees when Logan speaks is here: the inky darkness of his calm, the supernova of his anger, the stars that glitter and twirl in his excitement. It is like no view of space that mankind has ever seen, because this universe is Logan, completely and utterly, is comprised of the galaxies that drip from his tongue when he speaks.

This is how Roman sees him. This is how Roman loves him.

The silence stretches on for a long time, so long that Roman is tempted to declare the whole thing a bust, to laugh and play it off like it’s no big deal, like his heart won’t be completely and utterly crushed if Logan hates it.

“You painted this?” Logan finally asks. His voice sounds choked, a star collapsing in on itself. Roman shuffles his feet.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I just thought, um, you like space? So I, uh. Do you like it?”

He tries not to sound needy, tries not to sound like his happiness is contingent on the answer he receives. He’s not sure how much he succeeds.

“It’s… adequate,” Logan replies, and Roman could dance, could sing his relief to any and all who would listen, because he knows Logan well enough to know what that means. And if that’s the best he’ll get, he’ll take it and go and be glad, because Logan likes it, and that is more than enough for him. He feels like he’s on top of the world, like he’s floating in space himself, orbiting the moon and staring into the sun and being blinded and loving every minute of it.

“Actually,” Logan says, and for a second, Roman’s heart drops into his shoes, before he continues with, “it’s… it’s far more than adequate. I don’t know much about art, but I know a piece of expert craftsmanship when I see one.” He looks up at Roman, his eyes shining. “You made this for me?”

There is an emotion in his voice that Roman cannot name, but it is speckled with so many stars, more than he thinks he’s ever seen at once. More stars than void, at least, shining and shimmering with light.

And Roman wasn’t planning to do this. Was planning to take this slowly, was planning to give Logan his offering and leave, using his reaction as a gauge for the next step, if he dared to take a next step at all, if he came away with the conclusion that Logan would not hate him for attempting a romance. But the way Logan is staring at him, wide-eyed and open, as if he has been gifted something incredibly precious, makes him want Logan to understand just how much this means, just how much it says. Just how much of his heart and soul he is putting on the line.

Dear sweet Beyonce, he’s actually going to do it, isn’t he?

“I did,” he says. “Um, okay, I’ve never actually explained this to anyone, so bear with me.” Logan tilts his head, confused, but is otherwise silent. “Uh, have you ever heard of the thing where people’s senses get crossed? Like, say, you associate a color with a particular number or letter?”

Logan’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you referring to synesthesia?” he asks.

He can’t stop his smile. Logan’s heard of it. Maybe that will make this easier. “Yeah, that,” he says. “So, uh, Remus and I have that. He hears music when he looks at things, and I, uh. Well. I’ve sort of got the opposite.”

Logan stares at him. “You’re telling me,” he says, “that all these years, you’ve both perceived the world in an entirely different way from the rest of us, and you’ve never said a word about it?”

He winces. “I suppose?” he says. “Are you angry?” 

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Logan is angry. He didn’t intend for Logan to be angry. He’s going to be angry if Logan is angry, angry with himself for spoiling this moment, for daring to reach for more than he could have. He should have left it alone, should have taken Logan’s enjoyment of the painting for what it was and not pushed for anything more. God, his heart feels as though it’s trying to claw its way out of his throat.

But Logan shakes his head. “No, just… surprised,” he says. “When you say you have the opposite of what Remus does, do you mean that you see images when you listen to music?”

“Sort of?” he says. “Not really images, more just arrangements of colors, if that makes sense. And I don’t actually see it with my eyes, just in my head, even though it feels like I’m seeing it with my eyes, sometimes. Even though I know I’m not really.” He pauses for a breath. He doesn’t think he’s explaining himself very well, but Logan is sill listening, so he has no choice but to push on. “And, um, not just music. Any sound, really.”

Logan nods, seeming to take it in stride. “I think I understand,” he says. “It truly is fascinating how so many of us exhibit traits and quirks that Thomas himself does not.” A measure of excitement bleeds into his voice, flaring up like the sun, and Roman resists the urge to blurt out something incredibly sappy and highly inappropriate for the moment. “So, this painting--” He glances back down at the painting, still gripped in both hands, and then abruptly stops talking.

“It’s, uh, it’s you,” Roman says, attempting to fill up the sudden quiet. “It’s your voice. I mean, it’s what I see when I hear your voice.”

“It’s… me?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“You… you see this when I talk?”

“Uh huh,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Logan’s head is lowered, his voice too soft to read well, and Roman’s nerves begin to return in full force. “Was this weird? I’m sorry if this was weird. I just, your voice is so gorgeous, and I really wanted to paint it, and I’m probably making this worse, aren’t I? If you don’t like it anymore you don’t have to keep it.”

At last, Logan raises his head. His face is burning bright red, and Roman really, really hopes it’s not in fury, hopes that he hasn’t just ruined everything. Slowly, Logan sets the painting down to rest against the wall and steps forward. Roman, for his part, is rooted in place, tracking every movement, every breath.

“Roman,” Logan says. “Don’t be idiotic.”

And then, he backs Roman against the wall and kisses him.

He doesn’t kiss like Roman would have expected. There is nothing cold about it, nothing clinical; instead, he is hard and demanding, insistent and passionate, and as soon as Roman’s brain reboots, he returns it just as eagerly, deepening it, placing his hands on the sides of Logan’s face to hold him there, hold him where he can taste him, because he has fantasized about this moment but never, ever thought that this dream could come true. And when Logan pulls back, he doesn’t go far, his face lingering bare inches from his own. His breaths puff across his skin, and behind his glasses, his pupils are dilated.

“So I take it you like it,” Roman says. His voice is hoarse.

“I do,” Logan says. His face is flushed, twisted in what is probably embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away. “And lately, I have found myself rather liking you, too. I, ah, didn’t think you returned the sentiment.”

Roman blinks, and then, throws back his head and laughs. “Are you serious?” he asks. “We could have been doing this already?” He tugs Logan’s face closer to his, resting their foreheads together. Logan turns an even more brilliant shade of scarlet. “Just in case I didn’t make it clear,” he says, “I really, really like you, Logan.” He strokes a thumb across his cheek. “My galaxy,” he breathes. “My starlight.”

Logan makes a noise deep in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak. “That is satisfactory.”

And with that, with starlight gleaming behind his eyes and his heart tapping out double-time, Roman laughs, and pulls Logan back in.

-----

A few nights later, he finds a collection of questionably-shaped bones sitting on his dresser. He is less than enthusiastic, but Logan seems interested, so he kisses his boyfriend-- his boyfriend!-- on the top of his head and leaves him to his scientific study. Of bones. Because Logan is a weird nerd, but that’s alright, because he loves him both in spite of it and because of it. 

He just. Loves Logan. All of him. So much. And Logan likes him back, and now they’re together, and really, nothing could be better than this.

He briefly considers the merits of getting Remus a gift basket, but ultimately decides against it. They’ve never needed that sort of thing between them, and if the next time Remus intrudes on his space, he doesn’t protest as much as he usually would? Well, they both understand, and that’s more than enough.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina 

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS | A MYSTERIOUS INTERLUDE

first time reader click here

This is a scrapped chapter. Originally, I was planning to 1) give Reader a longer, more intense destructive streak before her ending up with Tony. I planned three or so chapters that involved an abusive Quentin Beck, but, ultimately decided that to be too cliché. 2) I had planned to write at least 30% of the fanfic in Tony's/third person POV. This chapter would have been number 11/12 - Tony would have rejected her advances in the lab & she would have got hooked on Beck's charming facade.

Why am I publishing this? It seems like a waste if effort to shelf it, plus, it's Tony's POV. You can skip it since it has no relation/bearing on the current story. Just a tiny "what might have been" tidbit.

It was a moment's notice. One second, they're standing in a group, laughing, soaking in the warmth from the fireplace, chattering amongst themselves, telling tall tales and sipping their liquor. It all goes black briefly, and then they are surrounded by darkness - it's nearly impenetrable, so thick that their voices echo in it.

Tony's body was encompassed by the nanotech suit immediately after his eyes and his brain adjusted to the rapid change of surroundings. His teammates, too, had their skills honed on an instinctive level - the faint thump of Mjölnir in Thor's hands, the golden-green glow of his brother's magic, whirring of Barnes' prosthetic arm. Steve's shield stayed tucked behind the living room couch but his enhanced physique and readiness to fight 24/7 has him covering the unenhanced Clint and Natasha in mere seconds.

Tony was mostly angry rather than afraid. The team was having a good time at his party and the chance encounters of weird shit like this had been reduced to nearly zero percent possibility thanks to Friday's screening process: supervillains, Hydra agents and the likes strictly prohibited on Stark-owned premises.

It was a strange coincidence Banner had to take a break to check up on one of his experiments not even five minutes before the rest of the team was experiencing the strange change in scenery. Speaking of Strange, the sorcerer also was nowhere to be seen - Tony distinctively remembered seeing Stephen ten feet away from the bar, engaged in a hearty debate with the lead of SI's Medical Engineering department.

"This is not magic," Wanda piped up from behind him, confused. "I don't feel anything on the usual frequency. It sounds more like Friday humming in the walls, like electricity."

Good to know, Tony thought. It was nice having someone who was familiar with the undiscovered side of science - after all, Tony had always considered anything 'magical' to be science he had not personally understood yet. Wanda's most redeeming quality in Tony's eyes was the fact that more often than not she seemed to be as clueless as everyone else when it came to her powers and didn't act so high and mighty as some other people. Cloaked people, and horned people, for example.

"The fuck, man? I was hoping, just one evening, one normal evening with my beer and wings," Clint whined. Tony could hear Natasha huffing in annoyed agreement.

"Mr. Stark, what are we going to do?" His very own spider-child, on the other hand, sounded distraught. Peter's voice has this funny thing it does when the boy is upset but tries to hide it: it quivers on the vowels, wobbles slightly.

Tony had to blindly grope the air for a moment before his arm found Peter's shoulder. The boy was shivering and took the offered comfort eagerly, folding into the older man.

"Okay, whoever is pulling this stunt, my advice is: don't," Tony sighed, 12 000% Done With This Shit™, exclaiming loudly. "If that's a prank, stop it or speak up. If you got beef, then you got some nerve doing this in my tower. Show yourself."

He could feel the fine hairs on his neck stand up as the team tensed next to him, readily gearing up to pounce. Peter was vibrating in Tony's arms and the billionaire suddenly remembered the curious side-effects of Peter's powers, the spidey-sense. It must have been going absolutely haywire - the kid nearly hyperventilated himself into a heart attack.

"Stark, I must apologise for the uncomfortable circumstances. Believe me, it was a necessity - you always demand attention, whereas I need people to pay attention to me for a moment. Don't worry, you'll get yours when the time is due."

The voice was vaguely familiar. Male, slightly nasal but quiet and creeping. Insinuating. It lacked the usual boisterous bravado of a mid-grade bad guy, Tony had to take an educated guess that the owner of the mysterious voice was well-off, white. Privileged. No hint of desperation in it, as if the man was pitying everybody.

"The fuck? Q, is that you?"

Oh shit, Tony realized in muted horror. She must've been hanging around somewhere in their vicinity - which wasn't unusual, the girl usually orbited around Barnes, Wanda, Peter or Bruce. All of whom were present at the party. Tony had forgotten about her, to his shame, somehow having had automatically assumed she trotted out of the room on Bruce's heels. His science bro and her acted like conjoined twins when it came to their scientific ventures.

"Stop talking," The man growled, the voice suddenly coming from a very different direction. Tony heard a distinctively feminine yelp, albeit muffled. Peter violently jerked in Tony's arms. The engineer put the superstrength of his suit to use, holding the teenager down.

"Aw, hell no!" She yelled, the indignant shrieking followed by the sound of a moist palm slapping something glass...y? "What the fuck? I am asking you again. Are you... Oh my God, are you wearing a fishbowl on your head? Ow, motherfu-" The rest of the sentence is muffled, garbled. Whoever this "Q" was, she obviously knew him and he had silenced her. And, apparently, Q had an uncanny choice of headwear.

Tony was sure the rest of the team had followed his lead on doing a spit-take. They've fought enough supervillains with more than questionable fashion sense but a fishbowl? That was new.

"Be quiet, baby. It's for your own good. I don't want to hurt you if I can help it," The Fishbowl chastised her.

Tony's confusion once again returned to irritation at the frivolous way the villain addressed his science buddy. Peter's friend would have been more accurate but Tony had put her into the 'science bro' category not too long ago. They were close, as much as they could be, with the age gap and totally different interests and... The immense amount of guilt Tony felt for his attraction towards the girl. He was a dirty old man and she was barely an adult.

Every damn day Tony did his best to avoid making a shiny, big, new problem. Yet her brains and her wit and the uncanny ability to pull anybody into a conversation had a firm hold on his attention.

"Leave her alone," Stark angrily declared, powering up a repulsor. "What do you want? Party crashing isn't allowed in my tower anymore."

"What I want, Stark, is for you to give credit where it's due," The man answered simply, giving Tony just enough time to shove Peter behind him towards Natasha and take a tentative step forward.

The soft glow emanating from the repulsor illuminated barely two inches around his hand. The darkness surrounding it seemed to swallow the light. Tony moved on quiet feet towards the voice, easily avoiding furniture. His memory was good and he knew his tower, his home, better than anyone else.

"Did I hear that correctly, you're accusing me of plagiarism?" Tony tried for indignant, hoping to provoke the man into an inevitable, drawn-out speech where he lists all the wrongs Tony ever did him, giving the team precious time to regroup and form some semblance of a plan.

"Yes," Q simply answered, pausing for a second. "I hope you enjoy your next adventure. It certainly will show you the potential of my creation."

Tony shared a muted sound of confusion with the rest of the team.

"Q, I am very disappointed," To Tony's horror, th girl stared talking again. She sounded somewhat breathless, and closer to him than before. "Stop it with the dick measuring contest, you're a grown ass man. Go work for OsCorp, or Hammer, drink your sorrows away." She sounded so tired. And even closer to him.

"This is not a dick measuring contest!" Q roared suddenly and wow, that man was unstable. "This was my life's work, my creation, he insulted, berated and threw away!"

"I get it, I really get the whole 'being discarded and thrown away' thing," She replied, somewhat sarcastically. "But you know what? I'll be damned and I'll be fucked if I give some piece of shit any more of my undivided attention. They don't want me? Fine, they can fuck off and take their complaints with them." Her speech was periodically interrupted by shuffling noises.

Tony didn't dare to interrupt, seeing now the possibility of Q being actually calmed down by a teenager (probably) quoting some teen drama TV show.

"But going full Joker? You're a brilliant man, Quen, I wouldn't even look at you twice if not for your brains and your baby blues, however I don't fuck with the bad guys. That shit kills," The hand that rested on the wrist cuff of Tony's suit unmistakably belonged to her. She had the remnants of some sort of wire around it, sleek and quicksilver-shiny, irritating the tender skin under it. "And I want to live. You've gone and pissed off an entire crew of supers and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think, Quen," There was genuine sadness in her voice.

Tony stood silent in confusion.

Whoever this Quen was, they obviously shared a close relationship. Tony's brain ran through the list of her friends, her relatives - there was nobody named Q, Quen or even remotely similar. Natasha had mentioned a possible boyfriend at some point but the man sounded too old for that, he was at least thirty. Or maybe? Tony wouldn't put it completely past the girl, if judging by the blatant way she flirted with Bruce. With himself.

"Baby, this is not about you. I don't want to hurt you," Quen replied, a hysterical edge to his voice. Something began flickering in the distance, attracting Tony's attention to the shape of a man with a round sort of helmet and a red, billowing cape (hello, 2012-Thor!).

"Too late, Quen. You've tied me up and you went on to attack my friends. I've already told you that if you yell at me one more time, I will leave you. So I guess this is it," Her voice broke at the end, pitiful sniffles following the statement.

Tony watched the exchange, mildly uncomfortable and very concerned. The man yelled at her? That was absolutely unacceptable, however, what else could one expect from a maniac with a flair for the dramatic?

The girl bodily placed herself in front of Tony, standing, doing nothing but rubbing her wrists. It was then that the engineer noticed Q nearing them, the shape becoming distinctively closer. And - yep, there it was - the fishbowl on his head. It completely obscured him, making his face invisible, unrecognisable.

The man seemed rather fixated on the girl standing in front of Tony. He floated in front of her, ignoring Tony, taking her bound hands in his own. A brief click and a hiss later, her wrists were released and the contraption fell freely to the floor where it landed with an oddly heavy thud. Tony hoped there was no lead in that thing - supervillains were dangerous but lead poisoning was cancerous and fatal.

"Baby..." Quen timidly touched her face with a leather-bound glove. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm sorry." Tony took the chance to examine the man's costume. If anything, it looked somewhat steampunk-y? There was a lot of bronze, and the chest brace had some sort of glowing lines on it. Power storage units?

She stared up, towards the man's hidden face. "M'sorry, Quen," She mumbled, going in for a hug. Or that's what Tony thought. The majestic cape that billowed behind Quen was unceremoniously yanked from his body as the girl ducked, covering herself with it, yelling: "TONY, NOW, SHOOT, SHOOT!"

Tony did just that, shot Quen flat in the chest and the man stumbled backwards, tripping on the cape - such a stupid, unexpected thing. But Tony knew, his girl was clever and resourceful. Pride swelled in his chest as he shot the man again, Rogers running out from behind him blindly, body-slamming Quen into the ground for good measure. Two hundred pounds of supersoldier later, the battle was over before it even started.

"No!" The villain shouted as Steve pressed and popped the hilarious glass contraption on his head. The accessory was no match for the Captain's super strength. Tony immediately recognised the man as his former employee, Quentin Beck, and it clicked for him. It was totally a personal vendetta.

"This stuff is tough, plexiglass, maybe," The Captain remarked, pointing at the scattered shards around Beck's head. "It appears to be augmented too, some kind of tech, I don't know. You're good at this, Tony," Steve chuckled humorlessly, roughly turning Beck around and securing his hands with a pair of vibranium-reinforced handcuffs. God only knew where he'd gotten those from.

"Good at what? Making enemies?" Stark couldn't resist the self-depricating joke.

"Stop it, Tony," Natasha's gently admonishing voice interrupted Steve's incoming lecture. Tony, for once, was thankful that the Widow interrupted. He was in no mood to listen to another one of Steve's speeches.

"Who do you work for?" That deadly gleam in Natasha's eyes was terrifying and Beck was only a man.

"I don't work for anyone but myself, thanks to Stark," He spat venomously.

Natasha cocked an eyebrow in Tony's direction.

"Fired him years ago, this guy was going nuts. Brilliant but crazier than a bag of cats," Tony replied, feigning nonchalance. He could feel a mild headache begin to gnaw at his skull. "We worked on a project together, he got upset that I refused to weaponize it. We had a falling out. End of story." With that, Tony stood up, retracing his suit to only leave the gauntlets on his hands, gathered the various pieces of tech the good captain had removed from Beck's persona and made way towards the nearest table.

Or where he thought it was. All of them were still surrounded by the uncanny darkness. The anxiety that Tony forcefully shut down reared it's ugly head as soon as he lost physical touch with his teammates. He stumbled, his foot catching onto something on the ground.

"Ow, motherfucker!"

"Buttercup, I haven't fucked your mother nor I plan to," He snarked back automatically, flooded with relief at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Hope so. She'd probably bite your dick off if you try," A hand was groping his calf and then she stood up in front of him, still clutching the ridiculous cape. It appeared to be a source of light, which was very strange. The girl looked positively demonic, illuminated by red light, face scrunched up, eyes puffy, and clothing in disarray.

"You good?" Tony managed to choke out, confusion and worry and anxiety making his chest tight.

"Balmy. My boyfriend is a homicidal maniac with an inferiority complex," She sassed, an edge of panic to her voice. "Oh, and he tried to kill one of my best friends. I am fine and dandy."

"Your boyfriend?" That was the only thing Tony heard. Bat-shit crazy Beck, his babygirl's boyfriend? There was no way in Hell he'd allow such a thing...

"My ex-boyfriend, I guess," She sighed, removing the cape from her persona. Refusing to meet his eyes, fiddling with the hem of her top. "Here," The girl abruptly thrust the cape at him. "This is a funny thing, it's like a hologram but you can actually touch it. You should, uh, probably disinfect it, or something. I've been on-uh, around it many times," It was so unlike her, the fumbling, the embarrassment, Tony wanted to wheel her straight to medical to check if she's gotten concussed again.

Then his brain caught up and all he saw was red. Figuratively and literally - the cape was still in his face, loosely hanging from her outstretched hand. She must've seen the look on his face.

The step she took back was quick and worrying. "Forget I said that, I don't know why I said that. Oh, god."

"What were you thinking?" Tony inhaled a solid lungful, prepared to make his opinion very clear. "Getting involved with a lunatic! For a second I actually thought you were smart, there isn't a chance you missed that the guy is short of a few marbles," His voice was quiet, the one of a calm fury. His words cut deeply and he could see the hurt, the shame in her eyes, on her face. Tony knew he'd regret it later however his brain insisted it was a necessary evil. He continued ranting until he ran out of breath. "Not to mention he's, what, twice your age? And he yells at you and tells you to shut up? It didn't ring any alarm bells in that pretty little head of yours?"

"Tony, stop," Steve's hand landed on the engineer's shoulder and he simply shrugged it off, staring at the quivering girl in front of him.

She was crying, silently, few tears pooling in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks, leaving ugly streaks in her make-up. Tony expected her to sass him, to argue back, to yell obscenities like she usually did when something or someone upset her but he was met with hurt, stunned silence. His worst fear came true when she looked away, shrugging.

He'd seen this sort of dejected shrug the time her father drugged her and... She just took it. She expected it, even, his outrage, his disappointment. Being hurt and mistreated was the norm for her, Tony realized belatedly. There were too many parallels between them both that made him uncomfortable deep inside. His chest felt tight, regret washing over him like a tsunami wave.

"I'm turning on the lights, close your eyes for maximum comfort," Strange's voice announced suddenly, causing everybody to jump and shudder. Tony complied begrudgingly. The sudden influx of light was painful even from behind closed eyelids. His headache became a full-on dull throb.

"What happened?" "Are you okay?" "Is everybody alive?" Resonated across the room. Tony spied several small drones smoking and crackling next to the exit door, Stephen Strange closing a portal he must've used to evacuate the civilians.

The puddle of red holographic cape on the floor. And her hastily retreating back. Damn.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

[katahnisharma]

gone (3) | t.h.

Summary: tom is back from shooting cherry, but he’s not okay.

Warnings: this started as my entry to the lovely b’s writing challenge @worldoftom, but you guys were so amazing and wanted a second part. this is a very emotional chapter and there are mentions of anxiety, depression, and overall intense emotions so please be careful loveys ♡

A/N: for this chapter i’ve been listening to a lot of sun airway (mostly all in) but I hope you guys like it!! also Tumblr apparently won’t let me link certain things so if you’re looking for my masterlist, playlist, taglist (please send an ask or fill out the form!), or writing challenge it’s in my bio ♡

gif by @hllands

“It’s a good thing you brought her in when you did. From what it looks like, that metal piece had a chip of mercury in it and she was at risk of poisoning. That should account for the nausea and weakness, but she’ll pull through with the medicine.” The doctor said, handing Harrison the report. He gave it a once over, and then turned back to your bed. You were finally asleep, the sedatives knocking you out so you could sleep properly.

“Thanks, doctor. I’ll let her family know, hopefully she’ll just sleep for a while.” Harrison said, moving to sit down next to you. You looked so peaceful now, completely unbothered by anything. Truthfully, Harrison hadn’t seen you like this since Tom came back from shooting. You’d been killing yourself trying to spend time with him and do things for him, only to have Tom brush you off or avoid you all together.

It was eating away at you, and Harrison knew it was just a matter of time before you broke apart.

A ping from his phone drew his attention away from you, and he took a deep breath when he read the text message.

I just got to Tom’s, Haz.

He’s a wreck.

“Tom, you have to let me in!” Harry shouted, banging on the bathroom door. He’d been outside the door for fifteen minutes, listening to his brother cry on the other side. Occasionally there would be silence and the sound of something shattering, and Harry knew something was very wrong. When he heard Tom’s voice break softly, Harry grew more desperate.

“Alright, if you don’t open this door in the next minute I’m breaking it down!” Harry said, feeling his resolve crumbling. He was trying to be strong for his older brother, but he’d never seen Tom like this before. Of course there had girlfriends and break ups before, but he knew you and Tom would be different from the first time you met. You two were soulmates, everyone was convinced of that. Nobody knew Tom the way you knew him, and nobody made him happy the way you did.

It was like a perfect equation, because you and Tom equated to that kind of everlasting love you read about in books.

But now it felt like someone had come in and ripped out the happy ending, and Harry was struggling to piece the story back together.

“Tom...please…” Harry whispered, a sinking feeling taking over his body, “I don’t know what happened with you and Y/N, but I know one thing. You love her, Tom. You’ve loved her ever since you met her, and I know she loves you too. Just please, let me in.”

Harry fell against the door, finally spent with emotion. A tear escaped fom his eye as his head hit the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. He’d texted Harrison a couple minutes ago, but hadn’t gotten a response back. Truthfully, Harry wasn’t even sure where he was or if you were with him. But the situation must have been bad if Harrison wasn’t responding and you were nowhere to be seen.

“Shit.” Harry’s phone flashed with a low battery warning, and he was about to get up to find a charger when he heard the lock to the bathroom door unclick. It was so soft that he would have missed it, if not for the fact that he was sitting with his back to it. Harry’s breath hitched and he dropped his phone near the wall, slowly turning the handle.

The bathroom was so dark, Harry almost stumbled over his own feet. But a sliver of light from the window illuminated his brother’s body, slumped against the cold tile walls of the shower. Tom wasn’t moving, just breathing quietly and staring at the wall behind him. The light shone on his face, and Harry could make out dried tears and the start of fresh ones. His eyes were sunken and lifeless, like he’d been dead and propped up against the wall. Tom barely stirred when Harry walked over, just glancing at the space in his direction.

“Tom...what happened?” Harry breathed, crouching down to look at his older brother. At close proximity, Harry could see Tom better. He looked completely exhausted, the life drained from his face and his eyes glossy. His hair was hopelessly disheveled, and Harry knew he must have paced for hours running his hands through it in anxiety. He’d clearly been crying for a long time because his shirt was still wet, clinging to his chest like a worn out rag.

For a moment, Tom looked at Harry and it seemed like there was something right behind his eyes that was trying to get out. That look of fear and anguish melded together, wanting someone to help him because he could no longer help himself. It was like another person inside him, the real Tom that had been trapped for so long. The person he had been before the trauma, before shooting Cherry, the man Harry was proud to call his brother.

And then Harry knew what to do.

“Come here, come on.” Harry breathed, holding out his arms. Tom made a broken sound, and finally fell in. The weight of his brother felt right, after months of being pushed away and locked out of his mind. It had never been like that, the feeling of an intangible barrier blocking Harry from Tom. But now it was gone, and the only thing Harry could think of was how long his role model had suffered in silence.

All that pain, to carry it alone.

Tom sobbed harder than Harry had ever seen in his life. It was shuddering and full of hurt, like some dam had broken inside of him. Maybe that was what Harry had seen, the beginning trickle of a flood that needed to wash everything away. Tom was barely breathing, just crying into Harry’s chest with such emotion that the bathroom felt heavy. Every few seconds Tom would only be able to make guttural sounds, and to Harry it sounded like pure torture.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Harry whispered, clutching Tom and rocking him back and forth. The action must have calmed him, because Tom’s sobbing was slowing down. The tears began to lessen and Harry could now hear Tom’s breathing return to a steady pace. There were still some sobs in between, but it all had to come out. It had been locked away for far too long, and Harry knew that he would stay with Tom until he was okay again.

“I...I’m so sorry.” Tom gasped, taking a deep breath before another wave of tears emerged. Harry held him tighter, waiting for him to feel safe with his own words. He didn’t push him, or even tell him to take his time. Harry knew that wasn’t what Tom needed right now.

Sometimes, people just need someone to hold them so they can feel whole again.

“You shouldn’t be here...picking me up off the floor like some kind of child.” Tom finally spoke, his voice coming out strangled. He balled his right hand into a fist, and Harry recognized the action from set. While shooting Cherry, Tom would do that if he was stressed or feeling overwhelmed by everything. Harry had never brought it up, but he knew now that it should have warned him this was coming.

This was no ordinary mood swing.

“Hey, don’t say that. I’m your brother and I care about you. I’m always gonna be here, whenever you need me.” Harry said, giving Tom a reassuring hand. He noticed his brother flinch slightly, but after a few seconds Tom relaxed again. And this time, Harry knew it was because he was finally ready to talk.

So he held Tom’s hand, like he knew Tom would do for him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Harry. I-I’m scared of myself…” Tom whispered, his hand gripping Harry’s tighter.

“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you, Tom I-”

“Yes there is!” Tom suddenly drops Harry’s hand, immediately bringing his hands to his face. He balled his fists again, almost like he’s beating himself. Harry sits still, wanting to reach out but he knows this is part of the process. Tom needed to let it out.

“I-I don’t recognize myself anymore...it’s like looking into a window or a painting. I see myself and I hear myself, but it’s not me. I became someone else...and I hate who I am.” Tom breathed, getting up and leaning against the sink. Harry stayed silent, watching Tom’s eyes focus on the ceiling.

“When we first started shooting Cherry, I was so excited. I had finally gotten a role where I felt I could really grow, push myself out of my comfort zone. That was what I had trained to do, and I was so happy that I never stopped to think about if I could really handle it.”

“Honestly….I don’t think I wanted to think about it. I just wanted a chance to prove myself as a serious actor, and I thought ‘fuck it, I’ll do whatever it takes’. I’ll do the late hours, the reshoots, the mind games, the method acting shit…..I can take whatever they throw at me. And I did it, Harry. I did it all.”

“I threw myself into that movie one hundred and ten percent. I went harder than I ever have in my life, even more than I did for Spiderman. I just kept telling myself ‘No breaks, keep going. You don’t get to stop until it’s perfect’. So I didn’t stop, and I kept pushing myself.”

“Nobody warns you about what it will do to you. How it starts to feel real, all of it. Like...like it wasn’t a movie anymore...I felt so alone. You were there, I had the whole crew too...but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anyone who would understand how depressed you start to feel. Because it became a part of my mind, the drugs and the pain and the emotion. I couldn’t separate myself from the role anymore.”

“I never told anyone what was happening, I just told myself to get over it. I was ashamed that I allowed it to affect me. You know, h-how could I be so weak? But filming every day, reshooting takes that drained me completely, it was really bad. I keptfalling into this dark place and I thought I was going to drown alive.”

“At the end of the day, when you were out with the cast, I stayed in that trailer and cried myself to sleep. I was so tired and I felt sick to my stomach every day. It fucking messes with your mind, doing that every day. It feels like someone is punching you in the gut until you throw up, like you want to just drown to keep out the pain...I never want to feel that again.”

“But all I wanted was to prove something to the people that didn’t believe I was good enough. I just wanted the respect, the recognition that I could be something more. I pushed myself until I was so far gone because I wanted it to be perfect. Because what if…… what if I was really just a fluke? What if I was only good enough to play Spiderman?”

Tom’s shaking again, and Harry knows he’s ready to break. It takes only a second for his knees to give out, and Harry’s right there to catch him. The two of them collapse against the cabinets, and now it’s Harry’s turn to cry too.

“God, it hurts so much...it hurts so much, Harry. Why does it hurt so much?” Tom sobbed into Harry’s shirt, and Harry felt tears of his own hit his cheek. He had no idea Tom had been harboring all this for so long, and it had been happening right under his nose.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m so sorry.” Harry cried, holding onto Tom like he was afraid he would slip from his fingers. Tom didn’t move either, and maybe he was afraid of that too.

“I pushed her away...Harry what the fuck do I do? I love her so much, she’s my entire world and I broke her heart. I told her to leave and now I’ve lost the one person I don’t ever want to live without. I can face anything with her, but I can’t face knowing I drove her away. Not when I know s-she’s the one…” Tom sniffled, and he felt his heart ache again. The way it had without her, the way it had when he wished she was there to hold him while he cried.

“It’s okay, Tom. We’ll figure this out. It’ll be okay, I promise.” Harry whispered. Tom wiped his eyes and looked up at the wall. It was a picture of you and him, the first wedding you ever attended together. You looked so happy, glowing in your flowy lavender dress. That smile made Tom’s knees weak every time, and he had kissed you speechless right after the picture was taken.

And that’s when Tom knew that he couldn’t be himself again without you. Because you were his second half, the only one who he’d ever loved unconditionally.

“I love her, Harry. And I have to prove it.”

TAGLIST (PLEASE ONLY SEND AN ASK OR FILL OUT MY FORM!!): @tommyparkerr @grandmascottlang @toms-order @darling-marvel @spiderboythomas @cutiehollands @peeterparkr @jupiterparker @inlovewithmob-tom @veronicas-littleworld @da5haexowin @sergeantbxrnxs @hazsterfield @itsholyholland @underoosstark @stormyholland @let-me-luve-you @musicgirl234 @its-livelovelife @steve-thotgers @tiny-friggin-human @lovelyh0lland @lucille-lovely @yeahbutmarvel @lokiislowkeyhot @spideymood @yoharryyouawizard @tomhollanders2013 @celestialparker @jnej @spiderman-n @positiveparker @winterssoldierrs @heycreehere @galaxy-parker @sdrecsfics @doimakeitthroughthenight @wronglanemendes @brokensimpson @spnsoap @ninetypoundsofasthma @quitetommy @voltronshepard @marvelismylifffe @iluvmesomemarvelndc @annathesillyfriend @tiredfeels @scarlet-spiderr @hedwigthelegend @renesniajazza @bibliophile-grasshopp @tomhollandswhore @yeeterbenjaminparker @juliabuenooo @paradoxparker @pokeloisfk @machomango13 @nobledoritoman @cosmicdaya @hey-its-grey @toms-gf @cutesparker @whypeterparkerwhy @blissfulparker @xxtomxo @pastelpeter @hilllsnholland @hopespym @peterstrainingwheels @stuckonspidey @jacobsbatalon @prkerspeter @spideypeach @spxderbarnes @stealth-spiderr @uglypastels @darlingtholland @spideyflicker @cloudyparkers @out-of-my-way-extras @trustfundparker @clockblobber @asmilinghopelessromantic @zaynjawy @sholla4-314 @lemondropirwin @angelbabymed @in-the-corner-coffee-please @peterbparkcr @william-stanley @greenarrowhead @squishyhyunjin @starz-23 @spoopy-spooderman @whatevsholland @aestheticstom @tomzfrog @bebegomie @embrace-themagic @peterparkersbodyguard @strangertingle @dancingoncrackedhearts @mlt2000 @cordiebirdy @headsup-itsmostlypeter @sspideytom @kisses-holland @hardestbattles-strongestsoldiers @infamousmany @theefactorygirl @aelinashryvver @sarah-moss2015 @honeybucks @fandomdarlings @yourwonderbelle @rexorangecouny @deni-gonzalez @mylifeasafangirlforever @random-writer06 @stretchkingblog97 @sweetlyth @notethereal @pachuh @fandoms-stuff @petesrparker @yavinmoon @sweet-baby-cakes @noswagswag @peteunderoos @jackiehollanderr @yadekms @practicallylivesonline @i-tried21 @stasye @unorganizedasf @tomshufflepuff @mejustbeingme @fanboy-tom @mimaligrl @theimpossiblehologramtree @diamonddia-mond @qrangr @parkeroffline @peterpumpkinparker @rosieredcheeks @delicately-important-trash @zabdisamor @peterbrokenparker @the-lost-fairy-tale @everestluke @gigilame @youllbemineandillbeyours @cherryblossomcharlotte @paintingbellarke @teawithbucky @miraclesoflove @tomhaz @multi-worlds @clara-licht @ppkrtingle @laurxn-robinson @lulueliott @lostinspidey @starlightparker @ddaeing @sincerelymlg @officiallygeek @maybemona @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @lowkey-holland @particularsof @saturn-aka-six @elysianparker @fangirlingisajob @hypnotized-so-mesmerized @deathofthrones @th0ttie4tommy @orowit @lauras-collection @itseightbeats @thomasholyholland @h-oneyholland @softboyparkerr @darlingxholland @marshyrebelcloud @kristinathecarat @florencxs @definitely-not-black-cat @spdys @wazzupmrstark @clqudsparker @farfromhaz @plushparker @princepeteys @afterglowparker @screamholland @softspiderling @iv-nyc @w-jhxk-yj @doctor-spence-reidd @spacebitch2 @geeksareunique @sltwins @belladonichaze39 @emmmybear @melrosaeparker @crazymexicanfangirl @spacebitch2 @herondaleslucies @himynameishooman @temptingholland​ @miraclesoflove​ @marvelobsessedteenager​ @hollandosterfieldfanfic​ @beequeen8020 @escapetheshackles​ @siriuslyslyslytherin​

Gone Taglist: @tshdarling @hessirius @ana-cxst @aeciru @pachuh @bobo-bush @itsjusttor @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory @autty0314 @name-me-regret @prfctdayas @youngblood199456 @fab-notfat @technolilly @hollandinq @theetherealbloom @littlebookbengal @spideyyeet @midnightbarnes @3prettyinpink3 @lulueliott24 @spxder-bxcky @spiderbibby @ietss @winterseba @sehunights blahhhhhhhaaa @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @sixwyrxstuff @noelleivy @madeinthemidnightmemories @tryn25 @iriaaarb @marvelobsessedteenager @eleanornicolelocke @breakingnasa @iwishitwasthe-80s @imwesley @ihopethatwemeetinanotherlife @1dstark-blog @totesem @itstomhollands @thespiderdweeb @stxfxniexreads @astrobxbeee @magicianraging @reveluvspecial @be-cautious-around-bri @audreylovespidey706 @whereverigoimightstay @natasha-stark-parker @jacksnoodlez99 @lifeisabitchandsoareyou @stabbyhat @blackeighteen @itisjustpaula @caitsymichelle13 @herondalism @ameliathackray @pluckypete @rachaeldonnaspiteri1 @farfromjustordinary @cosmicmndes @molkel @giveme-gaskarth @likeit-or-leaveit @captured-firelight @spnsquirrel @some-random-stranger-007 @classwithstas @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @silver-bubbles

Moots tag (let me know if you want me to take you off :) ) @angelic-holland @fairytaleparker @honeymoonparker @hollandraul @hey-its-grey @joshuaparker @neverletyoufall @neverlandparker @nnatasha @parkerpuff @the-claire-bitch-project @angelhaz11 @blushypetey @hazinhoodies @imagine-lovebug @amsterdam-parker @spiderrpcrker 

[nakedmossy]

Depth Over Distance - Part Four (1/2) [Rudy x Reader]

[A/N: I haven’t found a hometown Rudy fic yet soooo I wrote one. I have no idea where this story is going to go and I’m honestly finding it hard to get out of writing JJ and get into writing Rudy, but here we go anyways. I wanted to write something where the reader and Rudy were hometown friends before he moved to LA, and to explore the idea of how that would change/what it would look like when he comes back. Get ready for a S L O W. B U R N. my dudes. Peace and love, Mossy x]

Two days after Rudy got home you had left for your fishing trip with your Dad. It had been a typical trip for the time of year, sketchy weather at best that made for some interesting maneuvering of waves and necessary local knowledge of how the channels and tides worked. It hardly phased you, you had become something of an expert in navigating rough waters lately.

The fishing had been scant and after the first day the youngest member of the crew had gotten so bored with the older gentlemen he was accompanying that he took to flirting with you for the next two days, which was both a blessing and a curse. It gave you a distraction from your incessant thoughts about Rudy being home, but served as a reminder that even in the face of an (arguably very attractive) tourist who was clearly making an effort, you couldn’t think about anyone else but Rudy. The one hour of peace you got every afternoon when the boat was anchored so the crew could fish the shoreline gave you time to concoct the idea of a welcome home party for Rudy. 

After some collaboration with Lizzy and a few people you had graduated with, it ended up becoming a pallet party with a keg in the bush near the Viewpoint (the popular make out spot when you were 15, but also the best clearing/parking lot for more than 5 cars). Half the town had shown up - it was a roaring success, so much so that you had seen Rudy for a total of 10 minutes since the party started.

Lizzy had invited Junior in spite of your numerous attempts to dissuade her (Junior was obnoxious when he was drunk), but she had persisted, noting that she thought they had had a ‘moment’ when she had hopped in his rental truck that day at the beach, and she wanted to investigate further. Naturally this had led to Junior giving her the cold shoulder, her binge drinking and making out with one of the contract fisherman, and Junior following you around for the next hour while you tried to keep him at arms length. He had spotted you on your way to your car and was tripping down the pathway after you now.

“Forget it Junior...just leave me alone” you waved your hand behind you, shooing him away as you walked down the path towards the cars.

“Ah, don’t be like that Y/N” he slurred, stumbling over a root and steadying himself with your shoulder. “I just wanna talk”

“Tough luck” You walked straight ahead and kept your eyes forward, no step faltering, no patience. “Get outta here before I whack you with a stick.”

“Whack me. With a stick.” He repeated, snorting. “Yeah rig- OUCH!”

You threw the stick back down on the ground and continued walking, not looking behind you but knowing he was still following you, albeit now clutching his arm in pain.

“You know, you got really aggressive after we broke up and part of me feels like I could help you fix that” Junior was slurring so disgustingly that a dribble of spit had built up on the side of his lip. You had stopped walking and turned to face him, putting your hand out to stop him from coming closer.

“If anything makes me aggressive Junior, its the fact you STILL follow me around like a lost puppy when you’re drinking. We broke up 5 years ago. Move on man.” You said flatly, pointing back towards the party. You didn’t bother lowering your voice or speaking quietly, the party was so loud that nobody would hear you anyways. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

Junior stood his ground resiliently and locked his (dilated) pupils on you, setting his jaw. He tried to cross his arms but he lost balance and had to side step to stop from falling over. 

“Hey man, you good?” Rudy appeared behind him down the path, a can in his hand, walking with distinct purpose directly towards you. Junior looked behind him and groaned, his face souring.

“Dude you really gotta mind your own.” He said with an ego-soaked tone, staring at Rudy for a few seconds before Rudy’s significantly stronger and more sober grip dug into Junior’s shoulder and Junior stiffened.

“I think you should walk away and go back to the party.” Rudy nodded, guiding Junior around him and back down the trail. He stood his ground until Junior looked at you and shook his head.

‘Whatever’ he mumbled before shoving Rudy’s hand off and tripping a few steps backwards. 

“You know, this is so typical. Even after you bailed on her and disappeared, she STILL picks you.” He said, swinging his arm out and frowning directly at you know. “When he puts you in the hospital this time, don’t come running to me.”

With that, he turned and started back down the path towards the fire. Rudy watched him for a few seconds before turning back and looking at you, his face dark with shadows. The moonlight streaming through the trees illuminated your face, showing him your eyes wet with tears. You shook your head and ran a hand over your face, throwing your hands in the air defeatedly.

“What was he talking about?” Rudy took a step towards you but you turned away from him and put your hands on your head, taking a deep breath.

“Nothing. Drunk rambling. He’s an idiot.” You said quietly, breathing steadily and calming yourself.

“Well, no disputing that.” Rudy said quickly, then walked around to see you. “What did he mean about the hospital?” 

You put your arms down and put your hands in your sweater pockets, shrugging.

“Like I said, drunk rambling.”

Rudy held your eyes for a few seconds then reached in his pocket and grabbed a beer, passing it to you slowly. You smiled apologetically and accepted it, cracking it open loudly. He spun to look down the path towards the cars, shoulder to shoulder with you, and fell in step when you started walking again.

“You never mentioned you were in the hospital.” He spoke after a few quiet moments.

“It was a long time ago.” You shrugged, taking a swig of the beer he had given you. Your head was starting to get fuzzy. You really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or like...ever, actually. “I told you about the specialists...I thought I mentioned it.” You lied.

“You for sure did not mention being in the hospital, Y/N.” He spoke intently, clearly, you could feel him looking at you. “Why?” 

You bit your tongue and groaned internally, knowing there was nothing for it now.

“I don’t know” Lie. You knew perfectly well. “I guess it just seemed selfish to burden you with it...you were busy, you had just moved to LA.” A half lie, you knew if he knew you were in the hospital he would want to come back and you didn’t want to interfere with his shot. “Besides, it wasn’t anything major.” A big lie.

Rudy cleared his throat and stopped walking, putting his arm out to stop you as well. Confused, you looked at him and waited, the darkness from the tree cover making it hard to see anything but the outline of his features.

“Just...will you please be honest with me for a few minutes.” He started shaking his empty beer can against his leg nervously. 

You nodded, acutely aware of how close you were standing to him. You were dreading this conversation but it felt inevitable now.

“How bad was it. Actually.”

You crinkled your nose and looked around, wanting desperately to lie to him again but knowing that you couldn’t. You took a long swig and swallowed slowly, biding your time. Finally, you looked at him as you spoke.

“Pretty bad.” You chose your words carefully. “I was in there for a few weeks...I had some heart complications due to malnutrition and it took a bit to get it stable again. When they discharged me I had to see some specialists, monitor everything to make sure there was no permanent damage.”

Rudy watched you intently, breathing but not moving.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was embarrassed.” You said finally, looking directly back at him now. He didn’t speak, he just held your gaze silently. You turned, take a few small steps forward slowly. He followed.

“I mean it didn’t even make sense at the time, to me anyways. I had never been that person, I was healthy. Then suddenly...I don't know. Something changed. I just...I didn’t want to eat. Food wasn’t appealing. It wasn’t like I chose not to or was counting calories or anything...it wasn’t like that.” You looked over at him to reinforce the importance of your point. He nodded and kept close to you as you kept walked. “It just...I felt like I lost interest. Not just in food...in a lot of things. I sorta just lost my purpose...shit.” You laughed humourlessly and sniffed your nose, which was cold from the wet air. “I guess I kinda lost myself.”

It felt peculiar to speak this openly about it, especially with Rudy, when you hadn’t talked to anyone aside from your therapist about it since it happened.

“Thank you” Rudy said quietly, after a few moments of silence. You had reached the end of the path that led to the viewpoint clearing, both illuminated fully in the moonlight. Now that you could see him properly you could see that his face was covered in a pained expression, his shoulders slightly sagging. 

“For what” You questioned, slowing down and turning more towards him as you walked.

“For telling me all that.” He smiled at you, a small, sad smile. “Its not easy to open up like that.”

Something passed over his face and his eyes glazed momentarily, drifting somewhere else. You felt yourself take a step closer to him, tipping your head to catch his eye. He smiled down at you and blinked back into the present, sighing lightly.

“I almost called you...a hundred times over.” He said finally, looking over your head at the trees and then back to you. “I never did. Then so much time passed I felt like I couldn’t and...” He closed his mouth and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “and now I wish I had just picked up the phone” He choked out, struggling to form the words.

You felt a weight on your shoulders and a tightness in your chest as he spoke, he looked distraught. You didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything to say, so you stood still, keeping hold of his gaze and praying he would say something else. He didn’t. 

Instead, he put his arm over your shoulders and pulled you in beside him, walking you both forward into the clearing towards the viewpoint fence. He leaned his head down and pressed a kiss into your hair firmly, you closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of the wet earth and cedar trees. You felt lightheaded and calm, more calm than you had felt in months. When you reached the fence, he removed his arm and leaned both forearms on the top of the fence, rocking on his feet and looking out across the valley and down at the mudflats. 

“Why didn’t you call?” You asked out of curiosity, matching his posture and leaning over the fence.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.” He said mindlessly, as if the answer was just under the surface. “After I left you on the beach I was pretty certain you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I didn’t” You breathed, looking at the side of his face, he winced when you spoke. “I wasted a lot of time being angry at you that year.” 

He met your eyes and his face relaxed when he saw your expression. You smiled and bumped his shoulder with yours.

“I’m happy you’re here now,” You said gently, picking at a piece of the metal. “For the record.”

“Me too.” He placed his chin on his fist, watching you again.

“My turn” You raised your eyebrows and smiled at him, watching his eyes roll and a small laugh escape.

“Fair enough. Fire away captain.”

“Tell me about Anna.”

He looked over at you with a confused expression at first, which slowly shifted to a straight face, then his shoulders sagged and he leaned into the fence, grunting.

“She is my agent. That’s it.” He said firmly, staring at a tree top on the hillside down the embankment below you.

You waited, when he didn’t continue you closed your mouth and took a step back, turning towards the pathway back to the party.

“Alright” You said airily, gesturing to the path when he looked up at you. “Fine.”

“What” He watched you backing away from him. You inhaled sharply and shook your head, smiling.

“We can have that conversation a different time then, but...you cannot lie to me, Rudy Pankow. You are terrible at it. Truly.”

You made the comment lightheartedly but you both recognized the truth in it. Rudy looked around and up at the clear night sky for a moment before looking back at you and smiling knowingly.

“Just give me a couple days to enjoy you before I ruin it with my E! True Hollywood Story, alright?” He said sarcastically, walking towards you and stopping a breath from your face. “Now, lets go get drunk.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat and you replayed him saying give me a couple days to enjoy you until the imprint of his voice faded from your brain. You followed him in a daze back to the party, making easy conversation about how the fishing trip had been, stopping when you reached the keg and grabbing cups. You took it gratefully and raised it to your lips, taking a few large gulps quickly. When you lowered the cup and raised your arm to wipe your mouth, you noticed Rudy was watching you, laughing lightly, his cup still full.

“What - do I have ...is there something on my face?” You wiped your sleeve around your mouth, suddenly self conscious. Someone behind you bumped you and you fell forward, Rudy steadying you with his hands. 

“Easy there, Little Fern” He laughed, helping you stand straight again.

You cringed, wiping the beer that had spilled on your hand.

“Sorry” You looked around for the culprit, but it was impossible to tell who had bumped you. Rudy’s eyes focussed on you and he lifted his full cup, nodding.

“To you.” He tipped his cup when you lifted yours to cheers him. “To us. To...making up for lost time.” His expression was hard to read, but you thought you understood it, it was recognition and happiness and gratefulness and hopefulness all wrapped up in one. 

“Cheers” You said almost inaudibly, lost in his gaze. The fire cracked behind you, breaking your concentration on him.

“A-and-” You stuttered, blinking hazily. “-Cheers to you. Being here. With Me.”

Rudy grinned at you, winking, before clinking his cup to yours and then proceeding to down the entire thing in one go. He chucked the empty cup into the fire and let out a loud yelp, several people around you raising their cups in the air and shouting encouragements. When he looked at you again you swore you saw the breath leave his lungs. He was looking at you with a hazy yet intense expression, his smile rising and falling but his eyes firm, making you feel like the only person he could see.

“What...” You smiled, chuckling lightly. Rudy blinked at you a few times before taking a step forward and swallowing, dipping his head closer to yours so you could hear over the roar of the fire and conversation. 

“Let’s go” He spoke clearly, keeping his face near yours.

“What? Where? We can’t leave YOUR welcome home party” You clamoured for words, your stomach fluttering. 

“Yes, we can. Come on, they’re not here for me, they’re here for the beer and the fire. Lets go.”

“Where?” You turned your face to look at him, your nose brushing his cheek. You felt blood rushing to your face.

“Anywhere” He said in a low voice, hot breath that smelled of beer wafting over you.

You didn’t answer, you simply leaned your head back a bit to see his eyes clearly, and smiled, nodding once. He grabbed your hand firmly and led you away from the keg towards the cars. 

Continued in Part 4.2

____________________________________________

Tag List: @bluebirdsbluebells​, @sunshinemadds​, @lovelymaybankk​, @poguestyleskye​, @alexa-playafricabytoto​, @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch​, @k-k0129​, @kimyeon-tae​, @ellystone​, @faded-blue​, @thebeautifulbookworm

[revalise]

After the Sun [M] | 01

Pairing: Chrollo Lucilfer x Fem. OC

Genre: Romance and eventual smut

Rating: M

Words: 2500+

Notes: Huge thanks to Sky @pixiewombat for beta reading this chapter! 

All characters are humans unless otherwise stated in their description. Hence, Zazan is human in the story.

Masterlist | Prologue | 02

Chrollo Lucilfer gets everything he wants, when he wants-even if it means undergoing extreme measures. Nothing bothered him, until an aphrodite, Astra Gerber, appeared one night and stole from the infamous thief. In return that Chrollo doesn’t report her, he strikes a deal. But it could be more than what Astra bargained for. 

BOLD

“What do you mean your necklace was stolen?” Pakunoda eyed Chrollo carefully as he sat behind his desk at his penthouse, looking over the magnificent, illuminating lights of Yorknew City, while she stood in front of him.

“It just was stolen,” he deadpanned.

Pakunoda clicked her tongue. There was no way someone could steal from Chrollo—a bandit himself, and a good one at that.

She thought to herself for a moment. ‘Is he planning to steal the poor girl’s hatsu?’

Once, he had charmed the pants off of a girl who could write fortunes and stole her ability. Despite his obvious antics, he wasn’t found out, thanks to the girl’s inexperience. But when he managed to get a hold of how it should be done, he started doing it again and again. 

Pakunoda didn’t complain. Chrollo’s Bandit’s Secret was a trump card, not only for him, but for the rest of the group. When Chrollo noticed the drastic advantage the ‘strategy’ gave him, he started using it more often. To him, it felt like a shortcut.

And who would expect someone so sophisticated and pretty-boy looking?

She sighed and put the folder down on his desk.

Chrollo had asked Pakunoda to find the girl who had stolen his necklace. He remained vague about it, but knowing Chrollo, it might be something extremely important. 

He looked over the files, silently reading their contents, taking them in just as he consumed  knowledge from his ancient books. His fingers traced the letters of the name written in bold on one of the pages.

ASTRA BEATRIZ GERBER

Pakunoda gazed at him with suspicion. Meddling with this girl could endanger the nature of the group. She was nowhere near a simple girl, alright. The girl spelled trouble.

She was the illegitimate child of an acknowledged former lawyer, Martin Gerber, before he took over the Gerber family dynasty.  

This information wasn’t exactly kept a secret. It was silent gossip within the small circle of socialites and elites. Illegitimate children weren’t news to the circle. Three out of five families in the circle had a case of their own. But it so happened that the Gerber family was known to be conservative—faithful to their betrothed, or as painted by the media.

Nevertheless, it only took that mistake to have the head of the family, Rod Gerber,  wavering in his trust in Martin. To his dismay, this almost cost him the whole dynasty. Fortunately, Rod was a good man, unlike his son. To secure his position in becoming the next successor as the eldest, Martin had to keep the child and take her as his own.

It shamed Martin to do so, keeping an illegitimate of his own accord. Though his wife was noticeably against it, she had to agree if she wanted to be the wife of the very powerful man. Cleverly, she argued that it would bring discomfort to her family if the child were to live in the same house as them. Rod then agreed that Martin would just have to sustain the needs of the child in the mother’s care.

Chrollo took all of the information  in, almost feeling bad for the girl, if  it weren’t for his own experiences.  

The same thought as Pakunoda had crossed his mind. Her father had connections in law. If Chrollo, say for example, met the girl’s father and he decided to look deeper into Chrollo and his background, it wouldn’t really be a problem. The group knew how to cut their ties. They eliminated those who had seen them. But if worse came to worst, this could have blown the group’s cover. 

The Phantom Troupe weren’t regular thieves. They were thieves with intellect that calculated their every movement. Before they acted on anything, Chrollo, who had a personal philosophy of theological dualism - the balance between good and evil - that influenced his decisions, would first weigh his options. His actions were always calculated.

It was not that they feared the law or the man himself, but the Phantom Troupe managed to blend in with the crowd, no one knew of who they were. And the group loved being free despite the criminality they commit.

From the moment he first laid his eyes on her, he knew she was trouble.

But none of the information stopped him.

***

Zazan promised Astra dinner. But it was way past dinner, and the staff of the three-star Michelin restaurant she had booked kept going back and forth, assisting and asking for her order, which she refused to give until her aunt arrived.

Her aunt, Zazan, was her father, Martin’s, little sister. For all her life, she was her mother figure. Zazan always had her back whenever her father didn’t. Her aunt loved designer and luxury items, and was a designer herself. Hence, her love for luxury and designer.

To state it simply, Astra was given to her aunt after she lived with her dad for two years when her mother died. She was only six then.

She remembers how much scorn she received from Martin’s legitimate family, and how she was treated as less than a freeloader, being an illegitimate child. Not once did her father defend her from them.

After all, she was a nobody, aside from the Gerber blood running through her veins.

Astra, at four, never spoke with anyone, not even the maids that served the family in their mansion. She remained quiet, hiding inside her room, but doing everything she was told—even standing for hours, with no food and water, beside the silver knight decorations in the hallway of their house because her older half-sister told her to. She ignored the numbing sensation in her knees until a helper saw her.

That was, until Zazan returned to the city and took interest in the meek, little girl she once was. And for the first time in two years, she spoke and her voice sounded hoarse. Her words were: “Can I come with you?”

From then on, Zazan took her as her own. Martin had no objections, nor did his family. In fact, the situation was in their favor. In his father’s eyes, as long as Astra wasn’t disobedient or brought problems—more than she already had, being an illegitimate—upon the family, it’d be fine.  

However, it seemed Astra grew up to be a spitting image of Zazan’s personality. Astra grew bolder, braver, and stronger, all because she had Zazan to look up to. But Astra wasn’t nice on a daily basis. She was nowhere near a saint.

“May I take your order, miss?” a smiling boy, who looked a few years younger than Astra, came to assist her. But a girl, wearing the same uniform as him, came to them, gripping his arm.

“Sorry, miss.” The staff leaned in closer to the boy’s ear to whisper, “I’ve been trying to take her order. She’s waiting for someone, but I think she got stood up.”

“Oh...” the boy muttered “Too bad, she actually looks pretty.”

He turned his attention to Astra, about to apologize, when she interrupted him.

Astra laced her fingers together, her elbows on the table, and rested her head on her hands. With a sarcastic tone, she said, “If you’re going to talk shit about me, consider doing it somewhere else where I can’t hear you.”

“S-sorry, miss…” the staff muttered, afraid. All of their customers had power, because only the rich could afford the place. They feared they could lose their jobs. Most of all, they knew who Astra was. They knew of her influence.

“But thanks for complimenting my looks.” Astra flashed a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Get me some champagne.”

They scurried to give her what she wanted, too obvious in wanting to leave her sight.

Astra leaned on her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. She clicked her tongue in impatience. For once, she regretted asking for champagne. She felt the urge to leave. To elites like her, hunger didn’t come, anyway; she’d still have a lot of food at home. She could leave before they gave her champagne, and leave cash three times the bill, but her pride made her stay.

And she hated to admit it, but she really needed to see her aunt. She needed someone.

She needed someone to hold her at times she felt like slipping away.

As Astra waited impatiently, a man sat at the opposite end of the table. It happened so quickly, she didn’t have the time to process it. The man looked studly in his crisp suit. He wore a white shirt underneath, topped with a dark blazer and slacks.

“I’m sorry. Did I keep you waiting?” He asked in his most polite tone while he pulled at the opening of his blazer.

Her eyebrows shot up and she clicked her tongue, but she tried to maintain her composure. After all, it was a restaurant for the high-class. Manners above all.

“Sorry, you must have the wrong table.”

The man chuckled. “Oh, have you forgotten about me, miss? Allow me to reintroduce myself,” he grinned, “I’m the man you stole from a few nights ago.”

For a moment, perplexity was etched on her face, ‘Bitch, which one?’ 

Yes, the man looked a little familiar, but with the amount of people she was acquainted with, it was hard to keep track of the long list. 

“Oh, I see,” she said plainly. “I must’ve stolen from you when I was drunk.” 

Astra leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. She whispered, “You see, I have a habit of doing those when I’m drunk.” She flashed her sultry smile. 

Her hands reached for her fuchsia devotion bag made of python skin. It featured an exclusive bejeweled personalized heart closure, inspired by the techniques of fine jewelry, which etched her initials in it.

ABG

Astra clicked her tongue when her eyes met her initials on her bag. She laughed inwardly at how she sent it back to Italy when her initials weren’t in bold.

“How much was it? I could pay for it right now.”

The way the man grinned at her assured her that it’s done for. Game over. She wins. Whatever she did, she got away with it. Not because of her pull and connections, but because of her charm. And she knew it. She grinned at this. 

“Actually,” the man began, “I have other things in mind.”

“Oh,” Astra had a knowing smirk. She knew of what the man could possibly ask. It was no different. He was no different from all the other men she’d met before. ‘A night, perhaps?’

“Let’s hear it,” she said sultrily. 

It was the man’s turn to lean closer and rest his elbows on the table. He laced his hands together and flashed a smile. “I was thinking of jail time.”

Her hypocritical smile dropped. She was rendered shaken. Just as quick as the change in her mood, the sourness and bitterness of being embarrassed in front of the mysterious man in front of her, she showed her true colors. 

‘Where the fuck is my champagne?’ she thought.

Her back rested on her chair and she crossed her arms. “Name?” her tone was as rude as it could get. 

“Now we’re talking,” the man chuckled, and he rested his back on his chair as well. “Chrollo Lucilfer. I believe I already told you that. I’m hurt you forgot about me so easily.”

Astra didn’t reciprocate the demeanor Chrollo was showing. While Chrollo looked composed and polite, Astra, on the other hand, was irking in anger. 

“What do you want?” she spat, so rudely you wouldn’t think that it was the same woman who had been flashing sultry and inviting smiles.

“Nothing much, actually,” he grinned but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll discuss the matter, and I promise you it’d be done with.”

If it were only a few minutes ago, she would have gone with him at that very moment. She would’ve taken him to some backroom and let them do their business. But it was different now. 

To her, it seemed like the man didn’t want any physical relationships. He was danger, nothing else. 

“And if I refuse?” 

“Your scandalous actions will not only be known by your father, Martin Gerber, but your little circle as well,” he replied.

“I’m impressed. You’ve done your research about me,” she scoffed. 

One of the staff who assisted her earlier appeared with champagne in her hands. She kept her head down, but kept a shy smile and gave continuous glances toward Chrollo as she poured the liquid into their respective glass.

“Thanks, miss,” Chrollo flashed the girl a sweet smile. 

Astra could have sworn she saw the girl almost curtsy at that. She rolled her eyes. 

When the girl left, Astra arched her brow. Chrollo on the other hand, ignored her demeanor. “Shall I order you some real food?” 

He was about to call the staff again, but Astra stopped him. “I’m not hungry.”

For a moment, Astra almost regretted her actions because Chrollo might be hungry. But if it’d be the same staff who keep annoying her with how they tried to get the man’s attention, forget it. 

‘What is with this restaurant anyway? Why are they always the same people?’

Once the foam settled on her champagne, she drank it quickly, picked up her bag, and stood up. When she looked over at Chrollo, who still sat on his seat gazing at her, she scoffed. “I’m coming with you. Wait for me outside in a moment.”

“You’ve said that before,” he replied, reminiscing to when she said the exact thing when they met the other night, and then she was gone with his St. Peter’s cross necklace.

“You seriously have something on me. Do you think I’ll run away from you?” Astra argued. “Besides, you’ve done your research on me. So I expect you to appear wherever I am.”

“I don’t believe you,” Chrollo stood up. “Wherever you’re going, I’ll come with you.”

Astra rolled her eyes. If she didn’t have something, it would obviously be his trust. And she had to get it no matter what, if she wanted to get out of the situation quickly.

She turned on her heel and Chrollo followed closely behind her. Suddenly, something rang from Chrollo’s pocket when they stepped out of the restaurant and into the lobby of the luxury hotel. Astra turned her attention to it and then to his eyes looking back at hers. 

“Go,” she nodded at him in a dismissive manner. “I promise I won’t leave.”

Chrollo eyed her carefully, weighing the sincerity of her words, to which she responded with widening her eyes at him. There was a faint smile in Chrollo’s face before he finally took his phone out and turned his back on her. 

Astra lightly shook her head. She didn’t notice, but there was a small smile on her face as well. And just as if the timing couldn’t be more perfect, someone she knew all too well appeared in front of her, looking down at her, mocking her.

“Dad…” she whispered.  

[winterscaptain]

Has anyone asked for Director's Cut to Focused? Because I would love to hear about my new favorite installment, if you're still taking requests for these!

its under the cut, with my commentary in bold italics! thanks for asking for this babe!! i loved writing this one.

“Don’t get comfortable. There will be time to debrief on the plane.” Hotch’s eyes are trained on the monitor, where grainy security footage plays and replays an exceedingly casual murder in an underground subway station.

“Exceedingly casual murder” is probably one of my favorite phrases so far. 

Reid, entering behind you, squints at the monitor. “Where are we headed?”

“New York.”

Rossi advances on the monitor. “Five shootings in two weeks. It’s about time we got the call.”

You watch as Hotch replays the tape again. “Why the delay?”

Aaron doesn’t answer you, but rather addresses Derek. “I want to take Garcia with us. Hopefully they’ll give us access to their surveillance systems.”

He’s distracted, almost absent-minded. It’s odd.

“What do we know?” You try again with another question, and Emily dips her chin - she had the same one.

Redistributing canon lines is always a little difficult for me - I try to be as equitable as possible and give a nod to the person who originally delivered it. 

Also - it’s rough to find little dialogue tags for every moment where the entire team is talking!! I always just get the dialogue down and then go back and find little opportunities to indicate movement, attention, or anything else that tells us who’s talking. 

it’s so easy to get lost when you can’t “see” it!!

Hotch pauses the video, turning toward the rest of you - loosely circled around the table. “All the killings are mid-day. Single gunshot to the head with a .22.”

“Any witnesses?” As always, JJ looks for somewhere to go as soon as wheels are down.

She really doesn’t get paid enough.

There’s something odd in her voice and temperament this morning, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. Now that you’re really awake and looking around, everyone's a little jumpy this morning. It doesn't help that the two most grounded people on the team are the most absent-minded of you all.

Yes, I'm including a bit of the really cool connection between Hotch and JJ - they’re such outliers 

“No.”

Spencer pipes up. “.22-caliber pistol’s only 152 decibels. New York streets and subways are routinely well over a hundred.”

“So,” you ask, “could it be such that possible witnesses don’t even clock it before the unsub’s already on their way?”

Spencer nods.

Derek shifts beside you. “They sound like mob hits.”

Aaron dips his chin, but says, “Except none of them have ties to organized crime.”

The rest of the facts and questions fly past you - no connection between victims, no communication or contact, surveillance footage that shows next to nothing, an establishment that the unsub is bold and well-trained.

Seems completely random.

Spencer voices your next thought. “Son of Sam all over again.”

So reading this back really makes me want to brush up my knowledge on the Son of Sam case - I read about it years ago and have almost entirely forgotten about it. Hmm. 

If I read through it I’ll probably liveblog it or something if anyone’s interested!

The grim look on Aaron’s face tells you all you need to know.

+++

Derek, Penelope, and Emily shoot the shit as they get on the plane, but you notice JJ staring forlornly out the window. You resolve to discover what that’s about as soon as possible. Having her down was odd…

...But she has been acting strange lately, not just today.

You sit beside Hotch, across from Reid as Rossi flips through photos of the victims.

Spencer makes astute observations about the continued pattern of, well, no pattern at all, while Hotch provides some remarks here and there.

One of them catches your attention. “It’s a joint FBI-NYPD taskforce?”

Yeah, because those always go over so well.

If I had a dime for anytime law enforcement agencies in a TV show refused to cooperate, I’d be the richest person alive (suck it, Bezos!)

And if I had a dime for anytime law enforcement agencies in real life refused to cooperate, I’d have an even BIGGER pile of money lmao

“Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office. She’s running point on the case and called me directly.” He calls out to JJ, who then informs the pilot you’re all ready to get wheels up. “Kate’s starting to butt heads with the local detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes.”

There’s something in his voice you can’t place. History, maybe?

Another one of those “Reader sees right through Hotch” moments. I’ve always thought the connection between them presents itself in such a way that they can look at each other and find something deeper. 

It’s like they’re looking in the mirror, but instead of seeing their own reflection, they see something that is as familiar as their own reflection, rather than something identical. 

“Joyner, I know her,” Derek says. “She’s a Brit, right?”

Hotch shrugs. “Well, dual citizenship. Her father’s British, her mother’s American. She was a big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau.”

You look over at him.

That’s a ridiculous amount of knowledge for someone who doesn’t work in the same state, Aaron.

Bitter, much, Reader? Jealous, perhaps? Hmm. 

“I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass.” It’s a test. The defiant tip of Derek’s chin tells you as much.

Hotch takes the bait. “I didn’t think so.”

You can’t help it. “You know her?”

“We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard.”

You look at Emily, who shrugs.

“And she’s good?” You wouldn’t call Dave’s tone skeptical, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was another test. He’s a lot subtler than Morgan.

Hotch looks back at Dave. “I think we’re lucky to have her.”

Yeah, I’m sure you do, Aaron. Sure. 

I LOVED exploring this dynamic between the team and Aaron and his defense of Kate. I really wish we had more information about their past. I made one up, anyway, but having something (anything) in canon would have been very illuminating. 

+++

You all step out of the elevator, and you stay closest to JJ. Her absent-mindedness had yet to leave her, and as the person closest to her age, you were doing your best to support her with your presence alone.

JJ leans toward you as you approach the center of the office. “Is it just me or does she look -”

“- exactly like Haley?” You finish JJ’s thought. “Yeah.”

I REALLY wanted to have Reader be right there with JJ when this happened. I love a finished-sentence moment, and this seemed like a great opportunity to put one in. 

There’s a little smile you can see on Aaron’s face, just touching his profile. Agent Joyner has one too, and it makes you feel...something.

Whatever it is, it isn’t comfortable.

Damn, Reader. You really aren’t acknowledging your feelings, are you? 

Ah, well. It’ll be another few years before you figure that one out. 

“Kate.”

“Aaron. How’ve you been?”

You take another glance at JJ. She seems to have the same thought as you.

First name basis? How close are they?

“Well, thank you. This is my team.” He introduces you all one by one, and you attempt to plaster a polite smile on your face, just like everyone else. Derek’s the only one who doesn’t make an effort, and you tap the side of his shoe with your foot.

The friendship between Reader and Derek strikes again! That was another fun element to explore in this installment, especially when tensions get high. 

Penelope gets settled right away, and the NYPD detectives approach shortly after that. Of course, they start with a snide remark at Spencer. Your hackles rise, and you take a little huff of a breath.

Calm down.

Even though Spencer is a year (or at least a couple of months) older than Reader for the sake of the timeline, I’d like to think there’s a protective element that flows both ways in their relationship.

Kate introduces Detectives Brustin and Cooper. Dave gets right to the point, doing his best to establish baseline rapport.

It doesn’t work.

You don’t notice that you’ve crept closer to Aaron throughout the proceedings, now standing just off his shoulder, next to Emily, until Kate leans into him. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

The crumpling of your brow is quick, and you hope nobody noticed. Emily’s head, whirling around to look at Derek, is far less subtle.

I love that Emily is simultaneously the best liar (sometimes) and also about as subtle as a gun. 

“Sure.”

Emily tracks back to JJ, who looks confused. In a hushed and suggestive tone, she tells her, “They...liaised when she was at Scotland Yard.”

You hide your laugh in your shoulder, covering your movement with an attempt to adjust your backpack.

Derek steps up behind you. “Let me get that for you, kiddo.”

Somewhere along the line I got soft and Derek just started calling Reader “kiddo” and never stopped. 

You look up at him, hard-pressed to keep your mirth to yourself. A little smile plays at the edge of his lips as well. He turns you around when he’s done pretending to be helpful, holding you in the little huddle that develops between the rest of you and the NYPD detectives.

Derek’s eyes keep flickering to Kate’s office, where she and Hotch chat informally and perhaps even fondly, to an extent. Heat rises in your cheeks.

Get over yourself.

Will Reader admit love for Hotch? NO! Does it affect them every moment of every day? YES!

+++

You attempt to ignore the sheer amount of time Aaron spends looking over Kate’s shoulder behind her desk. Tearing your eyes from her office window, you return to your task.

The whiteboard marker in your hand is seeing lots of use as you follow Spencer’s instructions, tracing lines between key points, making notes, etc. Cooper’s banter with Emily puts a little smile on your face.

I adore Cooper. I think he’s such a great character and I was really sad that he never came back. I feel like he’s Emily’s Blackwolf - there’s a fun and actually challenging banter between them that’s really special. I wish we had more of it. 

“Anti-geographical profiling? Now you wonder why we’re so skeptical?” Cooper’s voice is full of play, but there’s a very real concern behind it.

Emily laughs, but then explains, “This unsub’s organized. He strikes at the same time of day, he knows where the cameras are placed. That means he’s doing his own surveillance.”

You offer your two cents in support of Spencer, who outlines the difference between need-motivated killers and organized killers. Cooper looks a little impressed by the time you add, “So, essentially, we need to look everywhere this unsub isn’t to find where he lives. He has a comfort zone, and we just have to find it.”

“What are we finding?” Hotch and Kate roll out of her office, and he settles beside you, peering at the map.

He’s drawn to Reader like a magnet and Kate 100% notices. 

You look over your shoulder at him. “He’s organized, so we’ve redirected to an anti-geographical profile.”

“Keep looking.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door, Kate trailing behind him with a confidence that tightens your jaw.

Maybe Derek was right. Maybe she is a pain in the ass.

+++

You keep your eyes up as Rossi and Hotch inspect the body on the busy New York street. Your mind wanders to a lecture at the academy, the voice of the late Jennifer Shepard echoing through your head.

“Always watch the watchers.”

For those of you that caught this reference - well done!! It’s an NCIS reference to Gibbs’s rules, and Jenny Shepard is THE Jenny Shepard. 

I wanted to open a back door to link the NCIS world with the CM world and give us the crossover episode of which we were deprived. 

But then again, she’d always backed it up with another story about “the man with all the rules” to undermine the rules in question. The stories did more than make you laugh - they helped you remember.

I love the thought of Jenny making fun of Gibbs behind his back. Their relationship is so special to me and I am very excited to include a lil bit of our favorite MCRT in this universe. 

(If you’re not into NCIS, no worries! Their inclusion will be few and far between, with very little context necessary.) 

“See anything?” Hotch looks up, not at you, but you know you have his attention.

You shake your head, your eyes still on the crowd. “Nothing obvious.”

He hums, and tunes back in as Derek says, “From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they’re gonna get is the back of his head.”

“Let’s not be too quick to decide what we do or don’t have.” Kate meets Derek’s eyes and stares him down. You bristle, but Hotch turns just the smallest bit toward you, reminding you to behave.

Another silent conversation? Absolutely. 

The detective makes another snide remark as Kate brushes past the rest of you.

Derek turns toward Hotch, and you step back, giving them the illusion of privacy. “You mind telling me why I’m catching attitude from her?”

Because you’re better at your job? Because you don’t have a chip on your shoulder the size of the Atlantic? Because you probably haven’t maybe slept with our unit chief, maybe?

“FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn’t bring this case home, she’s gonna be reassigned. And you are at the top of the list to replace her.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Aaron squints a little, but his words are deeply genuine. “Why should you be surprised? You’re good at your job. People notice that.”

Okay the way that Aaron actually takes a second to acknowledge Morgan in this scene is amazing. I love it. It just brings so much joy to my heart. 

Even though Hotch is totally being an asshole this episode and clearly playing favorites, he really delivers this line in a way that makes it sound like most obvious think in the world. Like “of course, morgan. you’re so good at this why wouldn’t people notice” and the implication is that he notices and in conclusion, i’m soft. 

He’s right.

“What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back from stealing her away from Scotland Yard?”

Hotch shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t know. Politics here are different. And you can see she doesn’t pull punches.” He walks away, and Derek looks over his shoulder at you.

With a little smile, you say, “He’s right, you know.”

“You’re a terrible ass-kisser, kid.”

Nevertheless, he taps your shoulder with his knuckle and you both make your way to Rossi, examining a tarot card.

I LOVE READER AND DEREK!!!

+++

“We’ve got more than one unsub.” Hotch’s tone is more than defeated, and you peer further over his shoulder, your fingers pressing lightly into the back of his arm for balance.

I just had to include some kind of casual touching here because it’s just my favorite thing in the whole world. 

Rossi circles the desk. “So, we have more than one unsub. What does that tell us?”

“Most teams stick together,” Spencer says. “Ng and Lake. The Krays. Bittaker and Norris. They don’t usually kill separately.”

Derek is next, offering, “Could be some kind of gang initiation.”

Emily and JJ volley about gang operations and local task forces for a moment before Kate asks. “Do you think we have enough for a working profile?”

You startle a little. She’s closer than you thought, on the other side of Hotch. You lean around him, the soft wool of his suit sleeve still under your fingers. “Broad strokes, maybe. Nothing specific, yet.”

Hotch makes a few assignments, but you’re focused on Derek. As you suspected, he has an idea. “I think we should get out on the streets.”

This is one of my favorite moments in all of CM. I think it’s such an incredible microcosm of Derek and Aaron’s relationship, both personally and professionally. 

Also unsurprising, Kate has an immediate rebuttal. “I brought you here to create a profile.”

“Which we can give in the morning, and they can share it with the afternoon shift.”

She huffs. “We’ve allocated every extra man we have.” You don’t miss the warning glance Hotch shoots Derek or the way Derek ignores it. That was a fun catch on my third rewatch trying to write this episode. “This is New York City. It’s not like adding a few more people is gonna blanket the city.”

“I understand it’s a long shot. But these guys, they hit at mid-day. We could target ingress and egress to particular neighborhoods. Position us near express stops - 14th, 42nd, 59th -”

“Morgan. It’s not your call.” Hotch’s rebuke is sharp, surprising.

You inhale sharply and tuck your lip between your teeth, retracting your hand.

Touch is a really important element to me in this story. Every touch is a conscious choice, and it always means something. When touch is added or removed between Hotch and Reader, something has changed. 

This is gonna be a long case.

+++

Thankfully, you’re all headed back to the hotel in fairly short order. Hotch has all but ordered Kate to bed, and you try not to let your thoughts stray too far in response.

Spencer’s eyes wander up, and you follow them. “JJ -”

Will?

You’d only met him once but like him well enough. He was polite, pleasant, and even funny. Seeing as you hadn’t heard much about him in the last few months, you assumed JJ had broken it off.

Guess not.

I love Will. Like as much as I love Jemily and Jotch, Will is just so normal? It’s kind of refreshing. 

I also love how he does what Derek can’t do until season 11 and Hotch can’t do at all - he puts her before his career and I just adore him for it. 

She turns. “Will.”

“Hey,” he says, “took a shot and flew to D.C. but it didn’t work. I figured I’d train up to New York - only a few more hours.”

Will LionsMagne with the crazy accent saying things really tickles me, y’all. He really do be talking absolute nonsense. 

Hotch looks a little surprised, which probably means you do too. He extends his hand. “Detective.”

Will takes it. “I’m sorry for showing up like this. I know you’re working. But, um…” He drops his voice. “I can’t stand you being on this case and me not being here - not with what’s going on.”

You look at JJ, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then Hotch, who looks a little confused. Aaron’s the first one to speak, and you’re more than a little touched by the concern in his voice as he addresses JJ and JJ alone. “Is there a problem?”

Oop! Posessive!Protective!Hotch makes an appearance!

Will dips his head, and you know he’s disappointed.

What the hell is going on?

She turns toward the team. With a little laugh, she says, “I’m pregnant.”

Hotch freezes, and you step close to him as Emily congratulates her. Will extends his hand and Hotch shakes it again. “I’ve asked JJ to marry me.”

JJ whirls around, and there’s a warning in her voice. “Will.”

“We’re, ah, working out some kinks.”

Yeah, I’m sure you are. 

“We’ll, um” Aaron says, coming back to himself, “give you both some privacy.” He nods and steps away. You follow close behind him, but you fall back as JJ hops after him.

“Hotch -”

There’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before when he replies. “JJ, you could have told me.” He almost sounds...hurt? Your brow crumples, and you try to stay out of his eye line as they chat.

If I didn’t shove my foot in the Jotch door here, I wouldn’t be me, now would I? 

There is absolutely NO platonic explanation for Hotch’s reaction in this scene. It’s so much more than a boss/colleague relationship in this moment. He’s so human and so affected by the news that it’s almost impossible for me to believe he doesn’t feel anything more for JJ. 

So even in this universe, as much as he loves Reader, young!JJ is a hot commodity. 

Pin that for later...

“I know.”

“I understand if you need to take some time.”

“No, I want to be here.” She’s firm in her conviction, and you can’t say you’d be any different if you were in any similar situation - injury, illness, otherwise.

“Okay. Seven AM.”

She nods and turns back to Will while Hotch continues toward the elevators. The rest of the team passes ahead of you, leaping into the open lift. Aaron hangs back and you follow his lead, letting the doors close.

Reader always knows when to stay. 

“Are you okay?”

He sighs. “Yeah. Just unexpected.”

Taking a little leap, you step close to him in a show of camaraderie. He’d never let on, but he needs contact sometimes. You might even go so far as to say the poor man is touch-starved.

That’s the understatement of the century. 

He wraps his arm around you, and you bite back a pleased smile, feeling more than a little chuffed. You examine his profile. “What’s on your mind?”

Remember when I was talking about the significance of touch? Yep. 

His shrug says many things. His sigh says more.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

I didn’t add silent dialogue here, because I think even if Hotch tried, he wouldn’t know what to communicate, even non-verbally. It’s the emotional center of his tells that really 

+++

“We’re not having that discussion, right now.” Hotch’s cutoff is flat, and it shoots irritation through you.

Your brow furrows, and you sputter for a second before turning on him. “What’s with you? That’s like the sixth time you’ve shut me down today.”

Hotch opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Kate’s voice chirps from behind you.

“Are all your younger agents this insubordinate, Aaron, or is it limited to this one?”

This is the soundbyte that popped into my head when I first thought to write this episode!! Kate making a stink about Reader’s age in addition to clearly and deliberatly misunderstanding the relationship with Hotch was a critical breaking point for me.

You grit your teeth, and blatantly ignore the apology blossoming in Hotch’s eyes as you say, “Excuse me, sir.” You turn your head, not quite looking at Kate. “Agent Joyner.” You brush past Hotch, almost shoulder-checking him, and leave the room. The door shuts loudly behind you.

I NEEDED Hotch to apologize, or at least try to, before Reader left the room. He realized in that moment that he’s opened a door for Kate to cross the line he’s already stepped on and given precedent for her to treat his team with the same harshness he has. 

Mans is learning!!

Derek looks up, and you wave him off as he rises to follow.

Throwing the stairway door open, you fly down two flights of stairs before sitting heavily upon the landing. You throw your blazer off, the heat under the fabric only fueling your anger.

Your hands cover your face and you manage three deep breaths before tears press in at your eyes. Molten humiliation courses through you, your face hot and hands shaking.

It’s not fair to expect Kate to understand the rapport you have with Hotch, why you can push him inexplicably further than the rest of your team. This was stuck a struggle to articulate and I was SO happy when I finally got it! It’s not fair, but you still feel betrayed by Hotch’s accommodation of her insecurity and Kate’s own ridiculousness.

The lack of sleep doesn’t help.

A few relevant thoughts regarding the profile float through your head and you pin them for later.

The door opens two floors above, and you hear Aaron’s familiar footsteps hesitate before they slowly descend to your level. You keep your face pressed into your hands as he sits beside you, resting his arms on his knees.

The addition of an audio input here, instead of a visual one, was important to me. I needed everyone to feel that they implicitly know when it’s the other approaching them on sound alone. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you today.”

You sniff, but don’t answer. He waits for you, a few minutes passing in silence, but you don’t have anything to say.

“I’ve done my best to make Kate feel supported, but I -” he huffs, and you know he’s working hard to properly articulate his feelings. You appreciate it. “I’ve failed both you and Morgan in the process. I’ve explained the situation to him, but I didn’t speak to you before I…” He trails off. “For that, I’m sorry.”

He works so hard :’) 

I love that Hotch got better about articulating his emotions and asking for help as the seasons go on. He’s still absolute shit at it, but looking back, he was so much worse. 

You drop your hands from your face, wiping at the evidence of your anger. “Just...remember who’s on your team, would you?”

“I do.”

“Then -” You throw your arms up and huff at him, his response inspiring a new wave of irritation in your chest. “Then why the fuck are you riding my ass about this shit today? You haven’t taken a single one of my ideas, and all but one has been really good.”

He sighs. “I know. I also know that you can take it. I trust you to be resilient in difficult political situations such as this one. I don’t have that same trust in Kate right now.” He pauses and you watch his left thumb worry a track back and forth over the knuckle of his middle finger. I love this particular habit of Tom’s that snuck its way into Hotch’s characterization. I always try to note it when I can. Your eyes wander to the barely-noticeable tan line where his wedding ring used to sit. With a start, you realize you didn’t notice its absence and you don’t know when he took it off. When he speaks again, your eyes snap back to your feet. “Your ability to step away instead of rightfully lashing out at Kate speaks to your excellence and professionalism in your role, and shows me my faith is not misplaced.”

“My faith is not misplaced” was another line I’ve been waiting to use!

You look at him, finding his brown eyes soft and apologetic. “Thanks.”

He grabs your blazer off the ground and stands. He straightens his suit jacket, offering you a hand. You take it and rise, using the back of your other hand to rid yourself entirely of tears.

With gentle hands, he slips your blazer over your shoulders, fixing the collar and brushing debris off the back. You let him fuss, knowing all the while his concern is another apology.

I love all the little ways Hotch apologizes, in canon and in my world here. He’s so shit at expressing himself that, just like his smiles, you have to look for his “sorrys” in other ways. 

“It’s far too organized to be just organized crime, by the way,” you inform him casually, as if remarking on the weather.

The trope of “I’m not mad at you anymore so I’m gonna casually solve this case real quick” is one of my favorites. 

He looks almost startled. “What?”

You tug on his arm and take the stairs two at a time back up to Kate’s floor. “Look.” He follows you as you burst back through both sets of doors into the conference room, stepping in front of Kate for access to the map. “We have more than one unsub. They’ve attacked different neighborhoods across Manhattan - all different demographic and socio-economic backgrounds. They’re trying to send a message, and each attack is a play to build their audience. If anything, our presence tells them that it’s working.”

I rehearsed this mini-logue in my head for AGES before writing it down. These are always fairly difficult for me - I want to put it in Reader’s “voice” (meaning, not anyone else’s) while staying true to the pattern and linguistic profile (if you’ll forgive me) of the show. 

A look of realization crosses Hotch’s face, and he presses a hand to your shoulder, his fingertips squeezing just a little before he lets go. “Well done.” He turns to Kate. “We’re ready to update the working profile.”

Reader redeemed herself and I simply couldn’t have Kate be a graceful “loser” here. We’ve already seen her have far too much pride and ego for her own good. 

You keep your eyes trained on Aaron, but Kate’s clenched jaw doesn’t escape your notice.

+++

“Focused? From where I’m standing, your focus is on her.”

It’s finally come to a head. Derek has absolutely lost it, rightfully so, in the middle of the federal building, while Hotch tries to keep the peace, and Kate looks appropriately chastised.

This is my favorite verbal fight in almost all of Criminal Minds. Derek goes OFF and I am so proud of him for it because he’s sO RIGHT

You reach for Derek’s elbow with gentle fingers, but he shakes you off.

“Take a walk. Now.” Aaron’s tone is nothing to trifle with, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Fuck.

U know when Hotch get’s into that “do the math” “sit down and shut up” or “try hARDER” tone that things hit the fan, but its’ the quiet anger that really gets me in this scene. 

“Derek. C’mon.” You yank once on his sleeve and lead him out the doors. He’s pissed, almost vibrating with energy.

You look over your shoulder exactly once to check on Aaron, who leans heavily over a desk. When he looks up, you turn your head before he can meet your gaze.

Yes, it’s a punishment. Yes, he knows it. He'll get your attention once he’s earned it again.

Derek cools off a little once you get outside, and he leads the way to the hotel bar. You’re sure you'd be better off returning to your post upstairs, but he needs you more than anyone else right now.

You also don’t trust yourself to be in the same room as Aaron - the likelihood of losing your usually-endless patience with him is dangerously high. At this rate, you’d get yourself a first-class ticket to Suspension City - at worst ending with your removal from the unit.

There was no way on this green earth that you’d end up off the unit of Hotch had any say, but your exhausted brain was only giving you the worst-case scenario at the moment.

Even tired!Reader know’s he’ll never let them leave :’)

Fun Fact: There were so many times where I considered taking Reader off the team, but it never felt quite right. 

He sits heavily on a barstool and orders a Stella. You don’t comment on his choice to drink while on the clock. You take a water, and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t touch his beer.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course.”

“You should go back.”

Looking up, you see Rossi looking through the doors. “Alright, but you’re not getting out of anything.” By the time you’ve finished, Dave is at Derek’s other side, getting comfortable. You press a hand to Derek’s shoulder, leaving them alone.

You take a few deep breaths before returning to the proper floor. Kate is in her office with Hotch over her shoulder.

He looks up when you walk in. How’s Morgan?

“He’ll be back.”

:) Aimz is right. Silent conversations make the AJF world go ‘round.

+++

You reach Emily with Derek and JJ, and she looks flustered.

“Are you okay?” Derek takes stock of Emily, but you figure out there’s nothing to know about Cooper.

Emily walks through the moments before and during the shooting, growing increasingly intense. You watch her as Derek digs and digs - finding the right questions for the answers she wants to share.

Derek is SO good at framing questions to get the answers he needs to keep going. I love him. 

“Wait,” you ask. “You think he deliberately shot someone where he could be caught?”

“What if he did?” Her eyes are wild, angry. “What if they chose this spot because we were here?”

“What are you thinking?” Derek leans forward, searching her face for answers.

She enumerates her points. “He had no ID on him. He waited until We caught up to him. He was strangely calm- It’s almost like suicide by cop.”

“Why?” You hear yourself ask. “Why would he do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to make us think everything was finished.”

You look at Derek. He looks back at you.

“We need to walk back through this profile.”

Just then, Aaron and Kate dip under the police tape and make a beeline for Rossi and Reid. Dave looks grim and you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you’re sure they’ve come to the same conclusion as you.

Terrorism.

+++

“So much for theory.” Dave uncrosses his arms and the room leaps into action.

Kate grabs her blazer and looks at Aaron. “We need to hit the ground running.”

“I'm gonna head to the hospital,” Emily says, already headed for the door. “I'll check on Cooper and brief detective Brustin.”

“Good.” Aaron makes the rest of the assignments. “Dave, will you go talk to the commissioner?” He assigns you and Derek to Homeland Security for a briefing, and you grab your things. You will be Derek’s shadow for the duration, and you’re more than happy you’re with him.

So why does something feel...wrong?

You look at Aaron, and his brow is furrowed. He meets your eyes. What’s wrong?

I don’t know.

His mouth presses into a thin line. This first, then that.

Did I mean to heavily imply that Reader knows something is going to happen to Hotch without really knowing it? Absolutely. 

I almost had Reader go with Kate and Aaron here, but I thought the dramatic tension would be better if she went with Derek, and it also gives Hotch an excuse to give Derek a peace offering of some kind that would smooth things over between them. 

You nod, and he starts talking again. “Kate and I will go talk to the mayor And we'll meet back here As soon as possible.”

“One advantage That we have right now is that they don't know we know they're watching.”

For once, you agree with Kate. It’s about damn time.

+++

You get into the car with Derek and head toward the HLS field office.

“I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve done well.”

Smiling a little, you thank him. “Though I do think we’ve pushed Hotch to the absolute limit this week, between the two of us.”

He rolls his eyes, speeding down the shockingly barren New York streets. “If one of us isn’t, who is?”

“Rossi.”

You both freeze as an explosion goes off. You don’t know where it is, but Derek turns around with a spectacular screech of tires.

“Derek...What -”

“We’re going back. That’s not good. Let’s go.” He guns the engine, and you’re on your way back to the federal building with sirens blaring.

HERE WE GO!! THE PHONE CALL!

This was hell to write and I was SO afraid it would be confusing, but I’m fairly pleased by how it turned out. 

His phone rings and he checks the caller ID as he answers. “Yeah. I'm still here.” He looks at you. “We’re still here.”

“Yes, you are. Thank God.”

Garcia.

“I'm almost back at the federal building. What the hell's going on?”

“Alright, we're going over the closed-circuit footage right now.” You can hear her faintly through the phone, and he puts her on speaker.

“Who else have you checked on?”

“You're the first. Rossi and Reid called me.”

“All right. Keep me on the line while you check on everyone else.”

Emily picks up next. “Is everyone ok?”

Garcia tells her she’s got the both of you on the line, and she’s already spoken to Rossi and Reid.

Your body is almost completely bowed toward Derek, twisted in the passenger seat. “Emily, where are you?”

“I'm following detective Brustin to one of the NYPD’s Critical Incident Command Posts.”

“One of them?” Garcia’s confusion is only a little frantic, and you more than sympathize with her tangent. Anything is a better thought than the one you’re all sharing at this very moment.

Derek explains the decentralization of the CICP’s following 9/11 - too many eggs in one basket.

Garcia cuts him off, getting back on track. “Has anyone talked to JJ?”

Emily answers her. “She was headed back to the hotel.”

“In an SUV?

“I think so. Stay with me a minute. I'll dial her mobile.”

JJ’s voicemail rings through Derek’s phone, and your heart sinks. “This is Agent Jareau, Communications Director for the FBI’s Behavioral--” It cuts off.

You lean over the center console. “What was that? What happened?”

Garcia’s voice is flustered when she answers, “It went dead mid-message.”

“Try her again. She's probably back at--” You lose Emily.

You lost all of them in the middle of a sentence, and all the blood drains out of your face. Derek drops his phone into one of the cupholders and reaches out. You grab his hand, holding it in both of yours.

Physical Touch! 

This is a nightmare.

Derek keeps driving, and you find a police barricade on your way back to the federal building. Derek throws the car into park and you both leap out of the car, flashing your badges at anyone who will look. You find the man in charge, but he tells you to get back to the federal building.

Hot anger flies through you.

Who does he think he is?

You stick close to Derek, but startle when you hear Hotch cry out. Pressing along the barricade, you call across the block. “Aaron! Aaron! We’re here!”

You get leave to go, and you and Derek sprint toward Aaron and Kate. He’s covered in blood, both his and Kate’s and you get on one side of him while Derek crouches on the other side of Kate. Your hands flutter over him for a moment, one of them landing on the nape of his neck. The softness of his hair is the same as it’s always been, and it grounds you.

PHYSICAL TOUCH!

“Aaron -”

He’s not looking at you. “Morgan, we've got to get her out of here.”

Derek throws his arm out of the side, outlining the situation. “They're not letting any ambulances down here till they clear the scene.” He turns to the “Kid, you gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go. Go!”

“Go, Sam.”

“Good luck.” The kid sprints off, and Derek draws Hotch’s focus again.

“Talk to me. Can we carry her?” He leans further over Kate, into Aaron’s eye line. “Hotch, can we carry her?”

“No, I tried. Morgan, she's gonna bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We gotta do something.” The ache in his voice is horrible. You reach out, brushing some hair off Kate’s forehead. She’s cold to the touch, and you press your hand to the side of her face, willing your warmth into her.

“C’mon Kate.” You whisper to yourself. She’s still not your favorite person, but Aaron’s agony as he literally holds her body together tears your heart in two.

Not gonna say shit about shit, but this motif is coming back :)

Derek’s phone rings, and it’s Penelope. “Garcia, I got Hotch. But listen to me. You gotta get somebody down here right away, you hear me? Right now. What? You're absolutely sure?” Derek looks up, finding the kid standing by the shelled remains of the car. “Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber.”

“Go.” Aaron’s voice is defeated, and you hesitate as your body coils to chase after Derek. Aaron looks at you. “Please. Stay.”

I needed Reader to stay with Hotch because....I mean....there’s nobody else he’d ask

You nod, and tuck in close to him, keeping one hand on his arm and another on Kate’s cheek. An ambulance pulls up, and you’re more than relieved.

Hotch briefs the paramedic. “She's got an arterial bleed in her back and I'm doing my best to hold it closed.

“You ok?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour.

“I just want to get her out of here.”

That’s not a fucking answer, Aaron.

You let it go, for now. He’s a mess, but he’s alive and he’s conscious. That’s what’s important right now. You tune back in.

“You were calling for help and I couldn't listen anymore. My partner was too afraid to come in here with me.”

Aaron leans into Kate, and your heart pulls again. “Kate, we're gonna get you out of here. We're on our way out of here.”

You help as much as you can, following instructions and making sure Kate’s stable.

+++

When you’re all finished, you get into the passenger seat of the ambulance. Hotch is on autopilot and he shouldn’t be driving, but you’re ready to take over at a moment’s notice.

When you’re stopped at the emergency room entrance, you flash your credentials as Hotch explains the situation as clearly as he can. The Secret Service agent reluctantly waves you through. Kate’s crashing in the back, and Aaron’s agitation flies through the roof.

It’s a blur, but you finally end up in the hospital, shadowing Aaron. He collapses, and you cry out for help, holding his hands as he hits the ground.

Everything's happening so fast.

When will it end?

This is one of those “Stop the ride I want to get off” days where everything seems to just be flying at you all at once and it feels neverending. 

You know, like the state of the world right now (at least in the USA lmao)

+++

“Kiddo, where’s Hotch?” Derek comes flying through the doors of the ER, and you throw yourself into him.

“He’s fine. Massive trauma to his right ear and a shrapnel wound. Kate’s in surgery.”

There’s a commotion from behind the open door, and you both rush in when you hear Hotch’s voice.

You get in between Hotch and the attending, doing your best to calm him down. “Aaron, Hotch. Calm down. Slow down. You’re really hurt.”

The concern makes me soft. 

“Where’s Kate?”

You press your hands into his wrists, and he twists his arms, surprising you by gripping your forearms. PHYSICAL TOUCH! “She’s in surgery. Your go-bag is on its way. Nothing’s happened since the first blast.”

He looks somewhat placated but looks over at Derek. “Sam?”

“He’s dead.”

Hotch releases you. “Morgan, the profile's wrong. Call JJ.”

+++

“Are you ok?”

Yeah. I just want to understand why I'm still alive.” You help him with his vest, minding his shoulder. I needed someone to help Hotch with his vest in this scene and I’m so glad Reader was right there to help him ;) You’re not sure what’s wrong with it, but he’s favoring one over the other. He looks at you, and there are thanks in his brown eyes. You offer him a quick, soft smile but continue with your task, gently tightening the vest around his tender ribs, smoothing over the velcro with even pressure.

:)

You’re listening as they go along, talking signatures and bomb-making and all manner of horrific precedent. You pass two pieces of fresh cotton to Hotch, who immediately replaces the bloodied cotton in his right ear. He shakes his head with two deep blinks.

ACTS OF SERVICE!

His ears are ringing something stupid right now, I bet.

I wish I could do more.

Just be here. Do your job. That’s what you can do.

The way Reader has picked up on the things they KNOW Hotch will tell them? Immaculate. 

All at once, you figure out that the ambulance is the bomb. You spot Hotch as he moves (way too fast) down the hallway.

Goddamn it, Aaron.

I’ll take “Constant Frustration Regarding Your Injured Boss” for 800, Alex.

+++

The bastard slit his throat.

Fuck.

The look on Aaron’s face is nothing short of disgust, and you’re sure yours matches.

I was going to do more for this scene, but realized I didn’t need it. Who knew!

+++

You’re waiting for him when he walks out of the operating room. His eyes are hollow and they seem to look through you rather than at you.

“Hotch - Aaron - I’m so sorry.”

Take note of the use of first names in discussion with these two. It’s less significant in narration, but there’s always an intention when they’re speaking aloud to each other. 

You didn’t particularly like Kate (who does?), but you know how much he cared for her. His pain often feels like yours - even more frequently, you can't parse his from yours. While you didn’t expect to mourn her, you find that weight in your belly anyway. Your eyes mist up against your will, your breath hitching in your throat.

I love that his emotions affect Reader’s in such a real way. I wanted to lay the groundwork for 100 here and I don’t think I have to tell you why lmao 

He doesn’t say anything, and your voice is almost desperate when you ask, “What can I do?”

Brown eyes flicker around the room. He looks more like a caged animal in this moment than in any other you’ve ever seen. You approach him slowly, and you’re not sure if he heard you. There’s still blood on his neck from his ear, and you’re terrified he’s lost his hearing for good.

“Aaron?”

He finally acknowledges you when you’re close enough to him to take his hand. You catch him as he wilts, pressing a hand to the back of his head as he tucks his head into your neck.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Aaron.”

He mumbles something into your shoulder, and you lean back, holding him up with your hands on his biceps.

“What?”

“Call Haley. Tell her, please. They got along really well. She’d want to know.”

!!!!!!!!!! THIS MOMENT SURPRISED ME!!!!!!!

You nod and guide him to a chair. He sits heavily, tilting his head against the wall. Pulling your phone from your belt, you ask, “Do you want me to stay here?”

He nods, his eyes closed.

I’m soft. 

You dial the familiar number and hold the phone to your ear, settling down on his left so he can hear.

I love that the Hotchner house/Jess’s house is a familiar number :’) That detail kind of flowed out and I was really only aware of it when I was proofreading. 

Haley answers the phone, a question at the end of your name.

“Yeah, Haley, it’s me. Hi.”

“Hi. Is everything okay?”

You look at Aaron, who’s still and quiet beside you. “Not really.”

“I heard about the bombing in New York, the murders...Is everyone alright?”

“We’re alright. Aaron’s fine - some mild injuries but nothing serious.”

“Okay?” You hear the unspoken question. Then why are you calling?

“I was told you’d - um.” You take a deep breath, and it catches. Aaron flips his hand palm-up on his knee, and you take it. PHYSICAL TOUCH!! “I was told you were close with Kate Joyner, from the New York field office. She used to be at Scotland Yard?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Her voice falters. “Wait. Oh, God…”

“Haley I’m so sorry.” You swallow some tears. “I’m so sorry, but she was killed in the bombing.”

You hear a shaky breath on the other side of the line. “Oh.” There’s a pause, and you suspect she has more to say. You’re right. “Aaron told you to call, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Can I talk to him?”

You look over and he nods, releasing your hand and holding it out. “Yeah, he’s right here.” She says something else, and you put the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

I love Haley. I do. I love her. 

I’m SO mad at her but I love her. 

You nod to yourself. “Of course. Here’s Aaron.”

He takes the phone from you. An exhausted, “Hi,” leaves him.

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re alright.”

A little smile pulls at his lips. I love how much he loves her. Even thought their marriage didn’t work because they wanted/needed different things from each other, they love each other so much and I am so soft about it. “I’m alright. How’re you?”

Her bright laugh echoes faintly through the phone, but there’s a solemn edge to it. “You’re asking me how I am?”

His eyebrows raise, his eyes still closed. “Isn’t that polite?”

You can almost see her suppressed smile. “It is. I’m fine. Jessica and I just finished dinner and put Jack down for the night.”

“How’s Jack?”

You tune out, the exhaustion taking over. Aaron pats the seat on his other side and you shuffle around, tucking yourself under his open arm. I am so soft for this lil moment, y’all. I am a SAP. Leaning against his shoulder, you close your eyes, letting the voices of two divorced people who love each other very much lull you into something that feels a little like sleep.

The End!!! I hope y’all liked this installment of commentary!!

tagging: @ssaic-jareau @qvid-pro-qvo @joanofarkansass @forgottenword @hurricanejjareau

[maandags]

counting stars (Finn Shelby x reader)

heh . ye

-- -- --

Summary: In which Finn can’t help but be attracted to you--like a moth to flame.

Word count: 9.4K 

Genre: angst

Notes: CW: graphic depiction of injury/violence; unhealthy coping mechanisms; destructive behaviour - masterlist - makin myself sad here we go!

-- -- --

"Tommy's asked me to come to the races."

You barely look up from your work, pen still scritching incessantly at the paper. "That's great." You know you probably sound distracted, maybe even uninterested, but you can't bring yourself to care all that much. You have work to do, and it's already late, and you don't really want to get home any later than absolutely necessary.

Finn puts his hands in his pockets, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, loitering next to your desk. Then his fingers are tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh, then he's running them through his hair, then they're running along the edge of your chair and it's getting so distracting that you can't concentrate on your work anymore.

You firmly set your pen down, straightening your back and cracking your jaw. "What is it?"

He looks down at you, eyes a little wider than usual; his hands drop to his sides and still. "Nothing."

Rolling your eyes, you pick up your pen again. "You're a shit liar. It's almost eight, what are you still doing here?"

It sounds a little pathetic, you think. The very reason why you're still busting your ass at eight in the evening is the very same as the one which dictates that Finn Shelby–your boss Tommy Shelby's little brother–can get up and leave whenever he wants.

You decided yourself that you wanted to stay later today. So that maybe, just maybe, you would get a day off soon. Sure, working for Shelby Company Ltd. certainly isn't the worst, and the pay is decent; but you're slaving over your desk from seven A.M. to six P.M. and even then you often work overtime. Because you're practically the youngest. Because you aren't intimidating. Because you keep quiet and do what you're told, your teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

And here is Finn Shelby, staring at the sole lamp illuminating your work and informing you that his brother has finally invited him to a race. Good for him. You didn't know what he expected you to say–so you just didn't say anything.

Then, suddenly, "Why are you still here?"

You snort out a laugh. "Some of us need to actually work to get by, Finn-boy." The nickname sounds weird when you say it, but that might just be your bitter tone.

"I work."

"You sit on your ass in your office on your nice and comfortable leather chair and get whores delivered to you at lunch. You don't work." Around the body of your pen, your knuckles turn white. The tip feels fragile all of a sudden, like it could snap any moment. Carefully, you set it down on its holder. Breathe. "I'm going home."

Finn blinks, lets you pass him, then seems to realise that he wanted to say something. "Wait. Wait, Y/N, hang on.” He takes your wrist, and before your brain can properly process it and gauge an appropriate reaction you’ve ripped it from his grip. Finn’s breath hitches and he purses his lips and you feel a little bad–but only a little.

“I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come too.”

You snort. “To the races?” He nods. “With you?” He nods again. You shake your head. “Finn, I don’t think I can afford a day off work.” It’s not a lie–not really–but it’s not the whole truth, either. It wouldn’t work, you remind yourself. It would never work.

You’ve noticed the way Finn looks at you when he thinks you can’t see him. You’re not blind; and he isn’t subtle about it. But you know it would be a bad idea. It would do nothing good–it would end in tears and sorrow. Inevitably.

And here he is practically asking you out on a date, and you’re trying to let him down as gently as you can.

“Fuck work,” he says, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from growling in frustration. “I can make sure you’ll get paid anyway. It is a certain branch of work, after all.”

You scoff. “A branch of work in which you and your brothers strut around like proud fucking peacocks, intimidating anyone who even thinks about approaching you, wearing your gun holsters like jewellery. In which my job is to look dainty and pretty by your side and make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Finn’s cheeks have coloured and you shake your head again. A pang of pity bursts in your chest, and you force yourself to lay a hand on his arm–though your fingers tremble with the effort. “I’m sorry, Finn,” you say, tone gentler now. “But it just isn’t for me.”

You aren’t for me.

With that, you tug your scarf around your neck and step out the door, casting your gaze down to protect your eyes from the shrieking wind.

And it’s not that you don’t want to. Because you know that Finn is a good man, beneath all the cockiness and arrogance he seems to build his personality off of. You know that under it all, Finn is just a kid trying to live up to the legends his older brothers have written out.

It’s not that you don’t want to–because you know you do, oh god you do–but it’s that Finn doesn’t deserve what you would do to him.

He’s still just a kid, and despite being almost the same age, you’re not.

He’s been protected all his life, and you lost all protection you once had from anyone years ago.

He’s always had it all, you have had to fight tooth and nail to get where you are now, and it’s made you into something else. Something rough and calloused and bitter and angry, oh so angry.

And Finn doesn’t deserve that.

You share your flat with two men. They’ve never tried anything with you, and you appreciate it, as long as you don’t have to see their faces for any longer than you strictly have to. The little living room is always too crowded, even when it’s empty save for you; the walls are so thin you can hear everything that goes on in either of their bedrooms. The flat feels stuffy and too small and it’s not unusual for you to spend a night out–whether it be on the streets, on a roof, on the docks. Somewhere outside where you have air to breathe, as polluted and grey as it might be.

Tonight, though, you decide to stop by your flat to grab a change of clothes and quickly wash your face. A freshly made sandwich lies on your pillow and you snatch it up and rip out a bite. When you zip out into the hallway again, you stop by your flatmate’s door and give it a sharp knock–your way of saying thanks without having to say anything.

The only time you ever really feel something resembling peace is when you look up at the vast night sky and can make out stars.

It’s hard in the city, and it gets harder every night, but this time it seems the universe has granted you one night where the sky is so clear that pinpricks of stars are visible against its blackness; and you lie down, munching on the last of your sandwich, feeling grateful for the fact that even if shit’s hard right now–even if you have to bust your ass for 12 hours a day only to get barely enough money for you to live off of–the sky and its stars will always be there for you on particularly hard nights.

You would like to live somewhere in the countryside when all of this is over, you muse. Somewhere you can see the stars every night. You’ve heard that the sky is even more beautiful in the countryside because of the lack of light pollution. It sounds peaceful, and fuck knows that peace is something you desperately need.

The roof you chose this night isn’t that far from your flat, and it’s not particularly high up. There’s nothing special about it, nothing that would justify your choice to camp out in this particular spot. It just felt right. You try to empty your head, focus on nothing but the twinkling above.

You don’t know when exactly you fall asleep, but you wake up early enough to see the sun rise over the rooftops and as you watch, squinting against the brightness of the sunlight after a dark night, your arms curled around your knees and your cheek pressed against the still-warm bricks of a chimney, you repeat the promise you’ve been making to yourself every day for as long as you can remember; Today will be better.

There has yet to be a day where you can say with confidence that you kept it.

– – –

Nobody looks up strange when you walk into work early–again. The office has only just opened, and here you come barreling through the door, plopping down at your desk and immediately bending over the new pile of papers left there overnight. After a while, you frown. The stack is smaller than it usually is–and while that would be a source of good news to anyone else, all it makes you do is worry about not having enough work to pass the time. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you tap your pen on the side of your desk, internally debating. Then you give a little growl and scrape your chair back, ignoring the glares you’re getting from your co-workers, and stomp towards your boss’ office.

“You could’ve at least knocked,” says Tommy as you march through the doorway. He’s wearing his glasses, and he patiently plucks them off his nose and places the palms of his hands perfectly against one another. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t know why Tommy has taken such a liking to you. You don’t know why Tommy lets you get away with as much as he does; you don’t know why he only frowns at you over something that would get literally anyone else fired on the spot (along with a nicely formulated threat to stay away from his company or else); you don’t know why he keeps you around at all. You’ve had your fair share of outbursts, both in his office and outside of it. You’ve broken your fair share of fancy teacups, had your fair share of breakdowns in front of him, even told him to his face you quit only to come back into work the next morning like nothing happened.

He’s just always been so patient with you. Like a parent would be patient with their child, or a brother with his younger sibling.

And you don’t know how to feel about it.

“I just want to know why you cut my workload in half?” It comes out snappier than you intended (as most of your words do), and you clamp your mouth shut, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. “I mean–if you don’t think I can handle it or something, that’s not something you should be worried about, because I know I can–”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” he says, waving a hand about and in front of his face. “I just want to make sure you’re done early so you can get ready for tonight.”

You scowl. “What’s tonight?”

Tommy’s eyes twinkle. “Well, Finn might have mentioned I invited him to the races–”

“And he asked me to go with him and I told him no,” you growl. “I told him no. So can I get my normal workload back?”

“No,” says Tommy, voice level as ever, eyes kind and patient as ever. “Because you won’t be going as Finn’s date. You’ll be going as my assistant.”

Ah. Now that’s a little more interesting. You cross your arms, dip your chin onto your chest, but your interest is grudgingly piqued and you know Tommy knows. “And what will that entail?”

He shrugs, sitting back in his chair, able to relax now that he’s got your attention. “Mostly observing, taking notes. I want you to know everything that’s going on at all times, because I might be busy doing… other stuff, and I still want to be able to tell which bastards are where at what moment.”

You nod, slowly. “And will I be involved in this other stuff?”

“If I can help it, you will absolutely not be involved in the other stuff.”

Biting your lip, you consider his words. It doesn’t sound like that much trouble. It certainly sounds less boring than a normal day at work.

Then Tommy says, “You’ll get extra pay, of course,” and you know you’ve practically already accepted.

But there is still a question nagging at the back of your mind. “Why’d you ask me?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean–why me? There are so many other people who would do a fine job, who you know a lot better than you know me, who aren’t as–” –you wave your hands about, trying to find the right word– “–explosive as I can be. I’m a liability, especially in situations as delicate as this.”

You’re not trying to convince him to take back his proposal; you only want to make sure he knows what he’s getting himself into.

But he smiles calmly, in that calculated way of his, and you almost roll your eyes because of course he’s calm and collected and calculated–he’s Tommy fucking Shelby. “Y/N, I’m more than familiar with explosive.”

It’s true, but you’re still hesitant, and you can’t really figure out why. Because there doesn’t really seem to be any reason for you to deny this offer; granted, it’s a little different from your usual work, but you are observant and relaying information to your boss is what you do on a daily basis anyway.

And besides, it’s the races. Everybody likes the races.

“So which tables are ours?”

Tommy already led you around the track, pointing out which horse was his, whispering under his breath what you needed to write down, taking you for what looked like a jolly stroll around the track but what in reality felt more like an intelligence gathering mission. You liked it, though, you had to admit; there was a certain thrill to it all. Knowing that the race is fixed; that the result is inevitable, that you know exactly which horse is set up to win and which to lose.

Tommy discreetly points to a couple of booths. “That one, that one… and also there.” You jot their numbers down, eyeing the surroundings, scanning the crowd at their perimeter for anyone suspicious. A few men immediately stand out to you: the ones that seem stiff, constantly looking around them like predators hunting for prey, stalking around in loose circles around a certain betting table and watching the progress.

"Coppers," Tommy says when you inquire about the men. He frowns. "At least, I think they're coppers. Plain clothed men, by the looks of it; they're just making sure everything runs smoothly. Don't think we don't need to worry much about them." But something about the men rubs you the wrong way, and every time your gaze passes across one the uneasy feeling grows stronger.

But you have a job to do, and so you shake the weird policemen from your thoughts and focus completely on the job–the delicate, sensitive job.

"All right, Y/N," says Tommy when your introductory round draws to a close. "You stay close to the tables, peek over their shoulders, take notes, make them uncomfortable. Make sure you know everything that's going on at all times, yeah? If anything looks suspicious to you, come to me immediately. Hear me? To me. Not John, not Arthur, not fucking Finn. Me."

You cock your head, shifting your weight from one hip to the other. "How do you know I won't tamper with the bets and make off with a nice bit of money for myself?"

"I don't, but I also don't think you're stupid enough to do that."

"You're going to have to trust me, then. That's a bad idea."

"Don't get comfortable. I absolutely do not trust you."

"But you picked me for this job," you press again, because it's still so intriguing to you.

"Indeed I did. Don't make me regret it." He lights a cigarette and marches off, calling his boys to him as he does. You cross your arms again and watch as his brothers sidle up to him. John and Arthur are there, and so is Finn. You knew he was going to be here, of course; he was the one who invited you in the first place, but seeing him walk next to his brothers, able to pinpoint exactly the guns and knives strapped to their chests and hips, you can’t help but compare the four men. It’s easy to tell that Finn doesn’t do this often: there’s a weirdly excited spring in his step.

You have to fight the urge to scoff, and you turn away, shaking your head. Oh, yay, let’s go to the races and shoot everyone who stands in the way of our illegal betting tables. We’ll have a blast!

For the first few hours, you do exactly as Tommy told you. You take notes, hover around the Blinders’ betting tables, keeping an eye on any skimming of money that might be going on; but the Peaky Blinders look like they’ve made their impression on the table boys because they’re doing their jobs perfectly, arranging the money and taking names in a way that’s more organised that you’ve ever seen anything run by the Peaky Blinders being executed.

You get a few questioning (if not outright hostile) looks from bystanders, pick up a few whispers from betters irritated at how you’re cutting in line and no one seems to care, but you ignore them, brandishing your clipboard like a shield and critically examining every single transaction that’s being made. The other tables progress the exact same way, and when the first races start, the crowds only thicken.

But after a moment, you grow bored. You get to watch the races for a while, from a distance, making sure Tommy won’t be able to see you if he were to look around the track, and listening to the commentary that blasts from high-up speakers and makes the air sizzle with tension. The crowds are mostly watching the races now, women speaking closely behind their hats and gloves and pretty dresses; the men more interested in the various betting pools that are scattered around the tracks. Every once in a while, you look back to your own tables, determine everything is going all right, and turn back to the far more interesting horse races unfolding in front of you.

When Tommy’s horse is brought out–its name is Elizabeth, and you roll your eyes–you perk up. Now is the time to keep an eye on the tables. Dragging a chair next to the boy at the first one, you rip the lid off your pen and mumble, “Talk to me.” He gives you the information you need to know: clear, concise, not beating around the bush. You wonder if Tommy warned them about your complete lack of patience and inability to take bullshit.

You’re almost starting to run out of paper, but as you’re making your way to the last table, you notice the coppers again.

Before, you’d thought they were circling Tommy’s betting tables. Now, you realise that they’re not interested in his tables–they’re interested in the man himself.

You can see Tommy standing in his booth, cigarette smoke curling up and around the rim of his cap as he keeps a keen eye on his Elizabeth down on the tracks; around him are stationed a few plain-clothed Peaky boys. You can see the barrels of their pistols glinting in the sunlight. Your gaze shifts upward, to the watchtowers set up around the perimeter, to the roofs; and sure enough, a couple of boys with long-range rifles are scanning the crowd like hawks. Their tell-tale caps hide their faces, but it’s clear enough that they’re some of Tommy’s men. You imagine Finn is probably up there, too: Tommy always gives him a sniper position if he thinks the situation’s about to get messy, to make sure he stays mostly out of the carnage.

And all around them–almost everywhere, you realise with a start, mingling with the audience–there are men watching them. They don’t look any different from the members of the audience they’re trying so hard to imitate, but whereas the real public looks excited and cheers the horses on and look like they’re having the time of their lives, these men are stoic, and again they remind you of predators stalking round their unsuspecting prey in the most discrete way.

It should set you on edge. It should make you uncomfortable, knowing that because you’re here as Tommy’s associate, it’s safe to assume you’ll be in the line of fire if things get messy. But it doesn’t.

It gives you an adrenaline rush. You suddenly feel like you’re on the run again; except this time your life isn’t the only one on the line.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flash of movement.

It’s barely a flicker, but as you whip your head around and strain your neck you can just make out a tussle: one boy–if it’s one of Tommy’s men, he’s lost his cap, and after a quick search of the ground below him you can make out a small, crumpled grey heap on the stone, and your suspicions are confirmed–wrestling against three men, all bigger, all beefier, all stronger. He doesn’t stand a chance, of course, and after one particularly vicious punch in the gut he crumbles. The two other men hold him up by his arms. The one who punched him spits in his face, then shakes his head and gestures for the others to follow him.

When the battered Peaky boy looks up, chest heaving, your eyebrows shoot up. It’s that familiar mop of brown hair (usually well-kept, like everything else about him–now it’s messy and tousled, as if he’d been dragged head first across a grass field). It’s the freckled face, the thin lips twisted into a pained snarl; the eyes so full of life you’d grown partial to–enough to recognise him from a hundred yards away. Finn.

With a frown, your gaze snaps back up to the sniper posts you spotted just before; and sure enough, a watchtower is empty. Back to Finn, and you give a short, irritated sigh. Of course the men relieved him of his rifle. You don’t know if Finn carries a knife on him, but if he does, it’s safe to assume the men got hold of that too. Which leaves him with nothing to defend himself.

And you know you shouldn’t leave your post. It’s a stupid thing to do, and Tommy told you not to stray from the tables–but maybe that’s part of why you do it anyway. There’s something about being told what to do that just doesn’t sit right with you, even if it is your own boss giving the orders. Call it reckless, call it insane; but you have a space of two seconds to decide what to do before the small group of men is completely out of sight.

So you follow them.

Of course you do.

It’s not easy to admit, especially when you’ve been trying to tell yourself the exact opposite for months, but you like him. More than you want; more than you should. But you’ve learned long ago that feelings don’t like to be told what to be either.

So the most you can do–all you know to do–is ignore them. Try to bury them. Lock them up in a treasure chest that you lob into the depths of the ocean and of which you melt the key.

Because sometimes you have to choose, and sometimes you can’t afford to let those choices be affected by feelings.

It’s a mistake you’ve made before, and a mistake you told yourself you would never make again.

But when the person you experience those feelings towards is kidnapped right in front of you, you can’t just not do anything.

You follow them from as far as physically possible without losing sight of them, but to your surprise they aren’t moving away from the main building–they're moving towards it. Your confusion only grows when one of them pulls a key ring from his pocket and opens a back door. The corridor is too dark to be able to tell where it leads, and you exhale sharply, growing more impatient by the second.

As soon as the door is open, the two men flanking Finn pull him roughly over the threshold. He stumbles, and in response, the man on the left punches him in the gut again; he doubles over, coughing. Your jaw twitches.

You force yourself to wait a full minute before following them. A full minute. You count the seconds–one pink elephant, two pink elephant–and as soon as you get to sixty, you tear across the square. Please be unlocked, please be unlocked, you pray as you try the handle: it doesn’t budge, and you give a frustrated growl.

All right. All right. Think. Lowering your head into your hands, you close your eyes. Your vision turns black, and soon you can hear nothing but your own breathing.

You could try to pick the lock. It looked rusty–it shouldn’t be that hard to get open.

But that would take time, and Finn is in danger now. What if you just blasted the lock through the door? Your gun sits against your hip, grows hot. But that’s loud, and the risk of someone hearing you is too great.

Someone else must have the key, though, right? You perk up immediately, eyes scanning across the tribunes. People are now scrambling for a seat, their legs having grown tired of holding them up in the summer sun that’s still beating down on them. But there are dozens of men here, you remind yourself immediately after. The chance you manage to run into one who just happens to have the key on him is too slim.

Nothing. Nothing else comes to mind. Empty. You slap your forehead, willing for another idea to spark. Of course, it doesn’t work, and in a rage you ball a fist and slam it into the wall behind you. Pain jolts through your entire arm, down your shoulder to your chest. You barely feel it, unable to concentrate in anything past the burning of white-hot fury.

You take a deep, ragged breath. Right. Right. Yanking your gun from its holster, you weigh it in your hand, gaze fixed on the lock–the stupid fucking lock, the only barrier between you and Finn. Slowly, you point the gun to the lock. The distance between the two objects only counts about three inches. Your hands are perfectly still. Again, you take a breath. Steady. One, two–

And then you hear it, and your head snaps up. Your vision clears, immediately focused again.

Footsteps.

Not the slightly disoriented footsteps that would belong to some random person who took a wrong turn; no, these footsteps are deliberate and stealthy–and directed right towards you.

So you press yourself flat against the wall, scooting up to the corner, waiting for him to round it. Closer, closer… and then a foot crosses the line, and your elbow immediately shoots out and connects. The stranger grunts, his hands immediately coming up to cover his nose. Blood trickles out from between his fingers and he stumbles, but you don't give him the chance to recover.

He's on the ground in a matter of seconds, with your knees firmly caging in his arms, despite being almost a full head taller than you–you found out that in a fair fight, size doesn't matter much as long as you have balls and a strong, strong motivation to beat your opponent to a pulp.

And that, you do.

You throw punch after punch–his jaw cracks beneath your knuckles but you can't bring yourself to care–and it's with effort that you finally sit back and take a breath. When you wipe a hand across the back of your mouth, you can taste the blood staining your fingers. The man beneath you whimpers. What is still visible of his purple and swollen eyes is rolled into the back of his head. He takes short, ragged breaths through bloody lips, his nose too swollen and broken to be of any use–cuts and bruises litter his cheeks and forehead. You're pretty sure you gave him a concussion.

"KEYS." You make sure there is no debate possible as to what it is you want. A single word, hissed from between cracked lips; a voice hoarse, rougher and harder than the roughest and hardest raw diamond.

The man gives a weak cough and your fingers, slick with blood–both yours and his–grasp his collar, pulling his face up and close to yours. You snarl, animal-like; baring your teeth and growling, "Give me your fucking keys."

A hand, close to your knee, tries to move, and you immediately let his head drop onto the hard pavement–his pained groan sounds like music to your ears–he's responsible for Finn's kidnapping he was in on it he knew about it he is just as responsible as the kidnappers themselves they will pay they will pay they will pay I will make them pay–and, with (to your surprise) trembling fingers, you almost immediately find the ring of keys that you're looking for.

All your churning rage leaves you in one fell swoop when your hand closes around the keys, the cold hard metal somehow snapping you out of your blind fury. It's still there, of course, but it doesn't have the upper hand any more. You're collected, calm even as you haul yourself up and cast the writhing man below you a disgusted look.

You could kill him. It would make no difference.

It would be so easy–you figure one well-placed kick would do the trick.

You state at him for what feels like eons, what are in reality not much more than a couple of seconds, but then you step back and make your way to the door, already thinking about which key to try first. Maybe you're lucky and, if you change your mind, he'll still be there when you get back. Maybe he'll die alone there, bloodied and beat up; you don't know exactly how badly you fucked him up. It would be a death worthy of a dog, and it wouldn't keep you up at night.

A bloody corpse, after all, is a bitch to clean up.

Behind the metal door is a short, dark corridor that leads to a stairway. On the dirty floor, you can just make out the sheen of fresh drops of blood where the outside light reflects in them. Your knuckles turn white around the door handle before you uncurl your fingers from it and let the door fall closed behind you.

It's surprisingly easy to navigate the stairway when your eyes adjust to the darkness. Quickly, quietly, you slip down, one hand resting against the wall for guidance, the other one hovering near your hip, ready to pull out your gun at any sign of trouble.

After a few minutes, the stairs stop and transform into another corridor, this one illuminated by a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Stains litter the plastered walls, and everywhere you look are cracks. At the end of the corridor is a door, and it looks eerily similar to the first one, at the top of the staircase, though you have a feeling that this one isn't locked.

As you tiptoe closer to the door, you start to make out voices. You press your ear against the door, try to form the echoing sounds into words, phrases, but the noise is jumbled and impossible to make sense of.

All right. So you need a game plan. You need to know what you're going to say. There are three armed men in there. Guns, perhaps knives–and you're good, sure, but even you can't win a three-against-one if you don't have a significant advantage.

Something starts to form in your mind, and you set your jaw, rolling your shoulders and preparing for a fight–should it come to that. You hoped not, or at least not until you'd made sure of Finn's safety. Because really, that's all you want from this entire ordeal: you just want Finn to be safe.

You try the handle, slowly, carefully and sure enough it clicks.

With a last deep breath, you push open the door with a flourish and stroll into the room like you own it.

"Fellas, how're you doing? Oh, hi Finn," you add nonchalantly, casting him a cold look. It's harder than you thought, and the sight of him very nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

He's bound–strung up by his wrists like an animal–and looks worse than what you'd imagined the men would inflict upon him in the minutes you lost looking for a way in. His torn shirt hangs off his frame in ragged strips of fabric. Cuts and bruises litter his chest and face, and his trousers hang halfway off his hips, showing the sharp line of his hip bones. He's resting on his knees, but the ropes binding his wrists to the walls seem to do a better job of holding him up than his legs; Finn looks like he's only seconds away from collapsing.

All of this, you take note of in the split second you allow yourself to look at him. You can't see his expression in the dimly lit room; can't see his eyes; but that may be for the best. It's crucial for you to stay in character right now.

One of the men around him looks you up and down, mouth twisted in a snarl. He doesn't look very intimidated–as is your point, it's very important that none of them feel threatened by your presence. Instead, all three men's faces bear an expression that's a mix of confusion and apprehension.

"And who the fuck might you be?" The man who asked the question stands on Finn's right side, and you shift your bored gaze onto him, refusing to even look at Finn, who you're starting to suspect is actually unconscious–calm. Keep calm. Stay focused, keep your head clear.

You open your mouth, but it's that moment that Finn decides to open his eyes–he must have heard the man's incredulous inquiry, and got curious; maybe even hopeful. When his gaze locks onto you, his swollen eyes widen and he gasps, which throws him into a coughing fit. His hands ball to fists, and his arms tremble, and he's not getting any air–

Every heave of his lungs feels like a punch in the gut, and it takes every ounce of strength in your body to keep from running to him. Helping him. Saving him. But you stay planted in your spot, one eyebrow raised disdainfully, and you let him die.

"Y/N," he chokes out between coughs. "Y/N–"

The man who spoke before growls. His fist shoots out, connects with the side of Finn's head with a sickening crack.

And this time, you can't stop yourself from flinching.

"I'm asking you again."

Half a beat passes, and the next split second happens so quickly you barely register your own movements.

As he spoke, the man's hand slipped towards his hip. On reflex, your own did too, and both of you pull your weapons at the same time, pointing them at each other, which prompts surprised yelps from the other two men who yank their own guns out of their holsters and take aim for your head–and you find yourself the target of three separate pistols.

But your gaze is firmly fixated on the first man, as is the muzzle of your gun. He seems to be calling the shots, and you don't think his henchmen will do anything without his explicit permission. He opens his mouth again, and articulates the next words slowly and perfectly.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"The informant," you say innocently, steadily, cocking your head. Your gun hand, you're pleased to see, is steady as ever. "Big Boss didn't tell you about me?"

And your guess was right. You fight a triumphant smirk as the man hesitates, eyes flicking from your face to his cronies.

Of course they aren't operating alone. You knew that immediately–the kidnapping was messy, sloppily done, in the public's plain sight. You don't know how they got Finn to leave his post, but knowing him it couldn't have been all that difficult. They probably sent a boy with a note from "Tommy" up and got him to meet them at the place where the abduction took place.

Your guess was that they weren't professionals. Weren't trained. Acted on the orders of someone else–someone higher up.

And judging from this guy's reaction, you were right.

Now it was just a question of keeping the game up for as long as possible.

"What?" you laughed, "you thought it possible to take down Tommy fucking Shelby without a man on the inside? Do you even know who he is?"

The art of bluffing is not to say too much. Don't give away what you don't know. Watch your mouth, say enough to keep them on edge, not a fucking word more.

"We ain't know about no informant," said one of the other men.

"Shut up," you said sharply. "I'm not fucking talking to you." Talk like you own them.

The man scrutinises your face, still looking suspicious. He didn't lower his gun. "Roman sent you?"

And that was his second big mistake; because now you had a name.

"Of course Roman sent me."

He nods, slowly. Gestures for the other two men to put away their guns, but still doesn't lower his own. "How'd you get in?"

You grin, slowly pulling the key ring from your pocket and jiggling it.

The man keeps his gun trained on you for a few more moments–agonising, agonisingly long moments–then finally lowers it, and gestures you forward. "Well, then, informant. Enlighten us."

You pull from your inside pocket a small bundle of paper–your notes. All of them. As you hand them over, you find that you don't feel any guilt.

You had warned Tommy not to trust you, after all.

The man takes them from you, and quickly flips through the sheets of paper, one hand still holding his gun. He casts a quick look at the man farthest away from you, gives a stiff nod. As he studies your notes, you slowly walk to where Finn hangs, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and unbelieving and rimmed with tears.

And the longer you keep your bored expression on, the easier it becomes to maintain. So much so that when you reach him, and he looks up at you from where he sits on his knees–it takes almost no effort for you to mockingly wipe away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and flick the droplet back in his face with a cruel grin. Finn screws his eyes shut, presses his lips into a tight line, grits his teeth.

"You really did not hold back, eh?" You turn back to the man, who looks up from your notes and grins a crooked, gnarled grin. "He looks like shit."

"Fucker wouldn't talk," he shrugged. "Tougher little shit than he looks."

You chuckle. It feels like you're coughing up acid. "Roman figured he wouldn't talk. That's why he hired me."

"Yeah?" He calmly folds the paper back up and stretches his arms, sighing in contentment when his shoulder gives a satisfying crack. "Well, you did a fine job."

"Thanks. I'll leave my business card."

"I don't think that will be necessary." And he grins again–the grin of a coyote, the grin of a shark–and that small gesture immediately makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sense of dread washes over you, tickles your spine, makes your entire body crackle with nervous tension from the tip of your toes to the very top of your cranium.

"You know, Roman has a… procedure. To make sure informants don't go blabbing to the other side."

"You threaten them by pointing your guns at them and yelling 'Keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll kill everyone you love'?" you guess hesitantly.

The shark's grin widens. "Nah. Too much work." His hand crawls to the back of his belt.

But this isn't the first sticky situation you've found yourself in, and you have lightning-fast reflexes to show for it.

Before he can fully cock his gun and take aim, you've pulled your own weapon, ducked beneath the ropes holding Finn up, planted a foot between his knees, grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand–he whimpers, and it almost breaks you–and pressed the barrel of your gun to his throat.

There is a puddle of water on the floor in front of you, and in it you can see your reflection. Your face is contorted into a terrifying imitation of a snarl, jaw clenched, teeth grinding, eyes spitting fire.

Nobody moves.

The man tuts, finger curling around his trigger. "So messy. So fucking messy, and we haven't even properly introduced ourselves. I believe our dear Shelby welp here called you Y/N?"

"That would make you Roman," you grit out.

He bows. "It would indeed." He laughs. "I have to say, kid, I admire the balls on you. Strolling in here, acting like you own the fucking place! These lads could learn from you." He jiggles his gun towards his two men. Then he taps his breast pocket with his free hand. “Thanks for this, though. A nice little bonus.”

Despite everything, your grip on Finn's hair tightens, and you pull his head back a little, showing off his exposed throat that much more. His breathing turns ragged, air whistling between clenched teeth.

The man's eyes glint, and his gaze flicks down, casting Finn a semi-sympathetic look. "Poor pup. Stings to be betrayed, don't it?"

Then he sighs, and is all business again. "Listen. There are three guns pointed at your head. Just step away from the welp, and your death will be quick and painless."

You bark a laugh. "Yeah, fuck that. Make me a better offer."

"No bargaining here, I'm afraid. Fuck off and away from the welp, Y/N."

In your head, your thoughts are racing at a thousand miles an hour. "You said he didn't talk. My notes apparently aren't what you were looking for. What do you want to know?"

Interest sparks in Roman's eyes. "How much do you know about Tommy Shelby?"

You shrug, albeit a little awkwardly. "I've worked for him for about eight months. I know enough."

"Even where he stashes his goddamn opium load?"

So that's what he wanted all along.

"Oh, easy. You know of Little Tempton? There's a huge storage facility right next to the scrapyard."

From Finn's throat rises a strangled gurgle–you give his head a little shake. "Shut the fuck up," you hiss.

Roman's eyebrows shoot up. "Little Tempton."

"That's right."

"Well, thank you so much for your fucking cooperation!" he says, in a high-pitched, mocking voice. Then his face grows serious again and he pouts semi-apologetically. "Still gonna kill you, though."

You press the barrel of your gun harder into Finn's throat, fingers tightening around the trigger. He inhales sharply. "Shoot me. I don't care. But I'm taking him with me."

Roman scoffs. "You think I give a fuck? You gave me the information I wanted. The fuckin' welp's not of use anymore."

"Maybe not." You shift, preparing yourself. If it comes down to it, you will do it. You will do it. "But Tommy won't know I did it. All he will find is two bodies, and I fucking swear to you that neither Tommy Shelby, nor Arthur Shelby, nor John Shelby, nor Polly Gray will rest until you and everything you stand for is absolutely burned to the ground."

Your words reverberate in the air and beneath your grip holding him up, Finn's eyes slip closed. He would want this, you tell yourself. If he could talk right now he would tell me to do it.

There is a beat of silence in which nobody moves–then all hell breaks loose.

The door is blasted off its hinges and hits one of the two henchmen, who gets the corner planted right in his throat. He goes down. The other screams bloody murder and launches himself right at the intruders–and John Shelby shoots him straight in the head.

Tommy and Arthur follow, along with Isaiah, and behind them, Johnny Dogs. You’re still standing behind Finn, your gun at his throat, and you process the flurry of incidents just that little fraction of a second too slowly.

You let him go, Finn slumps forward; you drop your gun, you stumble back–but the damage has been done, and Arthur turns to you, spittle flying from his twisted mouth as he screams. You can’t make out every word–the fight between John, Tommy, and Roman is noisy, and gunshots echo through the air, but you can make out a flurry of words–WE FUCKING TRUSTED YOU YOU FUCKING BASTARD WHAT WERE YOU THINKING I TOLD TOMMY YOU WERE NOTHING BUT A WORTHLESS  FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT–and you, for the first time, don’t know what to do.

So you take the punches. You deserve them, after all; Arthur and Tommy caught you with a gun at Finn’s bloodied and bruised throat, even though what you did was all for Finn. To buy him time. To save him. I hope he realises that–I never wanted him to get hurt.

Between punches and kicks, you can just make out Johnny Dogs cutting Finn loose, Isaiah tapping his cheeks, trying to bring him back to consciousness. You close your eyes after a particularly vicious kick to the stomach, and you think you feel a rib crack.

But then, for just a second, the beating stops. You crack open one eye; blink away the blood; have to concentrate for a couple of seconds before your brain, foggy with pain, processes that Finn is tugging at Arthur’s sleeve. “Stop, Arthur–stop–” You can barely make out the words. Your ears are buzzing; your head is pounding. “It’s not their fault. It’s not their fault. They saved my life–”

“They had a FUCKING GUN at your THROAT–”

“They were never going to–they would never–Arthur–ARTHUR–”

One more foot to your stomach. A breath, kicked from your lungs–and your vision goes black.

– – –

When you wake up, the first thing that surprises you is that you wake up at all.

The second thing that surprises you is that you’re lying in a bed–on a mattress, with a pillow and a blanket and everything–and that you’re hooked up on an infuse, a needle sticking from your left inner elbow. When you try to move your head, a scratchy feeling indicates the presence of a bandage, and when you shift on the mattress you realise your chest is bandaged as well.

Your cuts have been cleaned, you have probably been given medicine–judging from the look of some superficial scrapes and bruises, you would guess you’ve been out for two, maybe three days. Huh.

The third thing that surprises you–and this is when your stomach drops–is Finn’s presence, in the corner of your small bland room, sitting in a comfortable chair. He’s dozing, head lolling forward, chin resting against his chest. He looks, apart from the bruises and cleaned cuts still littering his face and arms, peaceful.

For a moment, you allow yourself to look at him. Really look at him. The man you almost died for. The man you almost killed.

And the coward in you wants nothing more than to run away.

It’s what you would have done a week ago. It’s what you would have done now, were it not for the crushing feeling in your chest the second you laid eyes on him. You owe him an explanation. An apology. Something, anything–

You will wait until he wakes up, you compromise, closing your eyes and focusing on getting your breathing back to normal. You will wait until he wakes up, and you will tell him… you will tell him what he needs to hear.

Even though you don’t quite know what that is yet.

So you wait. You wait for him, counting the seconds as they pass, synchronising your breathing–the strain against your bandages and the flash of pain you feel with every exhale only fuels your suspicions of broken ribs–with his own. And after what feels like hours, days, months, he finally wakes up.

“Y/N.” You hate that the first word out of his mouth is your name, said so softly, so gently, so lovingly–you have to turn away.

“You’re awake.”

And you look at him. His expression is hopeful, relieved even, and you cannot fathom that after everything–after everything–he still thinks of you well enough to be happy about your waking up.

“Yes, I am.” You try to sit up, wince at the white-hot pain flashing through your chest and abdomen, stifling a sob. Finn rushes over–limps over–to help, and you’re too weak to refuse.

“I’m–”

“No. Finn, just–don’t.” There’s a silence as you catch your breath, and Finn’s eyes–you’ve never been so close to him before. You’ve never been able to see his face from so close before. You can see every speck of colour in his eyes (they're brought out by the dark bruising around them), can follow every microscopic movement they make. You could almost count every freckle placed on his cheeks; arranged there so carefully they could be stars.

You open your mouth again, but he cuts you off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

At your incredulous tone, he laughs, and the sound is so startling and beautiful that you replay it over and over in your mind for weeks afterwards. “I mean, I don’t want to hear you tell me whatever it is you’re going to tell me. I don’t–I don’t want anything from you. You don’t need to apologise, you don’t need to explain. You saved my life.”

“No, Finn. I almost ended it. I would have ended it if it had gotten to that point. Finn, I would have killed you. I would have shot you. I would not have hesitated.” You look him in the eye, grab his hand and squeeze it. You want him to understand. You need him to understand. “I am not the hero you think I am.”

But he rolls his eyes, and it’s so frustrating you almost scream. “Don’t give me that shit. I know you would have killed me. You would have killed me so Tommy would go after Roman and kill him. It’s just a game, Y/N. I’ve been playing it all my life.”

“I gave him the location of Tommy’s opium. You literally would have died before telling him, and I did it without hesitation.”

“That was your choice. Tommy knows, he’s preparing an ambush as we speak. Roman was bound to find out anyway; he's been on Tommy’s ass for ages.”

You grit your teeth, look away. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to convince me I’m a better person than I am.”

“You are a better fucking person than you think you are.”

You laugh; a bitter sound, melancholy, opposite in every way to the sound of Finn’s laugh only a minute ago. “Finn–forgive me for being brash–but you don’t know the first thing about me.”

His face falls, and your heart–you blame it on the medicine they hooked you up on–skips a beat. “Hey. Listen. I don’t blame you.” You blow a strand of hair out of your face, reach over (ignoring the painful strain of your ribs), take both of his hands in yours, ever so gently. “But you’ve only known me for less than a year, and even then… you don’t really know me. As in, I don’t let anyone really know me. And I’ve had to live with me my whole fucking life.”

You take a breath, slowly working up the courage to say what you really want to say, knowing that if you do, there’s no turning back. “You talked to them.”

“Who?”

“Tommy. John. Arthur,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze. “Arthur would have killed me if it weren’t for you.”

Finn nods, face reddening. “They took a bit of–uh–convincing.”

“Arthur offered to slice my throat.”

“Shut up.”

“John’s always liked me. He would just shoot me, I think. Quick and painless and all that.”

“Stop.”

“Tommy…” You pause to think, purse your lips. “Would probably beat me to death with his bare fucking hands.”

“Y/N. Can we please not talk about you dying? When I’ve literally just done everything in my power to stop that from happening?” He sighs, shakes his head. “Tommy was actually the easiest to convince out of all of them. Polly wanted to throw you out into the woods and let you rot.”

You smile wryly. “You should have listened to her.”

“Y/N–”

“No, no. You listen.” You pull him close to you, force him to look into your eyes. “Finn. Oi, are you fucking listening to me?”

“Yeah–”

“I am no fucking good for you.” There it is. Out in the open. Immediately, his cheeks flush, but he doesn’t deny it.

His eyes flick down, then back up, still defiant. “I’ll decide that for myself.”

“No. Not on this. Finn–” before you can stop yourself, your hand comes up and cups his jaw, and he stiffens– “I am a fire. And I would burn you from the inside out.”

“I don’t fucking care,” he whispers.

“I fucking do,” you hiss back.

You’re impossibly close now. So close. His breath fans your cheek, and you look into each other’s eyes; two polar opposites, in everything bar your stubbornness. Like a moth to flame; or like a fly to honey.

And when he leans in, your eyes slip closed and you know there is nothing you can do.

Your lips touch. Brush, only slightly, and his fingers come up to stroke your cheek, gentler than you could have dreamed. His touch leaves fire in its wake, and you’re tingling, and you break apart after only a second.

Your eyes lock, and you purse your lips, scowling. “Fine. Fine. Fuck you.” And you wrap your arms around his neck and crash your mouth back on his. The fly is attracted to the honey; but once contact is made, the honey drowns the fly.

“I have to leave,” you mumble against his lips.

Finn hums. “Not yet.”

“No, I mean–” You pull away fully. “This is a warning.”

He frowns.

“Tommy’s doing this for you. He spared me for you. I can’t–I have to go. I can’t stay in Small Heath, I would get killed, you realise that, right?”

“You have to get better first–”

“He won’t give me that long. This is an ultimatum.” You start to grow a little agitated now, shaking your head, running a hand through your hair and fiddling with the IV. “Hey, give me a hand.” Your fingers tremble.

“Wait–calm down, calm down.” He stops your hand, swats it away before gently undoing the straps. You rub the sore spot absent-mindedly. “Do you know where you’ll go?”

Your gaze snaps up. “Sorry?”

Finn smiles, a little wryly, a little fondly. “One of the reasons I love you is that you won’t let anyone tell you what to do. If you really want to go, I’ll help you.”

And slowly, you feel a smile forming too, pulling at the corners of your mouth as you look at this man. This man, who despite everything–despite every fucking thing–just told you he loves you. This man, who slowly wriggled himself a spot into your cold dead heart (it finally feels like it's starting to beat again), and you can feel he’s there to stay.

One day, maybe. If you can bring yourself to come back. If Tommy Shelby will have you in his city.

If Finn Shelby waits for you.

[obsidianfr3sk]

Rise of the Renegades (Chapter 3)

Summary:  Heroes come from the most unexpected places. Heroes sometimes feel a little too different, a little too scared, a little too alone. But heroes also know when enough is enough, and that before saving the world, they need to save themselves. And they cannot do it alone.

They were going to be the hope of the world. They were going to call themselves the Renegades. Even if they didn’t know it yet.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246812/chapters/64645693

Enough of the gays, let’s see what the girls had been up to (? ah, and Evander lol. Uh... this is the first time I don’t have anything to say. Likes and reblogs are appreciated as always, I love y’all, and idk i send you, person reading this, good mexican vibes (? 

Tag list:  @nodrianbcyes @healing-winston-pratt @lethughandsimonkiss @cerenoya @cindersnightmare @itsalittlebitchilly @ohmyskies

A golden medallion, a golden cage

Please picture me in the weeds before I learned civility.

I used to scream ferociously any time I wanted.

Sweet tea in the summer,

cross my heart, won’t tell no other.

Tamaya

When she first arrived at that abandoned store, she thought it would take years for it to feel like home. There were many empty boxes, rats, dust, and rusty pipes. Also, Tamaya had never cleaned in her life. The prospect of having to deal with this mess on her own was not the least bit appealing to her.

However, the idea of going home was even less so.

The first night was uncomfortable. She couldn't sleep at all. Luckily, she had brought a flashlight with her and started to cover all the windows with loose wood and old cardboard. Then, with some chains and furniture, she blocked the entrances. She looked up at the ceiling and realized there was a light catcher.

Tamaya smiled. She wasn’t gonna block it.

She had overestimated how long it would take to clean the whole place. It turns out that when there was nothing else to do, one can work remarkably fast, even without help. Rats were the least of her problems. She wasn't disgusted when she grabbed them, stuffed them into a box, and released them a few blocks further at night. Georgia was so shocked by it that the first thing she did the next day was giving her an antibacterial gel. A luxury item in those times.

Tamaya preferred when Georgia brought her food. She didn’t like that much the fact she was living off the garbage from the place next door.

On the eighth night, she looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror at the back of the room. The candlelight was the only thing that illuminated her. Molly was sitting on her lap. She noticed that her once flawless green dress had tiny spots of an unknown substance.

But Tamaya looked even worse. Clothes had never mattered much to her and her wings were fine. What worried her the most was her hair. It had always been long. She had tried to convince her parents for years to let her cut it off, but they never let her. Why? Her hair was the prettiest thing she had.

It was at that moment, that Tamaya realized that she no longer needed to look pretty to anyone. Beauty was overrated.

She took a pair of scissors and cut her hair.

Her head and soul felt lighter.

The sun hadn't quite risen yet when Georgia entered through the light trap. For a few seconds, Tamaya could see the firmament was as pink as only sunrises could be. Under her arm, Georgia carried a cloth bag.

Tamaya rubbed her eyes wearily. She had been waiting for her sitting on an old chair for a long time.

“Honey, I’m home!” Georgia exclaimed gracefully coming down.

She always made the same joke. And Tamaya always had to pretend she didn’t find it funny.

“Oh, but I haven’t prepared breakfast yet,” she muttered.

Georgia looked at Molly and tossed the cloth bag at her. “Molly, catch it!”

Obviously, Molly didn't catch it. Georgia pretended to smash a cup of glass against the wall and raised herself a few feet off the ground to appear taller than Tamaya. “Tamaya, I want more children. Molly is too lazy and ugly.”

Tamaya put her hand to her mouth and faked a sob. “How can you say that in front of your daughter, Georgia?—” She waved at Molly. “—In front of your daughter!”

Then her friend grunted and lunged at Tamaya, knocking them down onto the mattress. “No! She is not a worthy heir to my wealth!” she exclaimed, sitting on her lap. “Her head is made of plastic! And she’s white! Tamaya, I'm not white! Who is the father?!”

“Of course she's your daughter!” Tamaya replied “You know how I know she’s yours? Because she’s a little piece of shit too!”

Georgia's jaw dropped. She closed her eyes, sighed, and with a dreamy smile, whispered, “A little piece of shit… That's my daughter,” and kissed her on the cheek.

Tamaya had never received kisses in her life. If her parents ever did, she had been too young to remember. But she liked it when Georgia did it because it was like...

Well, as if a sister did it. Or a mom. Or a real friend.

“That was the magic kiss that makes babies, by the—” Suddenly, Georgia dropped to the ground holding her belly. “Oh no, the baby is coming! The baby is coming! “ and, amid false screams worthy of a woman in labor, she took out of her jacket pocket a blue cardboard box with pink details. “Oh… Oh, Tamaya, dear,” she muttered, standing up. “She's beautiful,” and she put it in her arms.

Tamaya looked at it. They were tampons.

She didn't know where she was getting the strength not to laugh.

“Tampons Rae,” she whispered, stroking what would be the cheek of the box.

“Molly will be so jealous…”

“Molly will love her new sister. I'm sure.”

Georgia finally laughed and lay down next to Tamaya. It amazed her that lying on such a small, old mattress didn't bother her. She had never been to her room, but in her head, Tamaya had the image of her friend lying on a bed that could easily fit six people, wearing pajamas worthy of a princess and with the room smelling like vanilla and strawberries. Nothing to do with where they were now.

She looked at the box of tampons more closely. It felt a little lighter than expected, so she assumed Georgia had kept a few for her personal use, which honestly didn’t bother her. Then, she took out what was inside the bag. A bar of soap, a bottle of apple soda, and two bags of walnuts about to expire.

There were fewer supplies than last time.

She arranged them in a loose drawer next to the mattress. There was still an energy bar left that Georgia had brought her a couple of days ago. She took it and handed it to her.

“No, you eat, Tamaya,” Georgia said with a smile. “I have plenty at my house.”

“Okey,” she replied with a shrug. Tamaya took a small bite. It tasted weird. “Has your mom got a job yet?”

“No,” she muttered. “But she is already an older woman. Maybe that's why nobody wants to hire her. And it's not like many people have money to pay one more employee anyways. Also, she may have been an excellent lawyer at the time, but I'm not so sure if she's a good housekeeper or waitress.”

Tamaya nodded. She shouldn't have asked.

“I'm thinking about looking for a job too—”

“She won't let you.”

“So what?” Georgia said challengingly. “That thing about staying at home, reading and embroidering, doesn't suit me.” She crossed her arms. “I'm nineteen years old, I think it's time for me to start making my own decisions.”

Decisions. What a strange word.

Because that implied that she had options.

And Tamaya had already gotten used to not having them.

The good thing is that she was fully aware of it.

Georgia bit her lower lip and stood up. “I guess I should go. You know… to keep looking for a job.”

“Yes,” Tamaya said. "I guess you should.”

Her friend took the cloth bag. Tamaya walked with her until they were just below the light catcher. She should go out in the sun for a bit before people started to go outside.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” Georgia assured her, taking her hand. “I promise.”

She had promised that before and she had not always kept her word. However, Tamaya had already learned that promises were very easy to break and she didn't take it personally.

“I’ll wait for you.”

And she left.

And Tamaya was left alone. Again.

She waited a couple of minutes before sticking her head out of the light trap. She looked up at the morning sky, cold and clear, with the smell of garbage and pollution that characterized it at all hours. There was still no one on the streets, but the lady from the Chinese food place next door was taking out the trash from the day before, like every morning.

Breakfast.

Unlike Tamaya, she never looked up at the sky.

Nobody did. If they did, they would be aware of her presence. But people were too into their own thing that they didn't even bother to see something beyond their noses. Just thinking of themselves and their wishes. Of course, now that there was no longer someone to punish those who disrespected the thin line there was between good and evil, they had taken the opportunity to bring out the most primitive and selfish part of their beings.

Tamaya had spent a lot of her time thinking about it, and she still didn't understand the reason behind it.

Maybe it was that Tamaya would never understand the world of normal people.

Yes. That was probably it.

She waited for the woman to return inside to completely leave her lair. Tamaya was ready to go down to look for her food when a small and slim figure came out from behind some wooden boxes and ran towards the garbage bags.

She was going to take her breakfast.

Tamaya wasn't going to make it so easy for her.

That was what happened when people did not look up to the sky.

Kasumi

She wasn't looking in the trash for food, no. Kasumi was collecting the ingredients for the royal breakfast, which would take place in the most beautiful Chinese garden in the kingdom. It would be held that morning. They would be sitting by the river's edge, on a soft white blanket. She and Evander were going to eat like the monarchs that they were. There would be hard-boiled eggs, fresh plums, strawberries and cream, pancakes, waffles covered with jam, and cookie milkshakes. They would be able to eat whatever they wanted without getting sick to their stomachs. And if they did, they would only have to sing a song to the waters of the river and it would become the sweetest and most effective stomach ache remedy of all.

It was going to be the best feast there could have been.

But first, she had to find the ingredients.

She held her breath as she rummaged through the remains of rotten vegetables and sticky noodles. Think, think, think.

Kasumi was holding her breath because... the ingredients came from a magical bush. They had flowers that gave off a foul odor to scare off intruders. However, when they realized that Kasumi was pure of heart, they would reveal their true scent of grapes and rays of the sun.

Then, among all that mess, she found a box of white foam. She carefully removed a few pieces of grated carrot and tore it open with trembling hands.

Fried rice. A delicious plate of fried rice. And it actually looked edible.

She hugged the box with a lump in her throat. Oh, Evander was going to love this—

“That's mine.”

Kasumi froze.

It was the coldest and most terrifying voice she had ever heard. Hoarse and stern, it rumbled in her head like thunder in a storm.

A tear rolled down her cheek. God, Evander was so hungry. She was so hungry...

“Give it to me. Now.”

Kasumi rubbed her eyes and turned around. She put the foam box on the floor. and was about to look up, when the voice commanded, “Don't look at me.”

She obeyed. The mysterious voice took the box.

“I didn't mean to steal your food,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

A feather fell in front of her. Kasumi was slightly startled. Her head completely forgot what the voice had commanded, and she shone her flashlight.

It was a woman. She had shoulder-length hair and an aquiline nose. That, along with her amber eyes and huge black wings, Kasumi was sure she was seeing a bird. A lady.

A Ladybird.

Ladybird, are you the one who protects the magic bushes?

Ladybird did not like the light on her face. She hissed and slapped the flashlight from Kasumi’s hand. “I told you not to look at me!” she yelled.

At that moment, a flash caught Kasumi's attention. A flash of gold that came from a broken medallion hanging from Ladybird's neck.

She reached into the back pocket of her pants and felt between her fingers the half of that same locket that belonged to her.

Kasumi was wrong. Ladybird did not protect the magic bushes. Ladybird was a thief. Not only had she taken her and Evander's food, but she had also taken Mr. Holbrook's locket.

How delusional of her to believe that there were still people who protected something other than themselves.

Ladybird spread her wings, ready to take off when Kasumi lunged at her and tried to yank the locket from her. She pulled and pulled but the old chain wouldn't give up and Ladybird wouldn't stop yelling, “What the hell?! Let go of me!”

She took her by her long braid and threw her to the ground. However, the adrenaline rush allowed her to jump up and grab onto Ladybird's ankle. “That is not yours!” cried Kasumi. “Thief!”

“IT'S MY FOOD, BITCH!”

“IT'S NOT YOUR MEDALLION!”

The door to the store opened. Kasumi became so flustered that she accidentally let go of Ladybird's ankle and fell backward against the concrete. The lady started yelling rude words at her in an accent Kasumi could barely understand. She got to her feet, dodged the lady's broom, and ran as fast as her legs would allow her.

Regardless, Kasumi wished that Ladybird had escaped in time before the lady saw her. Something told her that she was not going to be nicer to her than she was to Kasumi.

She carefully pushed the rusty trash can. That, and the piece of wood that they put over that hole in the wall, made it impossible for someone unfamiliar with the area to know there was a secret entrance. Kasumi wondered how they would enter when they grew up. She herself sometimes had a little difficulty entering. But surely it was just her imagination. Besides, it wasn't like that wall was especially difficult to pull down.

From the looks of it, that place used to be an apartment complex. All the main entrances had been blocked with rubble and there was not a single window that was not broken. Kasumi and Evander had settled on the third floor. It was a dangerous thing to walk those increasingly unstable stairs, but it would be more dangerous for someone to remove the rubble, enter and see them. On the third floor, they would at least have a little time to escape.

Luckily, it hadn't been necessary yet.

She entered her small apartment and found Evander coloring the wall with pieces of chalk they had found in the park. When he saw her, his dirty freckled face lit up as much as the fireworks that came from his hands. “Kasumi!” he screeched. “Did you bring breakfast? Tell me you brought breakfast!”

Heartbroken, Kasumi swallowed the lump in her throat and clasped her hands behind her back. “Today I brought our favorite food, Vandy…”

Evander smiled even more. Kasumi opened an imaginary box and whispered, “Stardust cookies.”

Her friend's smile twisted a little in an almost imperceptible way. “Stardust cookies!" he exclaimed, taking one. Kasumi moistened her hands with her powers and wiped his face. Now, Evander didn’t look that dirty anymore. “Let me guess, these were cooked by—” he scratched his chin thoughtfully “—Your Mr. Dad!”

“No, it was your Mr. Dad,” Kasumi replied. They sat right in front of the window to eat their stardust cookies. There was still a star left in the sky. Perfect . “Hello Mr. Wade, thanks for the cookies. Evander, don't be rude. Thank to your Mr. Dad.”

Evander put his pieces of chalk in his pockets. He kept a pink one and gave Kasumi the blue one. “Thanks, Dad!” and proceeded to color a flower in the window frame.

Kasumi took a stardust cookie and chewed it. She always imagined stardust cookies as if they were vanilla cookies with pieces of almonds and white chocolates, so soft they left puffs all over the place.

Hopefully one day she could taste some real stardust cookies.

She decided to draw fishes.

“Don’t you think that today's cookies were a bit burnt?” Evander whispered.

“No, they were delicious,” she replied. “Your Mr. Dad showed off. Who do you think cooks better, your Mr. Dad or my Dad?”

“Mom Bertha.”

Kasumi giggled underneath. “You’re right, Vandy.”

They kept coloring.

They had always drawn on the walls. Their drawings, pretty cans, curious rocks, and bunches of sticks that hung from the corded rafters were the only decorations they had. However, lately, they had chosen to draw on the window frame during the early hours of the day.

Maybe it was because there was something romantic about drawing in the light of dawn. Or maybe it was because she liked to think that their parents could see what they were drawing from the stars.

Or both.

“I don't know if I can bear the same breakfast tomorrow,” Evander murmured. “We've been eating stardust cookies for almost two days.”

Don't cry, Kasumi, don't cry.

“And what do you want to eat then?” she asked. “What a pretty flower, by the way.”

Evander shook his head. “No, tell me what you want. And I'll get it myself today.”

Kasumi pursed her lips and scratched her head, pretending to seriously consider her answer. “I would like…” she muttered. “Oh, I know, a giant chocolate cake.”

“No, Kasumi, something easy!” Evander squealed, nudging her slightly. “A giant chocolate cake will crush me!” He threw himself to the ground and pretended to be crushed by a huge chocolate cake. “I'll be like this, dead…”

“How awful!” she exclaimed. “So… maybe a small chocolate cake?”

“Now that sounds a lot more reasonable,” he replied, sitting down again. “At least that one isn't going to crush me.”

“I don't feel comfortable speaking ill about your Mr. Dad’s food in front of him,” Kasumi said. “He's going to say I'm a bad influence and he won't let me hang out with you.”

“Dad, Kasumi is not a bad influence!” Evander yelled to the sky, “I swear!”

Mr. Wade looked at her from above, annoyed.

Kasumi didn't feel bad. She deserved it.

“Look at my flower,” Evander said, pulling her out of her thoughts. He pointed to a pink flower with triangular petals and huge circular leaves. “I just created it, it is a new species. Do you know how I'm going to name it?”

She ran her fingers over the drawing. If she concentrated enough, she could imagine that she was touching those velvety petals and not the hard concrete. “How?”

“Kasumi. Like you.”

Kasumi sighed.

Mrs. Moon, how do I explain that I am not worthy of having such a beautiful flower named in my honor?

Probably Mrs. Moon was upset with her too because she flatly refused to answer her question. She was also hungry. She was also mad at Kasumi for not trying a little more.

“Are you telling me that because you want me to give you the last stardust cookie?” she asked.

“Will you?”

Kasumi rolled her eyes in fake annoyance and handed him the last cookie. Evander almost snatched it from her hands. He went back to his drawing as he chewed it happily, moving to the beat of a song inside his head.

Imaginary music. Imaginary food.

Was he imaginary?

Am I imaginary?

She toyed with his red locks and realized she left traces of blue chalk in his hair. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.

Evander turned to see her, confused. “Why?”

Kasumi wanted to answer that she was sorry she had messed his hair.

But actually, she was sorry for everything.

[writer-who-wont-friggin-write]

To Soar With Vultures: Chapter One

The Goddess Of Life Is A Bitch Apparently

In the countryside of Itreyan, a great empire by any measure, stood an manor built just at the edge of a forest. Something about the trees seemed to loom over the estate, the trees casting shadow no matter where the sun sat in the sky. If the stone hewn fence that surrounded the property was any indication, what went on in the places the light never reached was not something to be spoken of by any honorable, god-fearing, life-loving man.

Rayla stood deep in the bowels of the caverns below. The dim light of torches placed every fifteen feet was barely enough to let her see the pickaxe in her hands and the cave wall inches from her face. She raised the pickaxe in her hands and pitched it forwards at the rock in front of her with a heaving blow. Fragments of stone chipped away, but the impact reverberated up her arm and didn’t  help with the ache that grew in her bones.

Bad idea little girl! The voice in the back of her head hissed. Stay away! Some things were not meant to be touched.

On a good day, her only company was the Akkator. The cranky little bastard of a god resided in the deep hole where her soul should have been, right along with bits of daemons and a power darker than what radiated through the air of the caverns. Who cared that she’d sold that soul to the same old god so that she could draw her power from the tainted ground and puppet herself around like a living corpse with a body that never died? She certainly didn’t.

“Would you mind quieting down? I’d rather face whatever is beyond this wall than another round of Jvar’s torture when I don’t find it.”

The thing inside her bristled. Was calling it in a thing fair when it had a personality and a few scraps of power to call its own? Maybe not, but the alternative was to acknowledge that she shared her head space with an old, backwater god called death itself, so calling it a thing would do nicely.

Believe me, if that axe swings another time you’ll regret being born. No. You’ll regret not being able to die.

Rayla swung her pickaxe again. To hell with the Akkator’s warning. True or not, it could wait for the long walk through the pitch blackness back to the upper levels that waited for when the torches burnt themselves out as a signal. The shackles on her ankles and collar on her neck were good reminders that whatever she was made of, she was still just a prisoner, still nothing more than a darker sort of pet for a sadist to experiment on. 

And nothing was going to stand in her way of getting out of them. Nothing would get in her way of getting out of this place, tracking down wherever Jvar had stashed her little brother, and finding a nice, quiet little nook to wait for the end of days.

When the steel met stone and chipped away through a surprisingly thin bit of rock, nothing happened, at least not at first. It took a moment , but once the sound of something scraping from the other side reached Rayla’s ears, it was like the world came crashing down upon her shoulders.

Suddenly, the faint moans of those long dead that she’d grown accustomed to were joined by a swirling cacophony of new screams. This, she could be prepared for. More screams meant more dead, but she’d straddled between life and death and survived in the in between for 14 long, long years. 

She’d survive whatever this new threat was, even if it drove her to the edge of insanity.

What she wouldn’t give to be five years old again and sitting in a palace of splendor before it had all burnt up in ash and ruin…

Worse still, when she peered into the small crack that led to more darkness,something looked back. It’s eyes were an empty, milky white that stood out from it’s peeling onyx skin, which would be a visage so incomprehensibly unhuman if it weren’t for one simple fact.

She wasn't exactly human either. There was a time when she was, but that was before Jvar. That was before she'd been made into the black blooded, clawed, creature with a mouth of razor teeth and a tail chained to her legs that stood here.

Humanity was a nice sentiment to cling to though. Not that it was necessary.

“Let me out my darling…” the voice in the crack crooned, desperately trying to stretch a thin, bony finger through the slit in the rock. Its voice was raw yet smooth. Rayla watched as it ran a claw down the shimmer veil filling the crack. Watched as it ran a claw down the oh so fragile veil between this world and all that lay beyond. “Otherwise I’m sure your soul would taste divine.”

The voices of those dead were screaming in warning that whatever lay beyond that veil should never cross it. 

The broken sound of Rayla’s laughter filled the empty tunnel. Whatever that thing was, it was not all knowing, or it would have known one very ugly truth- Rayla Asarova had sold her soul long ago.

The body that simply brushed off death was absolutely worth the power it'd cost her.

The torch struggling to illuminate the catacomb finally sputtered out, signaling that after ten hours mining away at rock and going nowhere, Rayla was free to wander back up through the pitch darkness and rejoin the so-called land of the living.

She took one last glance at the crack. Her eyes, made for darkness, adjusted quickly. Something nasty was oozing out from it, just like a wound gushing blood. On a whim, Rayla waved farewell to that particular nightmare before starting back out of the mine.

“Made another time,” she called back to the thing in the darkness. Could it hear her?

The chill in her bones told her that she didn’t want to know.

Please don’t play games with her. I’ve heard she’s quite the bitch.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “If that ends up being the understatement of the century I’m going to kill you.” The words felt raw on her tongue. Spoken words from her were rare. It was better that way. If she was silent she’d never beg, never plead, and never humiliate herself.

But most importantly, if she never said anything, it meant there was something she could still control. It meant she could never betray her true intentions to anyone she didn’t trust. Jvar had learned to like her silent, to have a whore of a mutt who watched with glassy eyes with nothing going on upstairs. That was all she was, a perfect picture of whatever her enemies wanted to see.

Rayla knew the way back out of the mines so well that she let her mind drift off to the sound of her pickaxe scraping against the ground. Was the sound a risk? Yes. The daemons were always listening, and for most, an encounter with a hungry one meant death.

But Rayla Asarova could not die. So she walked on until she reached the gates.

She wordlessly handed her pickaxe off to a guard and stumbled into the searing, artificial light.

“Long time, no see,” It was another prisoner who spoke. He hovered at the edge of the crowd waiting to watch for the gate to be sealed shut. Just like her, they were all in shackles with collars around their necks. “Was really hoping you wouldn’t make it out this time.”

She drifted her gaze to meet his eyes. They were the same deep navy as his hair, but she knew that even though he loved to deny it, those eyes could cloud over into black pits. Just like hers did.

Go on! Say it. Rasaj, why don’t you drop dead? I heard Hel is particularly nice this time of year! Prick.

She said nothing, but she didn’t hesitate to part her black lips into a sneer. In her opinion, Rasaj needed a glimpse of those razor sharp teeth. Maybe he’d learn that she was with him in the highest security part of the asylum for suspiciously bloody reason.

Besides, the Akkator was playing. No matter what old rumors said, dead people didn’t come back as the daemons of the beyond. No dead person she had ever heard ever mentioned the Hel beyond or daemons. 

Not true. Some of them were killed by daemons and still weren’t over it.

Rasaj stepped over to her and shoved a hand against her chest. She stumbled back a step and then caught her balance to the tune of his laughter. “Do you think Jvar would care if I offed his whore when nobody was looking?”

Jvar’s whore. What a shit nickname. When he'd first dragged her in front of everyone, a new introduction after all the time in near solitude, he'd called her the halival. The reaper.

But whore was the only thing that ever stuck. That was good, in a way. When the world thought she was just an empty eyed doll, a whore for a sadist, that meant they wouldn't be watching. They'd underestimate her, and there was power in that.

Nobody would suspect she played the long game. Nobody would suspect her when bodies started dropping.

 It really took everything to remind herself that Rasaj was not the enemy, just an asshole, and that his russet brown skin was speckled with scars just like her. 

They could both thank one sadist in particular. Jvar Vetrecini.

On an impulse, Rayla reached out a hand and dragged a clawed fingertip lightly across his throat, right above the collar. She didn’t press enough to actually draw blood, just enough to remind him that she was not harmless.

Rasaj jerked back, nearly knocking someone else over. Rayla couldn’t hold back a thin smile. There wasn’t a mirror, but with her wicked blood red eyes, deathly pale skin, and sharp smile, Rayla imagined that to Rasaj, she looked like a particularly vengeful ghost. It was a good visual.

 And sometimes, when the seething craving for blood inside her that came from the daemons bubbled up, her eyes would go black. She didn't lose control, she'd practiced to hold onto it where others had failed. Jvar expected a feral animal. Jvar expected a broken doll. She'd be nothing more. She'd be nothing less. She'd be nothing else.

Otherwise she had her mother’s crimson eyes. 

Before Rasaj could find a way to retaliate, a familiar, booming voice cut through the air.

Jvar Vetrecini was standing on his pedestal. “I have an announcement to make!” She had to admit, he had guts to stand in front of the people he quite literally tore to shred for fun and speak with a smile. Rasaj nudged Rayla’s arm.

“You know about this?” he spat.

Rayla didn’t even bother looking Rasaj in the eye, even as he turned to stand beside her and lean up against her shoulder. Of course she didn’t know.

“To be fair, I have a few announcements, but you guys don’t have anywhere to be,” Jvar said with a laugh and a smile that didn’t reach his opal eyes. “First order of business- fresh meat!”

He gestured to the tall girl who stood at his side. On some level, they looked the same. They had the same coppery brown skin and slender face, with eyes that  actually seemed to shine like jewels, even from afar.

“This is Katara. Nothing too special, but here she is,” Jvar shoved her off the platform, leaving her to face plant on hard ground. Rayla winced a bit.Katara didn’t have it bad as far as “introductions” went, but the sinking feeling of having to crawl to your feet while bound in chains wasn’t pleasant.

Rayla watched someone help Katara to her feet as the crowd clapped and scowled. She remembered standing on the pedestal in a straitjacket with a muzzle on her face. She remembered when Jvar announced her as the Halival and brushed off what she did under the guise that she was lucky enough to be his weapon one day.

4 years was a long time, but not long enough to make Rayla forget what it felt like to be left to scramble off the ground alone while a few brave souls tried to crush her under their feet.

That was her life though. 5 years of getting to be a kid before getting dragged off to Jvar and filled with horrors. 10 years in his side prison being tortured before snapping and showing the guards that she was no child, just a wolf in sheep's clothing. 4 years here, in the asylum that Jvar personally oversaw.

14 years without talking to another person if anyone was counting.

“Second order of business- I’ve heard news from a...classified source that someone discovered a very special...something down in the mines,” Jvar paused for a moment, craning his neck to look around as if he could see into the soul of whoever found what he wanted. Every muscle in Rayla’s body tensed.

How in the Akkator’s name did he know?

Jvar stopped his dramatic looking around. “So whoever did so is going to come forward and describe exactly what they found and where they found it,” For once, Rayla hung on every word like the body of a criminal hung from a noose. He should not know what she found. She didn’t understand why, but something told her that Jvar shouldn’t learn about the thing down below that wanted to devour her soul. “Or there are going to be some nasty consequences that I would love to see come to fruition.”

You're right. Somehow, the Akkator managed to whisper despite being just a voice in Rayla’s head. He should not find what you found. And I would stop calling her an it. She has a name- Mor, goddess of life, and Queen of Daemons and the dark Hel beyond.

Rayla closed her eyes and sighed. There was something fucked about this place. There was something fucked about this world, and there was something fucked about the world beyond too.

Fine. She'd known that for awhile now. It wasn't like it would change.

[whyisnicole]

Show Me Your Darkness - Chapter 3

Hi guys! I just wanna say thank you so, so much to everyone who checked out chapter 1! I really, truly hope that you like it, and lemme know what you think!

PLEASE NOTE TRIGGER WARNINGS: Do not read if you are sensitive to suicidal tendencies or suicide in general. This fic contains themes of torture, depression, and language. It picks up but please be cautious of these things <3

"I'm just sayin', YN, you know I've got the room. I think you and Alex would make quite the nice pair of… roomies, hmm?"

 You give a humor-filled scoff and your friend, Alex, flips a not-so-sarcastic sarcastic "fuck you" to the red and black clad buddy that you've somehow unwillingly, yet gratefully, acquired.

Your days following HYDRA had been anything but easy - but you weren't the kind of person to simply lay down and die. Literally.

 Not only had you managed to free yourself from the imprisonment of a never ending life-sentence as some foreign army's personal test subject, you'd discovered exactly what it was that made you so damn special. You had the power of manipulation - the power of control. Whether it be emotions, matter, life itself, or the body-sized black wings that you could expose or tuck away at any given time, you finally were able to be the one in control.

 There was only one side effect:

  You couldn't stay dead.

  Whenever you would die, you would come back within a matter of minutes, and you've had more than a fair share of time to test that fact. You'd been low after escaping the taught hold of your previous prison; after all, who wouldn't have been? You never truly remembered a time where you had anything, but now you were all on your own. Simply some freak with giant wings who was brand new to her powers - which meant you couldn't control the fact that you could control everything…

And you couldn't handle it.

 You did everything you could.

 Pills.

Asphyxiation.

Slicing and Dicing yourself until you couldn't move.

Throwing yourself off from any height you could find.

 You basically gave Wade Wilson himself  a run for his money, and unsurprisingly found that nothing ever worked.

 You'd always wake up again, gasping for breath and remembering simply closing your eyes, praying they wouldn't ever open again. But they always did.

 It was during one of your famous drowning attempts that you'd met a girl named Alex.

 You were standing on the edge of some bridge, no cars passing, no life in sight; just the sound of rushing water beneath your swaying form. All alone, enjoying the quiet serenity and brief peace that was brought to you… Until you heard her. Some chick, bounding towards you and stopping a good thirty or so feet away, screaming out to you, desperately trying to get your attention. You remember her dark features illuminated under the soft light of the street lamp. You remember her standing at a far enough distance yet she was still all too close. You remember the panic in her troubled eyes and the way the wind tussled and whipped around her shoulder length curly black hair as she held her worn jacket close to her body in an attempt to shield herself from the nipping breeze.

 And you distinctly remembered telling her to stay away. 

 You had told her to stay back,

"You need to leave."

     "I can't do that…"

"Forget you ever saw this and Just go!"

  That you hadn't wanted to hurt her like you hurt everybody else,

"You don't know what I've done!"

    "It doesn't matter!

"Yes it does! And if you don't back the fuck up, turn around, and get the hell out of here, then you're just gonna be another victim of me!"

  But did she listen?

Fuck no.

So you didn't listen to her telling you to back away and rethink whatever problem it was that you were facing.

You slightly believed her when she said that you could get through this, but only because you knew, deep down, that you'd live. But you were just done with the conversation.

 So you did what you'd grown to do best and simply just left…

You jumped.

Feet leaving the pavement as the harsh cold graced your face, and the sensation of tranquility, of freedom coursed through your body.

 You felt the smack of the water and a moment of old, but then nothing.

 Until you felt everything again.

 You jolted awake, spewing water from your lips as you felt the rhythmic pounding on your chest come to a sudden halt.  

 Alex.

 That stupid, idiotic badass had climbed down and catapulted herself into freezing water to save your ass that didn't even need saving.

From that day on you knew you weren't getting rid of her anytime soon, and you'd grown to be beyond grateful for that.

 Since the nearly five years that you'd been introduced into each-others lives, you'd learned a lot about one another. You'd learned what made each-other tick, what made each-other happy, mad, sad, and all of the in-between's, and you'd learned each-others secrets. You'd learned everything about what went into making you guys the people that you are now. She knew what you were, and you knew that she was an underestimated genius that could give the best of the best a run for their money - even if she did do some stupid shit now and then. 

And you'd also learned that people suck.

 You have a small group of close-knit friends that you considered to be more like a family than anything else.

You have a place to lay your head and the best roommate and friend that you could ever ask for.

And you'd also discovered that you do indeed have a purpose. You still struggled with the belief that you're just some freak - some strange phenomenon that doesn't deserve to see the light of day after doing what you've done and being capable of doing the things that you can do, but that's where your new found family came in. Always there to pick you up and dust you off during the worst of times, as you had learned to do for them as well.

 You were set.

 "Well that's very sweet of you, Wade," Said Alex, bringing you back to the present conversation; "But I think we're quite set here. Nobody to bother us, nobody to try and get me to hack into all the extra channels on their TV, nobody to relentlessly be shot down time after time by YN…"

 Wade gasped in mock offense at the painfully hilarious rejection from Alex.

You'd be lying if you said moving in with Wade didn't appeal to you, but you hated to take. And, while you knew you could trust him with your life, and that he would never ask anything for crashing at his place, the "Friendly Neighborhood Deadpool" was fun to watch when he was determined and constantly rejected.

 And, besides that, you were content. All you wanted was a place to crash with your most trusted friend, and to be able to fulfill your purpose. To be able to do good with the hand that you've been dealt.

And you had that. 

 Was it some random, abandoned government-owned home?

Yes.

But was it just you and Alex?

Yes.

 And though you wouldn't mind having a third roomie, you knew that Alex and Wade would probably kill each-other if they didn't have at least a nightly break. And you were comfortable. You'd never ask for anything other than livable, and you'd never ask anyone to inconvenience themselves for your pleasure. 

It just wasn't you.

 "How dare you?" Wade gasped, hands against his cheeks as he feigned disgrace.

You and Alex can't to anything aside from burst out in laughter as Wade simply stood up and shook his head.

 "Alright, alright you two. You've won this round. But don't pretend like I'm stupid, I know why you two want your own place… And just remember, I'm more than okay with bringing the party back to my place. Last thing I'd mind is joining in with Steph and Lena."

 Wade returns the friendly fire and is simply met with a chorus of "Piss off, Wade" and "Fuck you, Pool" as he makes his was out of the run down home.

 "I'm just sayin'," he says behind his masked smirk.

"But seriously, you need anything, you call. Got it, missies?" He questions.

 As annoying as he was persistent, Wade truly does care and was always going to be there for both you and Alex. You knew that you'd not only gained a sister, but an overly-nosey and annoying protective older brother. The night you'd met Wade was just as intense as the night you'd met Alex.

It was roughly two years ago after a late-night mission had gone south for you that the red spandex wearing vigilante had caught the tail end of your fight with a neighborhood trouble maker that did a little more than steal a candy bar here and there.

 You'd heard and seen evidence of this particular asshole dealing around in the matter of underground drug cartel operations, and you'd finally gotten a hold of his whereabouts.

 You knew it was stupid and risky, but he'd slipped from your grasp before and you couldn't let that happen again.

 You'd been working with a "team" - that team consisting of yourself, a blind badass who went by the alias of "Daredevil" as opposed to his day name of Matthew, and some tough guy named Frank with a vengeance and skillset that you never wanted to find yourself on the wrong end of. His given name of "The Punisher" was there for a reason after all…

 At the time, you were just working with them to simply get the case over with, but little did you know that those two gents would quickly become a special part of your tight-knit, dysfunctional family.

 But they were lagging, and you were ready; just not as ready as you thought.

 It had been a couple of years ago, and you still hadn't mastered your technique yet, and not much has really changed, you've just gained a lot of practice and experience since then.

 You'd managed to off the crook, but you'd taken a hell of a beating at the same time. And, while you couldn't technically die, it still hurt like a bitch.

 That's where the red-suited anti-hero named Wade Wilson, or "Deadpool", came into the picture.

Apparently the asshole you'd dispatched was on more than just one or two hitlists.

Wade had been hot on his tail, but managed to stumble across a beaten and bruised chick with wings, and the lifeless form of the prick he was targeting.

 It was when Wade was scolding you about your techniques and making his classic witty remarks  while carrying you home as you bled out in his arms that you knew you'd gained another accomplice...  

 And you were all the more grateful for him in the long run.

  "We know, Wade. Thank you." You smile, giving him a small nod.

 "Yeah, now get lost and go make a difference. Don't die too much." Alex sasses.

 "Wouldn't make a difference!" Wade returns as he tries (and fails) to make a graceful and "cool" exit. He's never gonna learn that he's really better off walking away instead of trying some new trick that he swears he can master after watching one of those fail compilation videos. 

 He never masters it.

 Ever.

  "God, will he ever learn." Alex scoffs, tossing her head back and exasperatedly throwing her left arm over her face - her right one laying next to her, hand gently clasped around the neck of a bottle.

"Must you ask," you smile, "At this point I think your answer is pretty well clear."

 The two of you share a laugh and Alex takes a short swig.

 "Well," she says as she tosses the bottle outside of the half-way boarded up window in the run down living room;

 "It's getting pretty late. I think I'm gonna head to bed. You gonna go do your thing?"

 You take a moment to ponder before giving an affirming nod.

 "Yeah, I'll go patrol for a bit. Check some things out, make sure nothing too crazy is going down tonight." You sigh, groaning as you pull yourself up off of your dingy pallet on the hard cement floor.

 "It's Hell's Kitchen, Y/N. Crazy is a side effect here." Alex's scoffs as she cleans up her sleeping area a bit - dusting off the blankets and fluffing her pillow as much as possible before taking a seat on top of the freshly-made little nest atop a mattress stationed against the corner of the living room.

"I can't correct you there."

A sigh escapes your lips as you pull off your plain white, short sleeved V-neck, and slip on a long sleeved black one instead; followed by a zipped up olive cargo jacket and black knee high lace-up boots.

 "That's cuz' I'm always correct." Alex retorts, a smirk painting her features bright.

 "Yeah, yeah. Be home later. Stay safe and don't wait up." You smile, bidding Alex goodnight as you slip your phone into one of the zippers of your jacket and slide out the front door.

 "Wouldn't dream of it."

 Alex smiles as she switches off the lantern sitting in-between your pallets, her glowing dark brown skin no longer illuminated by the soft yellow light. Tying her hair into the most perfected messy bun New York has ever seen, she wiggles herself in between the scratchy yet comforting blankets. Bidding you a silent goodnight, she whispers a quick prayer for protection and a safe night for the both of you before shutting her eyes and drifting to sleep after about half an hour of tossing and turning.

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

Tags:

@eridanuswave